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"The Thin Spy"
An Avengers Fanfiction
The thirteenth in a series of adventures designed to bridge the year and a half between broadcast episode 3.26, "Lobster Quadrille" (Cathy Gale, March 1964), and episode 4.01, "The Town Of No Return" (Emma Peel, September 1965)
Disclaimer: Some copyrighted characters have been borrowed
May 1965
Steed hunts for clues. Emma sees a ghost.
The pallbearers trudged through the morning mist, somberly carrying their load towards the freshly-dug grave. As they deposited the coffin on the black velvet bier, the sunlight caught the embossed nameplate on the mahogany surface. The gold letters glinted as they reflected back three initials: J.W.S.
Emma Peel brushed away a tear. The funeral had required a closed casket. A high-speed car crash was to blame; it must have been a gruesome death. He always drove too fast. She tried to remember him as she had last seen him.
He was a tall, thin man.
A familiar scent lifted her spirits as another mourner shouldered in next to her. From the corner of her eye, she spied a dapper bowler and black wool overcoat.
"Good morning, Mrs. Peel," Steed said, careful to keep his voice low enough to prevent being overheard. "And how exactly did you know Group Captain Willcombe-Smythe?"
Emma matched his hushed tone. "He was Peter's commanding officer. How did you know him?"
Steed leaned towards her ear. "I briefly served under James, back around the time of the War."
"Crimean or Boer?"
"This is a solemn occasion, Mrs. Peel," he scolded wryly. "Hardly the time for levity."
"I'm sorry," she relented. "These last few months, it seems like every connection I've had with the past is disappearing."
"You still have me," he grinned.
"You're supposed to be comforting me, Steed, not depressing me," she teased. "If twenty years have passed since you last served under him, how did you learn about his death?"
"I was in his will," Steed smiled cryptically. "He left me his most valuable possession."
-oOo-
The two sat at opposite ends of the sofa in Steed's living room. At one end, the sleek auburn hair and leather-clad figure of Mrs. Peel; on the other, a wire-haired fox terrier with a delicately clipped coat. Steed was standing at the liquor cart, mixing a drink, watching in amusement.
The dog's gaze hung haughtily on the woman across from him, judging. Emma returned the look with equal intensity. For a moment the two just stared at each other. Then the terrier let out a shrill bark.
"He doesn't like me," Emma said.
"Nonsense. It just takes him a while to warm up to people."
"But you don't understand. Dogs love me."
Another silence. The terrier shifted uneasily on its haunches.
"What's his name?" she asked.
"Spumante. Like the wine," Steed offered.
The dog gave a low growl.
She frowned. "He won't attack, will he?"
"You're ten times his size, Mrs. Peel. My money's on you."
She wrinkled her mouth. "That's not what I meant."
The dog licked his lips and sat motionless. Emma folded her arms.
"And this was the Group Captain's most valuable possession?"
Steed grinned. "What were you expecting?"
"Gold. Jewels. A vintage Chateau wine. A Sopwith Camel."
"He's better than a camel," Steed replied. "He can fetch slippers."
She looked at the terrier and a wicked expression crept across her face.
"Make him prove it," she said evenly.
The dog narrowed its eyes back at her.
Steed broke the tension as he handed her a collar and lead. "Perhaps you should take him for a walk. Get acquainted."
Emma rose from the couch. "Have you ever had a dog before, Steed?"
"Several."
"Then you know you have to be firm." She attached the leash and managed a begrudging heel from the terrier.
"Be as firm as you like, Mrs. Peel," he said cheerily. "I can think of no one more capable to administer discipline."
"When I'm done with him," she said as a smile tugged at her mouth, "you'll be next."
-oOo-
An hour later, Steed looked up as Mrs. Peel re-entered his flat with the dog in tow. He rose to greet her, slipping his hand lightly to her waist.
"And how is our feisty little fighter?" he asked.
Emma answered breezily, "I'm doing fine."
Steed grinned. "I meant the dog."
"Putting the 'spume' in Spumante," she said with annoyance.
"Just trying to mark his territory, Mrs. Peel."
She shook her head. "You men are all alike."
"Were you terribly firm with him?"
"He's very contrary. It may take me some time to train him properly."
Steed nodded. "Perhaps he'll be of use when we investigate the passing of Group Captain Willcombe-Smythe."
Her interest was immediately piqued. "There's something suspicious about his death?"
"There's always something suspicious about death," Steed observed. "Especially when the deceased was a member of an investment group called a 'tontine'."
Emma arched her eyebrows incredulously. "A tontine? I thought those were banned."
"In England, but not in Italy."
The terrier jumped onto the sofa in spite of Emma's admonishing finger. He cowered for a moment as she sat down, but made no move to leave.
"What does the Group Captain have to do with Italy?" Emma asked. Steed removed the leash from the dog's collar.
"The year was 1943," he began. "Captain Willcombe-Smythe and his crew were operating a Bristol Beaufort torpedo-bomber in the Mediterranean for RAF Coastal Command. They were making photomaps of various points in southern Italy to help the Allies with the Sicily Campaign."
Steed poured her a cold drink. "While on one of these reconnaissance missions, his plane was shot down over the Italian countryside. One of the four-man crew was killed, and Willcombe-Smythe himself was seriously wounded. That's where things start to get a bit fantastic..."
"Start?" She took the drink he offered and sipped it gratefully.
