by D A Kent
‘I am Major Ernst Wirth, late of the Ahnenerbe, dealing with the origins of the German people. Now,’ Wirth’s expression softened a little, ‘I am a humble curator of a two-bit museum out in the forests.’
In Wapping, Inspector Collins reached for his coat. It had been another long night in the Prospect, and he would have some grovelling to do with his missus. He had finally got hold of that little shit, Mendelson, and got some sense out of him. It seemed, (Mendelson was hazy on the details because Garner had always operated on a ‘need to know’ basis), that a West End law firm had indeed commissioned the gang to take out a guy called Gunn, a private investigator. Gunn had apparently set Trip on fire (nice touch, Collins thought) and then turned the tables on them, taking out several gang members, including Garner, and giving the others a severe beating.
Mark Gunn. He chewed the name over a few times. Years ago, before World War 1, when he was a police constable, he had worked in Paddington with a Dominic Gunn. He remembered him well. Good bloke. Might have liked the odd tipple but he was a damn good policeman. When he returned from war service, Dominic had a French wife in tow. He did recall a little boy called Mark. They had lost touch when Dom went to Paris to do diplomatic protection work. Didn’t someone say something about a hotel in Brighton? He filed the information on the fight away in his prodigious memory, deciding on balance Wapping was probably safer without Garner and his ilk.
‘I still can’t believe this is happening,’ Gunn remarked, parking the Horch outside the mairie in Chartrettes. The old men were still playing pétanque under the plane trees. ‘This lot don’t seem to have moved since the day we found poor old Jones.’
‘I don’t suppose they have. And I can’t believe it either,’ Sylvia replied. ‘Let’s see what the Mayor has to say. You’d better do the honours.’
The Mayor was intrigued to meet the young couple who had discovered Monsieur Jones. He had always had a high regard for the old chap. It had been a sad business about his wife, he agreed. Gunn could tell straightaway that the Mayor had ‘looked the other way’ and had it on his conscience. He liked to play the patriotic Frenchman. Well, he had met plenty like that. He would play this to his advantage. Make him squirm.
‘So you’re telling me that Mrs Jones’s sister has signed the house over to you.’
He pursed his lips.
‘Yes’ said Gunn.
‘Most irregular,’ commented the Mayor.
Gunn fixed him with a thoughtful stare.
‘The way Mrs Jones was treated, and the way her sister and her husband were treated,’ Gunn observed ‘almost make me ashamed to be a Frenchman. And how some people have the audacity to present themselves in the public eye,’ he added softly ‘Well, it beggars belief.’ There was an uncomfortable pause.
Finally, the Mayor sighed and said ‘Go and see Monsieur Ricard. He’s our local notaire. He’s only in the next village. I will telephone him now, and he will prepare some documentation for you to sign. That’s all we’ll need for now. Welcome to Chartrettes.’
They soon found their way to Maître Ricard’s office, where the paperwork was signed in triplicate. Ricard was almost overwhelmingly helpful, explaining that they now had a licence to occupy the demeure pending the grant of probate.
‘It’s really happening.’
Sylvia was dancing on air. Gunn was enjoying being back behind the wheel of the Horch and looking forward to a night in a decent bed. He reached over and stroked Sylvia’s thigh.
‘Gunn,’ she went on, thoughtfully. ‘Guess who I ran into last night, at that bar round the corner?’
‘No idea.’
‘Sol.’
‘What the hell is Sol doing in France? Didn’t he want to speak to me?’ Gunn frowned.
‘I’m not sure, he wouldn’t say. He has some family in Paris he wants to look up. We’re to meet him on Wednesday for lunch’
‘So, why didn’t you come and wake me?’ asked Gunn, suspiciously.
‘You were tired, darling. And he was as drunk as a lord. Anyway, as I said, we’re meeting him on Wednesday. So that gives us a good few days in Chartrettes. I reckon we’ll need them.’
‘And you didn’t think to mention Sol this morning?’
‘Oh, we had other things to do this morning,’ Sylvia replied. She blushed faintly at the memory. ‘I’d imagine he’ll want you to go straight back to Israel with him,’ she added sadly. ‘He didn’t tell me much, but I reckon you’ve got a lot of work to do out there.’
