by Sally Wragg
As she headed upstairs, General Hawker appeared from the State Room, hastily converted by Bronwyn into a meeting place for the war committee. He was carrying a bundle of papers under his arm.
‘And how’s your day been, m’dear?’ he asked kindly.
Pushing thoughts of Bill to the back of her mind, Hettie grinned. ‘Fine and dandy, General, thanks!’
‘And shall we see you at dinner tonight?’
‘I expect so, General. . . .’
Aware the news had pleased him, she stood watching momentarily as the elderly military man headed off in the direction of the antelibrary, a billiard room in olden days, today a small, dark room containing only table and chairs and a number of indifferent paintings, behind one of which was the safe where Loxley’s valuables and documents were kept and where, for the duration of the convention, he was intent on lodging the committee’s papers. Not for the first time, Hettie wondered what the committee members could possibly discuss of such a very great importance that it had to be locked away out of sight. Grandmamma said Nazi strength and power was growing at an alarming rate and everyone should pay attention to what was happening in Europe. She said the government was trying to fit the situation into the framework of British military and diplomatic policy, whatever she meant by it. Hettie struggled to understand the biggest part of what her grandmother told her but after what she’d seen for herself in Berlin, she accepted she must at least try. It was important. She was a duchess. She should know such things.
The thought had no sooner entered her head, vaguely unsettling and disturbing as it was, than she remembered the escapade planned for tonight. An adventure and when life had been so very boring of late! A smile crossed her face, catlike in its stealth and which, if only Katherine Loxley had been around to see it, would have worried her tremendously.
She was late. She’d yet to dress for dinner. Humming happily to herself, she headed quickly upstairs.
Hettie had the uneasy feeling there was trouble brewing between her mother and grandmother but given it was a situation to which she was unfortunately all too used, the evening meal passed off credibly well, made memorable to her only for her ill-concealed impatience that it should be quickly over. At last it was done, the company decamped to the sitting room for coffee and she was free. Rushing upstairs, she effected another fast change, this time into a serviceable skirt and jumper, before making her way boldly down the main staircase and, ignoring the hum of voices emanating from the sitting room, gliding swiftly across the hall to the front doors, desperately afraid, even now, that someone would see her and demand to know what she was doing, thereby putting paid to all her plans. Heart hammering against her ribcage, she opened the doors and escaped outside.
The moon was round and full, bathing the world in a silvery glow curiously enhancing to all she hoped lay ahead. Another chance to see Leon and hear any other nugget of information concerning the long ago connection between Loxley’s inhabitants and the gypsies, at which Leon had so far only hinted. Calling cheerily to the soldier on duty at the bottom of the steps, she hurried away to be quickly swallowed up into the muffled depths of darkness, cutting across the lawns to the meadows by instinct and making her way down to the bridge, her heart leaping to find Bill already there, his face looming in the moonlight. He looked anxious. She did so hope he wasn’t going to spoil things. His greeting was hardly encouraging.
‘This is ridiculous, Het,’ he began.
‘It’ll be fine, you’ll see. . . .’ she soothed.
At that moment, there came the pad of footsteps across the bridge and Lewis appeared, his eyes glowing like a cat’s in the dark. ‘What are we waiting for?’ he asked softly.
Lewis, at least, appeared to be entering into the spirit of adventure. Hettie grinned into the darkness, moving swiftly past him to lead the way, even so with a grave sense of Bill scowlingly bringing up the rear, which she did her best to ignore. Silently, the little party made their way up the lane towards the edges of the Loxley estate and onto Freddie Hamilton’s land, reaching the drystone wall circling their neighbour’s meadow without mishap and close enough now to make out the dark shapes of the caravans, lit here and there by the flickering glow of the large, communal campfire Hettie had seen from her bedroom window. A horse whinnied and, at that moment, the sound of a guitar struck up, pushing out softly against the edges of darkness and drawing them in with its wild, elusive strains. Lewis vaulted the wall and without thought, Hettie followed him, not stopping to see if Bill came after her, yet happy when he did, down towards the caravans and the lively, dancing flames around which a number of caravan people sat, amongst whom, thankfully, they could make out Leon’s distinctive form.
They might as well have announced their presence with a clarion call. Abruptly the music stopped.
‘We have visitors,’ the gypsy leader murmured, staring with his startling, deep-set eyes towards the gap between two caravans where the little party stood. Feeling faintly alarmed, Hettie emerged into the circle of light, only too wretchedly aware of the hostile glances cast in their direction from the other gypsies. The situation could have proved awkward but Leon only smiled benignly and shifted up to make room on the rug upon which he sat.
‘Make yourself at home, Your Grace,’ he said pleasantly. ‘You and your friends are always welcome here.’
