'You'd only spend it on buns.'
'I could just go a bun, or an Eccles cake.'
The Chalkenwolds, they called them. Much as he loved Hampshire, Felix wondered if they had it beat. Imagine riding across that hillside on a bright summer's day — light breeze, puffy white clouds, scent of new-mown hay, patches of woodland to add interest to the view. Dull now, though, threatening rain. Soon it would be December and the advent of the firstborn. He felt the usual pang of anxiety. What if?
'Peculiar thing, the academic mind, Teddy. They'll advance all kinds of outlandish theories regarding some historical person or event, yet he wouldn't countenance the suggestion that Cadogan had faked his own death.'
Advancing the ignition, Rattigan dropped into third, the Vauxhall responding with a satisfying throaty bark. 'Bit lumpy round here. All ups and downs. If you ask me, there's more to that than meets the eye. I shouldn't be surprised to arrive and find they've been warned about us.'
Felix nodded. 'I know what you mean. You've only got to get a whiff of MI5 and you see secrets and skullduggery everywhere.'
'I just thought he seemed jumpy. Affable enough but glad to be rid of us. Ah! Newbury, seven miles.'
The Cadogan family seat was a superannuated parsonage in an outlying village; a substantial, early Victorian property, no doubt too expensive of upkeep for the modern vicar.
'Nice place,' said Felix as he rang the bell. 'Room to breath and no noisy neighbours. Good afternoon, miss. Chief Inspector Felix of Scotland Yard. We have Colonel Cadogan at this address. Is he at home?
'I'll see, sir.'
'Jumpy,' said Rattigan.
'She was, wasn't she?'
The maid returned looking flustered. 'I'm afraid the Colonel's not here at present, sir.'
'It's all right, Nettie,' said an elderly but commanding voice. 'I'll deal with it. Come in gentlemen.'
There could be no doubting the paternity of the man in their photograph. Leading them into a small room was simply an older version: white haired and careworn but instantly recognisable.
They were not invited to sit down. 'You are detectives,' he informed them. 'Your job is to detect. You have detected. The man in the photograph was my son. I am not, however, going to tell you anything about him, except that he was a very brave young man. Good afternoon.'
As they left, they saw a woman standing at a window, her face a study in misery.
'To lose your child twice is a terrible thing,' observed Felix.
Swinging out of the narrow lane and onto the London road, Rattigan nodded. 'If he believes he was brave, he must have some idea of what he was involved in.'
'Yes. Rather an indiscreet remark if they wanted to keep us in the dark.'
'MI5, you mean?'
'One assumes so, or the SIS. What a thoroughgoing waste of everyone's time.'
*
They were once again in their cramped little office.
'How did you get on,' asked Felix.
'They stayed at the Taunton,' said Yardley. 'Grubby sort of place but cheap. Just the one night, had lunch, and left, paying cash. They arrived in the Austin and left in it, driving themselves. They had a suitcase each. We've got the names they gave, for what they're worth. They're all in Cyrillic. They add up right, if you count the driver. The Englishman was John Smith, of course. They didn't come back.'
'Interesting,' said Felix. 'I hadn't thought of Cyrillic. Were the women with them?'
'Yes. They shared a room. The others had two doubles and a single. The presumed driver was a big, burly chap. Dark hair, clean shaven.'
'Not wives, then, the women?'
'Seems not.'
'The shmutter came from Moss Bros,' said Nash. 'Four came in together. The Englishman did all the talking. The fellow there described him as well-spoken, as did the manager of the hotel. The other fellows didn't say much and nothing in English. They were all wearing ill-fitting suits with a foreign cut. Sniffy, they were, about those. We can't discover anything about the women's clothing.'
'Nor the car,' said Yardley. 'Without a number they needed a request form and so on.'
Felix told them about their day.
'So this provost fellow thought he'd died in the war?' said Yardley.
'Well, he told us so, and the War Office confirms it, but I'm not buying that. Cadogans's our man all right. Teddy thinks he knew better, and I'm inclined to agree; though one can't be sure of course. We're only guessing, but we think his parents really believed it. They had that look about them — utter shock and misery. I suppose they were obliged to tell them in case they saw his photo in the paper. Probably swore them to secrecy. What's this?'