‘I’m not sure about this’ said Gunn. ‘I don’t want to lose you, Sylv. I’ve only just found you.’
‘You won’t lose me. I’ll be in London, running the business. I’ll wait for you, you know that.’ She tried to brush away a tear, hoping he wouldn’t notice. He did.
‘We’ll talk it over when we get to the house,’ he said gently. ‘Not too much further to go now. Been quite a caper across the countryside this morning.’
‘Can I drive?’ Sylvia asked hopefully, trying to change the subject.
‘Out of the question. I need a cigarette though, after all that. Don’t know about you? Shall I pull in here for a moment?’
They leant against the bonnet, smoking. A long way down, sparkling silver, the river ran past. The Horch was parked on the bluff, screened by trees.
‘You, Miss Fordred, are an incredibly naughty girl,’ Gunn told her, reprovingly. ‘You just wanted an extra few days with me, didn’t you? And you got me down here so that we could secure the house. I can read you like a book. Go on, admit it.’
‘Certainly not,’ she replied primly, trying to sound like the consummate professional. The smile gave her away. ‘We have a lot of business to discuss. And yes, of course, we do have our new property to look at.’
For answer, Gunn bent her over the cooling bonnet of the Horch. Her cheek was pressed against the cooling metal and she could sense the ticking down of the engine. He ran his fingers down her back, down her bottom and up under the hem of her dress. He flicked her dress up, to expose her stockings and knickers. He softly stroked her flesh where it met the material of her stockings. He could tell from her response that she enjoyed that, so he continued up her legs, slowly, gently, with an increase in pressure as he did so, drawing an even more fervent response. He reached her knickers and simply pulled them down. He unbuckled his belt, and began to stroke her with the shaft and head of his erection. He waited as she wiggled, and he knew, and he entered her hard and fast. His thighs were pressed up against her buttocks and he drove in deep, his shaft wrapped by her. He paused and withdrew. She bit her lip in frustration and then exhaled as he drove in again. Each thrust lifted her higher up on the bonnet of the car. She gripped, her nails flaking against the metal as Gunn fucked her in a way she had never experienced before. It was primal and raw, as was her orgasm. Still, he did not stop, bringing her back and taking her over and over again. A long time afterwards, they lay lazily in the sun, on Elise’s picnic rugs.
‘I can’t move’ said Sylvia. ‘I’m still shaking, look.’
‘You did want to know what else I had learned with the courtesan,’ Gunn pointed out, reasonably.
Sylvia closed her eyes. He propped himself up on one elbow and looked at her. He found it difficult to take his eyes off her; a few more images to keep in his heart now, he thought.
‘Well, madam,’ he said eventually. ‘I could lie here with you all day, but shall we go and have a look at our house? We can always carry on where we left off.’
‘I’d like that,’ she murmured.
They stopped at the next village for provisions and were soon driving through the gates of the demeure. Someone had done a good job of tidying up downstairs. They found Jones’s cocktail cabinet, got out two glasses and poured themselves a glass of wine each, to carry round on their tour.
‘We could make love in each room,’ suggested Sylvia.
‘Better start soon then,’ Gunn replied.
He was already looking round with a trained eye.
After he ran away from school, his father had resigned himself to the fact that, despite entreaties, blandishments and eventually a damn good clout, Gunn was never going back.
‘Fucking well make yourself useful then,’ he had told him, and had set him to work on the Gunn House Hotel. Gunn had learned fast, that year before the war. He had been glad to join up straightaway, but all the same, it had been useful experience. For a house of its age, he had to admit it was in surprisingly good nick inside. There didn’t seem to be any damp. The roof would need some attention, as would some of the masonry outside, but there was nothing pressing. For now, the house just needed painting and airing. He went down to the cellar and turned the electricity and water back on, checking over the wines in the wine rack carefully - something else his father had taught him.
‘Up and running, sweetheart,’ he called. Sylvia was already on the top floor.
‘I’ve found our room,’ she called. It was huge, made more so by the fact that it just contained a double bed, a washstand and a dressing table. Most importantly of all, it had a fireplace with a blue and white tiled surround.
Gunn came up behind her and kissed the back of her neck.