More relieved than she would have cared to admit, Hettie, followed by the boys, headed swiftly towards him and shortly, the little group were seated happily around the campfire, drinking a strangely bitter brew served in tiny, bone china cups by a large, plump gypsy woman with a tangle of wild hair and a wide, smiling face. Once more the music struck up and a woman’s voice began to sing in accompaniment, low and soulfully, words Hettie couldn’t understand and yet still touched her so it was as if she did understand them, every single word. She was soothed, amongst friends, people who would do her no harm and might even do her good.
Time passed. The music stopped and stories were told, tales passed down from generation to generation of gypsy folk, tales of charms and changelings and gypsy curses and Saint Sarah the patron saint of the Roma people. ‘Tell us a tale, Leon,’ a husky voice called to general approbation.
The old man turned towards Hettie, his forthright gaze bearing into hers so oddly, though she was well aware of Lewis and Bill listening with an equal intensity, it appeared to her that what followed was for her ears alone. The old man began in a low, soft voice which only added credence to his story.
‘Once, many years ago, in Saxon times, when England was a wild and lawless place. . . . Edmund, the Magnificent, King and mighty warrior, took to himself a wife, a fine lady by name of Elgiva, a young woman of such very great beauty that, in his delight at the coming union, the King gave orders that a fabulous, jewel-encrusted sword should be struck in her honour. A warlike gift from a warlike man. But Queen Elgiva had other and more consistent qualities than her beauty, much as it was. A care for the poor and homeless and above all, a desire for truth and justice. A truly gentle woman who determined that her new husband must know these things too.
‘They were in love. Edmund wanted to please her. And so it came about, miraculously, under Elgiva’s guidance, a change came over this troubled land. King Edmund eschewed his lust for war, instead embracing statesmanship whilst his fabulous sword, Aelric, meaning “All Powerful” and more normally a symbol of war, was transformed, wonderfully, to a symbol of peace and love. And so it was passed down to their sons, Edwig All-Fair and St Edgar the Peacemaker and again, down through the royal kings of England. . . .’
An owl hooted and Leon broke off, smiling gently, aware he’d held the attention of all in that circle of fire but, most of all, Hettie, Duchess of Loxley, who sat entranced, hands clasped around her knees, hardly daring to move, so closely had she been listening. Shivers ran the length of her spine. It was a wonderful tale and she so much wanted to hear more but to her frustration, the old man clapped his hands and rose to his feet, signalling the e
vening was at an end. Instantly, the camp broke up, the folk around drifting away, back to their caravans to light their lamps which glowed in the darkness like fireflies. An old woman with a bent back put out the flames of the campfire, muttering to herself the while.
‘It’s late, Your Grace. You should go home,’ Leon said, turning towards Hettie.
Though the gypsy had spoken kindly, it was still a dismissal. He left them, heading swiftly back to his caravan, and there was little else for the party to do but to scramble to their feet and troop back the way they’d come, vaulting the wall to regain the lane and the rise of the hill, where they walked quietly down to the bridge, each sunk deep in their own thoughts as if the evening had cast a spell they were loathe to break, even Bill.
Hettie needed to be alone and turned down Bill’s offer to walk her home. Her thoughts were spinning; her spirits embroiled in a strange, faraway land in which a king had struck a magical sword and all for the glory of the woman he loved more than life itself. Darkness swallowed her up, only faint strains of light remaining but enough to illuminate her return through the damp, clinging meadow to the gardens beyond. By the time she’d reached the hall and assured the guard at the steps she had a right to entry, her good humour was miraculously returned, refuelled by what, after all and on reflection, had proved to be a glorious adventure and given her so much food for thought. Musing on Leon’s wonderful and romantic tale, she was more convinced than ever that he’d told her for a reason, though temporarily, she’d no idea what that reason could be.
Luck was still with her. Inside, a low hum of voices issuing from the sitting room told her, miraculously, the company still lingered and only Soames, emerging from the direction of the servants’ hall with a tray bearing clean glasses, was around to note her return.
His brows rose. ‘It’s late, Your Grace,’ he murmured, in a faintly disapproving tone.
‘So it is,’ she answered innocently, aware she’d fooled him not one iota. She grinned and the corner of the old man’s lips lifted upwards. Friends of old and she knew her secret was safe and that wild horses, or even her grandmother at her fiercest, could never have dragged it from him.
She’d no wish to hang about. ‘Goodnight,’ she called softly, going quickly upstairs to her room, undressing in the dark and falling into bed where, as soon as her head touched the pillow, she fell into a deep and refreshing sleep.
She woke with a start to the sound of voices downstairs. Hettie’s eyes opened, a fragment of dream involving a war-like Saxon king, his beautiful, gentle queen and a fabulous jewel-encrusted sword, clinging to her senses. A thin, pale light shone through the chink in the curtains, falling onto her face so she blinked sleepily, reluctantly allowing her mind to clear. It was early yet, too early for her grandmother to be abroad and yet it was her grandmother’s voice that Hettie could make out amongst an unsettling clamour deep within the heart of Loxley. Something had happened and something serious by the sounds of it. Wide awake now, she jumped out of bed, scrambling hastily into her dressing gown to make her way downstairs, guided by the voices towards the west corridor and the ante-library, where she was alarmed to discover several soldiers in full uniform and any number of tousled figures milling around. She skidded to a halt. Something serious indeed had happened to bring her grandmother out in full public view in such a state of dishabille.