'It's a note for you, sir. A Jamie Stuart-Wright telephoned. He knew him at Oxford, apparently.'
'Well I'll be damned!'
They met Stuart-Wright, a barrister, at his chambers. 'Drink?' he asked. 'Or it is forbidden while on duty?'
'We won't, if you don't mind, sir.' said Felix for both of them. 'As it happens, we were in Oxford when you telephoned, talking to your old provost.'
'Not old Henstridge?'
'Yes it was.'
'He must be getting on a bit. He was pretty shrivelled when I was there.'
'These dons live long lives, it seems. Pickled in port probably. May I ask how you came to know Mr Cadogan?'
'Same college, same year, same staircase. Both read greats. Also we were pals. Well, for a year or two. Then we found we were courting the same gel. It got a bit heated and we came to blows. The upshot was we were both sent down for a term. You should have seen her though — lovely creature.'
'Ah! So you were the other pugilist. Who got her?'
'Neither of us; she married a Marquise.'
'My commiserations. Did you know Cadogan was reported killed in the war?'
'Yes I did. I nearly didn't contact you but he looked so much like old Basil I took a chance. Lots of mistakes made, I daresay. Wrong man's papers and all that. Though I would have expected him to complete his degree, if spared.'
'You presumably did so?'
'After the war, yes. What happened to him, apart from being shot in Pacelli's?'
'We don't know. Possibly he was abroad. What sort of man was he? Sum him up for me, if you will.'
'Well, let me see. Sporting, you know; rowing, principally, but also tennis and rugger. A man's man, but women liked him. Popular, and knew how to turn the charm on. I had him earmarked for a diplomat.'
'That's interesting. Not academic?'
'Oh yes, don't get me wrong, very bright. Far brighter than I. Something of a linguist. Latin and Greek of course, but modern languages also.'
'Russian?'
'Yes! You seem to be ahead of me.'
'Politics?'
'Oh, Marxist. Obsessed with it — Red in tooth and claw. I used to say to people, "Don't get him started!" A lot of fellows were, of course.'
'Not you?'
'Heavens no! Not even then.'
'Cadogan's age, sir?' Rattigan reminded him.
'Oh yes. Thank you, Sergeant. What age do you suppose he would be now?'
'Thirty-four, same as me. Tempus fugit, eh?'
'A picture is emerging, Teddy,' said Felix, starting up the car.
'Yes, I suppose so.'
'What's bothering you? Do you think he was planted on us or something?'
'Well he's a genuine barrister, obviously. But you must agree it's a bit improbable that Cadogan's pal and neighbour should be the one to get in touch. We've had no-one else.'
'Wouldn't he be the man most likely to? And it was more or less what one would expect to hear.'
'Quite!'
'But what could be more likely than he should study Russian and be interested in Marxism?'
'I just don't like coincidences,' grumbled Rattigan.
'I think you need a pie and a pint.'
Chapter Six
'It was a lovely evening; it's a lovely carpet, and you are a lovely man,' said Clare, gently detaching herse
lf from him. 'It's the dining chairs or sit on the bed, I'm afraid. Or you can have the club chair.'
'The bed's fine,' grinned John Nash.
'Don't go getting ideas now.'
'I've already got them.'
'Hmm. Looks like we'll need the safelight again.'
'No we won't. You call the shots, always. Swing your legs round, and I'll lie beside you.'
'I'm not sure . . .'
'Go on, do it.'
She giggled nervously. 'All right.'
'Don't you trust me?'
'Strangely I do.'
'Kiss me some more then.'
Propped on one elbow he gazed down at her. 'You know, I'll never tire of looking at you; you're perfect.'
'Flatterer!'
'No, it's true. I want to go on looking at you. Will you go out with me again?'
'She looked troubled. 'John . . . I don't know.'
'What do you mean, you don't know? Don't you like me?'
'Of course I like you, I like you very much, but . . . there are things you don't know about me.'