‘Do you reckon it was Jonathan and Louise’s?’ he asked.
‘No, I think they were down the corridor.’ She noted a small room off this one, with a wardrobe in it.
‘I’ll make the bed up,’ she called, already off down the corridor to Louise’s linen cupboard. She came back with an armful of sheets, still faintly scented with lavender.
‘I was just thinking of Le Grand Meaulnes again. Have you read it?’
‘Alain Fournier. Yes, I have. Only wrote one book. Got killed in the woods near Verdun, not long after the Great War started. Poor bastard.’
‘I’ve always wanted a house like this.’ Sylvia explained how daydreams like that had sustained her through the winter in Tufnell Park and Christmas on her own.
‘Well, now you’ve got one. And you’re not having Christmas on your own again, ever. ‘He smiled down at her. ‘It’s just, well, there’s nothing major structurally wrong that I can see, and I love it, but houses like this don’t maintain themselves.’
‘We could get a tenant,’ she suggested. ‘While you’re in Israel. And don’t forget I come into my trust fund in a couple of years. I haven’t a clue how much that is, mind. After George attacked me that first time, I never asked. Anyway, the business is doing well, isn’t it?’
‘Brilliantly. You’re a clever girl, sweetheart. You could ask Louis about the trust, next time you see him,’ Gunn said. ‘Wonder how all that’s going, back in London?’
In the drawing room at Chepstow Villas, Edward was aghast and lost for words. Caroline sat lumpenly opposite him, fiddling nervously with her engagement ring.
‘For Christ’s sake, Caroline,’ he said eventually. ‘What a time to tell me.’ His head was all over the place. Thankfully, Mummy was upstairs nursing a migraine. They had just returned from the crematorium. It had gone off reasonably well. Louis had been an absolute brick, getting George’s body released and making all the arrangements. His mother had of course questioned the cremation, as they were a Catholic family. He himself had no particular views on the matter. He suggested to his mother that he could in due course scatter George’s ashes at the estate in Bad Kaltenbrun and erect a small memorial.
‘How far along are you?’
‘A couple of months,’ she replied. He groaned. With creeping horror, he recalled the occasion. He had been rather drunk at a tennis club party and she had lured him into the bushes. He had sobered up quickly but too late.
‘What’s the matter, Eddy?’ she asked. Edward scowled. He hated being called Eddy. ‘Don’t you love me?’
‘Love?’ he echoed. ‘There is only one girl I have ever loved. You don’t even hold a candle to her. And you never will.’ He was going to say something a lot more brutal but Caroline burst into noisy tears at this point.
‘That’s it, turn on the waterworks,’ thought Edward sullenly. Mummy appeared as if on cue. Caroline told her the situation and what Edward had said. He would be in trouble later. He didn’t give a damn. He thought to himself randomly that no matter how vile he had been to Sylvia when they were growing up, he had never managed to make her cry
‘I expect he is a bit upset, dear’ said Mrs Cumberland. ‘It’s been quite a day. But you can bring the wedding forward, can’t you?’ She glared at her son. Leaving them to make plans, Edward made an excuse and went back to the office. It was the first time he had been there since that fateful afternoon. Mechanically, he began to go through the post. He was quite looking forward to getting back to work.
New conveyancing instructions were arriving. It would be good not to have his father breathing down his neck. A thick envelope with a Cairo postmark lay on the desk, addressed to George Cumberland. He settled down with a cup of tea to read it but soon put it aside. It was full of gossip about the Middle East. He couldn’t make head or tail of it or see the relevance. He would ask Louis; he could perhaps shed a little light on any contacts in Egypt. He did recall his father alluding to a trip there once; the usual see the sights and patronise the locals type of thing. He sat back in his chair, wondering not for the first time why he, an RAF veteran, was so malleable when it came to his family. It was embarrassing. His old comrades would have been ribbing him until daylight. Now he was trapped, good and proper. He shuddered at the thought. Maybe he would make that trip to Germany after all. Apart from one or two trips as a child, he had only ever seen his father’s homeland from a great height. As far as he knew, they still owned Bad Kaltenbrun. That would have to be sorted out, somehow. He reached into his father’s cabinet and took out a file containing his late grandparents’ wills.