"The locals were sympathizers resistant to the war effort, and they tried to nurse the crew back to health at a rural infirmary. The captain found himself clinging to life under the care of three Americans who were disguised as workers at the clinic, coordinating with the Italian Underground."
Steed sat on the sofa with the dog between them. "Just as Willcombe-Smythe's about to take a turn for the worse, a strange woman in peasant attire with her face swathed in a bandana comes into the room. She tells him that she has seen the future, and in order to survive, he must make a tontine with everyone involved in his rescue."
Emma gave him a dubious look. "A Gypsy fortuneteller?"
"Indeed. So Willcombe-Smythe formed the Tontine with his navigator, his radioman, the three Americans—who were the ambulance driver, the nurse, and the doctor—and the Italian girl at the farm where he crashed. Everyone he had come into contact with during his ordeal, just as the seer had ordered."
"And what about the Gypsy?" Emma asked.
Steed suppressed a smile as he noticed Mrs. Peel's hand was now absently fondling the fur on the dog's neck.
"No one's quite clear on that," he said. "The navigator, radioman, and doctor were the only ones present during her appearance. But she vanished without a trace and was never made part of the Tontine."
Steed gave the dog a few strokes himself. "The odd thing is," he continued, "the Gypsy might have been clairvoyant. The Captain survived, was eventually promoted to Group Captain, and all of the members of the Tontine have become wildly successful in the two decades since—each one a true rags-to-riches story."
Emma looked thoughtful. "And that's why you suspect foul play in the Group Captain's death."
Steed nodded. "It's always easy to murder someone, put them in a car, then rig the accelerator to make it look like a high-speed accident."
"You make it sound like a game."
"It is a game. For the highest stakes possible—winner takes all," he declared. "Or, survivor takes all, I should say. The last one alive inherits the wealth of all the others."
"How much money is involved?"
"Nearly ten million pounds."
Emma's eyes widened. She was speechless.
"That's why Spumi was the only thing mentioned in the Group Captain's will," Steed continued. "The rest of his assets are all ceded to the Tontine."
Emma wrinkled her mouth. "Spumi?"
"He has to have a nickname," Steed countered innocently.
She folded her arms. "I have one for him. How about 'Little—'"
"Mrs. Peel!" Steed interrupted, covering the dog's ears with his hands. "We don't want to upset him. Dogs can sense hostility."
"There's only room for one Alpha in our relationship," she said, "and that's me."
The terrier looked up at her and once again narrowed its eyes.
"The sooner he learns that, the better," she added, addressing her reply downward.
-oOo-
The dog was stationed between them in the front seat, both paws propped on the windscreen, his ears flapping back in the breeze.
"He likes the open road," Emma commented.
The Bentley was heading northward towards a dim sky with low gray clouds scudding across the horizon. Soon they would need to stop to put the top up.
"So what did I have to pack my suitcase for?" she asked. "Where are you carting me off to this time?"
"The home of eccentric Professor Philo Jupiter," Steed answered as he drove. "He was Willcombe-Smythe's radioman when he was shot down. And, of course, another Tontine success story. He came up with an electro-plating process that revolutionized the manufacture of vacuum tubes in the late 40's, making him a millionaire overnight. He also invented a satellite gyro, a subsonic oscillator—even a way to transmit electricity over short distances without wires. All in all, Jupiter holds more than a hundred patents, although he hasn't been too profitable of late."
"So you think he's the most likely suspect to have offed the Group Captain? What about the others?"
"Why, they'll all be there, Mrs. Peel. Whenever there's a death, the Tontine must meet to oversee the redistribution of the estate into the various investment accounts."
"Everyone's getting together in the same place?" she asked in astonishment. "With the survivor getting ten million pounds?"
Steed smiled. "Just a pleasant weekend in the countryside."
Emma frowned. "It's going to be like a turkey shoot," she corrected him. "You should have told me, so I could have brought the Beretta for protection. What's our excuse for showing up?"
"We're supposed to be Mr. and Mrs. Charlesworth, the executors of the Group Captain's estate. You're a chartered accountant and I'm an attorney-at-law. Esquire."
"A solicitor? Since when do you know anything about the law?"
"I know how to break it. Watch." He gunned the accelerator so that the car went roaring past the speed limit. The terrier hunkered down to avoid flying out of the passenger compartment. Steed slowed down again so that the dog could regain his balance.
Emma wrinkled her mouth. "Are they actually real people, or did you just make them up to pretend we're married again?"
"You question my motives?"
"Always," she smirked.
"I just made them up. I'm John Charlesworth, and you're Emma. I thought it would be best to use our real first names, to avoid any slip of the tongue."
"But we never call each other by our first names."
Steed snapped his fingers. "I knew there was a flaw in the plan somewhere. You're a clever woman, Mrs. Charlesworth."
"We sound like an exciting couple. What did we do for our honeymoon—audit the books of some multinational corporation?"
He smiled. "A couple of legal eagles, that's us."
"Good thing I brought my fake glasses," she offered. "No one would believe an accountant with perfect eyesight."
"'Men seldom make passes at girls who wear glasses'," Steed quoted.
"Yet another advantage," she affirmed.
Steed playfully ruffled the fur on the terrier's neck. "We're just a young couple and their dog, hoping to mix business with pleasure."
"And avoid being murdered in the crossfire," Emma added pointedly.
He grinned. "That goes without saying."
-oOo-