'Engaged? Married to a sailor? Hooked on cocaine?'
'No, of course not.'
'What then?'
'Abruptly she turned away from him. 'Maybe you'd better go now.'
'He looked at her in consternation. 'You're crying! What on earth is the matter? At least tell me what's the matter.'
'I can't.'
'Yes you can, unless you want me to camp on your doorstep all night, because I'm not leaving here until you do.'
'If I tell you, you'll hate me. I couldn't bear that.'
'Clare, I would never, ever, hate you. Come on, spit it out.'
'If I do and you get cross, will you just leave and not shout or hit me or anything?'
'Hit you! What sort of monster would hit you? Come on now. Sit up, dry your eyes and tell Uncle John.'
She sat up, but she stared at her knees, refusing to meet his eye. 'Ronald Grant is that sort of monster and he did. Often.'
Nash's eyes narrowed. 'Not MI5 Grant?'
'Yes. He made me take that photo of the Russians. I didn't want to, truly I didn't! He used to get me to take pictures of people for him without them knowing. I've got a Leica; it's useful for that sort of thing. Some were just at meetings and so on but some were quite compromising. I didn't want that sort of work and I told him so, but once I'd started I couldn't get rid of him. He said if I didn't do it he could get me into trouble. Then he arranged with the manager of Pacelli's for me to take photos of the diners. I'd been trying to get in there for ages and they always said no, but suddenly it was all right. We sat by the exit and when he gave the word I was to work my way to the Russians' table – except he didn't say they were Russians – and offer to take their picture. He said a man would say yes, and I should start photographing immediately and not wait to pose them or anything. That's all he told me. He didn't say it was so the poor fellow could get away, but I'd noticed him looking at us earlier. Connie thought he was looking at her but he was looking at Grant. Waiting for a signal, I suppose.
'I was terrified when that Russian grabbed my camera. He could have told me what might happen but he didn't. He didn't care what happened to me at all! He used me, and it didn't even work – the man died – and now I'm frightened of what he might do to me. He must know that you got the photo from me and will think I've told you all about him. And now I have! That's what I was really worried about the other day. I didn't think they'd come for the photo either; I just wanted to get away.' She began to cry again, great racking sobs. 'Please don't hate me.'
Kneeling before her, Nash took her hands in his. 'Of course I don't hate you, you silly goose! I just wish you'd told me before.' A thought struck him. 'Can I just ask. I have to ask. Was he your boyfriend? Is he your boyfriend . . . Clare? Answer me please.'
She shook her head, trying to stifle the sobs. 'He took advantage. I know it sounds weak but I was so frightened of him.'
'That's dreadful! Don't you have friends, someone you could have confided in?'
'Not really. Not who I could tell that to.'
'Well you have now; you've got me. And if ever I meet the bastard again I'll push his face down his throat!'
'No you mustn't! John, he's dangerous. I've seen what he does to people. He's vicious. Please promise you won't do that. What am I going to do? Tell me what to do.'
'Well the first thing I'm going to do is stay here tonight.' He smiled at the look on her face. 'On the floor. He probably won't risk coming here now, with our lot sniffing around, but I'm not getting caught out a second time. Can you spare a blanket and a pillow?'
They were in the Felix's flat. Connie with a comforting arm around Clare, Nash restlessly pacing.
'I didn't know what to do, sir. I don't want to impose on you but she can't possibly stay there now.'
'No, I can see that,' said Felix thoughtfully. 'Hang on, I want to put through a trunk call.'
Ten minutes later he was back. 'How do you fancy a rest cure in Hampshire, Miss Valentine? You look a bit peaky to me and the country air will do you good. Guaranteed first-class catering and qualified medical staff in attendance. You'll have to take the train, I'm afraid, but I'll drop you off at a station somewhere out of town so we know you're not being followed. John, I want you back here by Monday lunchtime, no excuses. It's fortunate that it's Friday.'