‘Shukran’ said Otto, absently, handing a few coins to the boy from the bank. It was a scorching hot day. He would love to have gone home for a siesta. Another large bank draft had arrived from Israel. More specific instructions would follow.
‘Something big is about to happen,’ said Alaikum pensively. ‘Not that I feel like rocking the boat with all this money coming in. Did you find out about Mueller?
‘Suicide,’ said Otto briefly. ‘Or so it said in the papers. Don’t believe a word of it.’
‘Well, I suppose that explains why he stopped subscribing to our briefings. Someone else will take the reins though, and whoever it is will have to pay us an awful lot.’
At the restaurant at the Meerjungfrausee, Dieter Fischer sat with his weissbier, looking over his notes. He had relished the hike up to the lake, in gentle autumn sunshine, starting at the crack of dawn.
It reminded him of his early days in the army, before he was sent to the Eastern front. He had been so young; too young for all that. Dieter had read the brief notice in the SuddeutscheZeitung, about Dr Friedrich Mueller and his unfortunate suicide at the Meerjungfrausee. It had paid tribute to his distinguished medical career, and made mention of his wife, Elise and their four children. None of them were available for comment at the time of going to press and attempts at contacting Elise had proved fruitless. She was not at the family home in Bad Kaltenbrun. Nobody knew her whereabouts. He would describe the responses of those he had spoken to as ‘polite but guarded.’ Hans at their little country retreat had been equally guarded. Dieter thought he was almost trying to play the role of village idiot too well.
‘Gruss Gott!’ said the landlord, appearing in front of him with another weissbier and some snacks. ‘I believe you wanted a word, Herr Fischer.’
The two men spoke at length. It seemed that Mueller had come up to the cottage with his wife but she had left alone. That was when he must have killed himself. No, he hadn’t seen anybody else around, just the two of them. Yes, they always kept to themselves, on that side of the lake. It was known locally that they had ‘strange predilections.’ Would Herr Fischer like to borrow one of the boats and go and look at the cottage?
Dieter rowed himself across, thoughtfully; the
key in his pocket. It had rained in recent days. The makeshift gibbet was still there, but there was not a lot else to be seen. The police had shown him the suicide note. The writing was terrible, but weren’t doctors renowned for having poor handwriting? The landlord had mentioned that the couple had a Horch; Frau Mueller wasn’t very keen on the walk these days, it played havoc with her knees on the way down. No sign of a car here, Dieter thought, peering into the ramshackle garage. He rowed back, took his leave and started the hike downhill. Something else troubled him. He had read about Mueller’s recent exoneration. There was no reason, surely, why the man should have been driven to despair, unless his past had caught up with him. Yet the police had found no evidence of foul play. Perhaps then the death, only days later, of this English solicitor was mere coincidence. There was clearly a lot more to this assignment than met the eye. It could be highly lucrative, but he was under no illusions about what the future held.
Relegated again to the uncomfortable sofa in his Victorian semi overlooking Wanstead Flats, Inspector Collins had slept fitfully. He and the trouble and strife had been married far too long, he mused. In his pocket, he had a chitty for a trip to the seaside, and he wasn’t planning on taking the miserable old cow. Time to look up an old friend, he thought. In no time at all, he was alighting at Brighton, raincoat slung over his shoulder. The sea air tasted good, salty and brisk. He coughed. Wapping was deep in his lungs. As a rule, he wasn’t a man for leaving London, but there was no harm in bending the rules occasionally. He headed straight for the taxi rank, seeking an older driver, one not averse to a few shillings and imparting information and he was soon outside the Gunn House Hotel. Needed a lick of paint, he thought, but a nice place. Dom had done well for himself. He’d probably be in the bar, knowing him. He carried on up the steps, intrigued to find out what Dom’s young lad was doing on his ‘manor.’
At the demeure, Sylvia had made spaghetti bolognese. They had dressed for dinner and had eaten in the dining room, overlooking the garden; the table set with Jonathan and Louise’s glassware and cutlery. Marguerite had told her on the telephone that the contents were theirs. Mueller’s thugs had emptied the house of much that was valuable but they had missed a few things and Sylvia was enjoying ‘pla1ying house.’