*
Far from any town or main road lay the tiny New Forest village of Bettishaw; and high above it, where a potholed lane petered into wilderness, could be found a scatter of cottages, a somewhat untidy and aromatic smallholding (pigs), and Hilltop Farm, home to Dr and Mrs Roger Felix and their daughter Daisy. Here, the weary and frightened Clare Valentine found sanctuary. She knew, of course, that this was illusory – nowhere was truly safe – but from the moment she arrived, the sleepy peace of the place and the uncomplicated kindness of her welcome was balm to her troubled spirit. And there was John.
The view from her cosy little room was of seemingly endless pasture and woodland, stretching away to distant, blue hills. Only in the foreground was there any habitation, and that several fields away. Making a square with her thumbs and index fingers she moved it around until it framed a particularly handsome oak tree, a thatched cottage and the Norman tower of Bettishaw church, rising nearby. Not bad, she thought, though a spire would work better.
Strong arms crept around her. 'Breakfast smells good, eh?'
She leaned back against him, her hands still framing the picture, holding them up for him to see. 'What do you think? That oak tree and the church.'
He squinted through her fingers. 'Perfect proportions. Like yours.'
She giggled. 'Hey, I'm still in my pyjamas, mister!'
'You're gorgeous. Come on or the bacon will be frizzled.'
'What have you two planned for today?' asked Daisy.
'What do you suggest?'
'Well, there's church; you can hear me caterwaul in the choir. And you must meet the horses. That's obligatory.'
'I'll fetch my camera,' they said in unison.
After sampling the local pub, the Bell, they wandered out of the village, exploring the country lanes.
'Look, sheep!'
'There must be a hundred or more. No lambs though.'
'Lambs are in spring, silly. Bounding like a spring lamb, yes?'
'Yes, I suppose they are.'
Clare laughed. 'I wonder what the town equivalent of country bumpkin is?'
'I don't know, but whatever it is, I'm it.'
'Would you ride a horse?'
'I'd have a go. I might worry about denting it.'
'Now you're being silly.' She turned and kissed him, standing in the middle of the lane. 'I love you, John Nash.'
'I love you too.'
The little wooden-platformed halt was the closest a train came to Bettishaw. It was very quiet, as it always seems to be at country stations before a train comes in. There were no other passengers, only some crates of chickens. Even
they seemed to be asleep.
'I shall miss you so much,' she said.
He smiled and held her close. 'You'll be far too busy recording scenes of rural life. And when you get back I'll help you process them. You like the Felixes don't you?'
'I adore them, but they're not you.'
Nash glanced below them at Dr Felix, waiting patiently in his car. 'Clare, can I ask you something? I'm not expecting an answer now, or even soon; I'm just putting my order in early, while stocks last. Will you marry me?'
*
'The trouble is,' said Polly, 'he's done nothing we can pinch him for and probably nothing MI5 would look askance at, given what we know about them.'
'Blackmail, sir?' suggested Nash. 'Rape?'
'It'd be her word against his. Is there any chance she's still associating with him?'
'None whatsoever sir.'
Polly smiled. 'That's very emphatic. Care to elucidate?'
'Not just now, sir, if you don't mind.'
'Fair enough. However, we've learned a bit from it, if that's any consolation to you.' He turned to the others. 'Principally that Grant attempted to save Cadogan's life. From that I suppose we can infer that he was their agent, or valuable to them in some way.'
'It must also mean he knows more about these people than we've been told,' said Yardley. 'That they were going to be dining at Pacelli's, for example.'
'Yes, he must at least have known that.'
'But not necessarily much more,' cautioned Felix. 'Picture this: Cadogan contacts him, saying, "I'm involved with these characters but I think they've broken my cover. Can you get me out quick?" Grant searches for a way to extricate him without the Russians realising they've been rumbled. He thinks of the photographer trick and presses Miss Valentine into service. The rest you know.'
'That's quite possible,' agreed Rattigan, 'in which case they really may not know much about them. And now they've lost their only contact.'
'Then they ought to bring us into their confidence,' grumbled Polly. 'This is preventing us doing our job.'
Death and a Snapper (The Inspector Felix Mysteries Book 6) Page 4