‘Whatever’s wrong?’ she called.
Seeing her, the old lady came hurrying towards her, her response so shocking, Hettie gasped out loud. ‘Someone’s broken into the safe,’ Katherine Loxley retorted grimly. ‘Soames has gone to ring the police. All the war committee’s papers have been stolen, I’m afraid.’
Chapter Seven
Under the portrait of Nell, charismatic First Duchess of Loxley, General Anthony Hawker stood talking to Chief Inspector Digby of Scotland Yard, the strain of the morning’s events showing clearly on both men’s faces. Two uniformed members of the Chief Inspector’s team, trusted men both, stood discreetly by. The General was annoyed, so much was clear.
‘You’ve no business here,’ he said curtly. ‘This is an army matter! Who called you in?’
‘I did,’ Katherine answered, before Digby had time and arriving downstairs in time to hear this last. Swiftly, she joined the two men. The theft of the war committee’s documents had shocked everyone but when action had been needed, she’d been the one to take it; hence her call to Scotland Yard. Straight to the top had always been her motto. That the Inspector had dropped everything was evident by the speed of his arrival. She nodded a greeting. ‘You’ve helped us once before, I recollect, Inspector,’ she said.
‘Chief Inspector, Your Grace,’ Digby interrupted, rocking complacently back on his heels. A small, shabbily dressed man with a keen intelligence lurking in the depths of his narrow, close-set eyes. A man unafraid to tread on toes, Katherine recollected, wondering now if she’d done right to call him in. But someone had to find the thief and sooner rather than later!
‘A gypsy woman once tried to burn Loxley down,’ she ventured, shuddering at the memory, even now. ‘And as we’re unfortunate enough to have a gypsy encampment not more than a mile from these premises, if you want my opinion, my good man, it’s pretty clear you’ll find your culprit there.’
‘Early days yet, Your Grace,’ he proffered.
‘It’s an army matter in any case.’ Genial as was his usual manner, Hawker’s voice was filled with suppressed anger. A man not to be crossed, Katherine sensed, elevating him in her estimation.
‘The PM’s asked to be kept up to date,’ Digby murmured, interrupting her musings and proving, thereby, much as she liked to think it, his arrival was not just down to her manoeuvrings. ‘It’s a serious business, I’m afraid. We’ve been asked to help in any way we can.’
Hawker took a moment to consider, quickly coming to a decision. ‘Very well, man. We’ll join forces. You’d best see the room where the papers were locked, though there are no visible signs of a break-in. . . .’
First despatching the policemen below stairs for refreshment, he led the way along the north corridor and into the painted gallery, to the stairs at the bottom which led to the antelibrary. The soldier on duty outside the door saluted smartly before standing back to allow the little party entrance into the small, square room, the dimness of which remained unalleviated by its plain walls and wainscot and whitewashed ceiling. A second door, secreted between two inlaid bookcases, along the adjacent wall, led into the library. A number of indifferent paintings apart, a green baize table and a battered leather armchair were all the room contained.
‘There’s hardly anything, as you can see,’ Katherine commented, nodding towards the bookcases. ‘George kept his collection of equine books here. The room was his bolt-hole. . . .’ Trying not to think what George would have had to say about recent events, she crossed the room to the portrait, by a local artist of the time, of her husband’s hunter, Thunder, a fine beast he’d used to ride bareback around the estate. Sighing, she lifted the painting down, revealing thereby a small, green safe in which was kept all Loxley’s documentation and valuables. Propping the painting on the floor against the wall, she unlocked the safe and opened the door to disclose the papers it contained, together with a cask holding the few, if infinitely valuable, pieces of family jewellery. ‘Nothing else was taken,’ she murmured. ‘Only the war committee’s papers, I’m afraid. It’s clear the thief knew exactly what he was after.’
‘And who knows the combination?’ Digby asked, sharply.
Katherine considered. ‘The General here . . . Bronwyn and myself. No one else, I can assure you . . . Inspector. I change the combination regularly and especially for the duration of the convention.’
Refusing to rise to the bait, Digby smoothed a hand over his thinning hair. ‘You’re sure you’ve told no one else?’
‘I have not! I assure you. . . .’
Brave man to bait Katherine Loxley and in her own lair, too. ‘And both doors to this room
are kept locked?’ he continued, oblivious to Katherine’s affronted glare and firing questions in such a rapid succession, it gave her no chance to think. She frowned, nodding towards the interior door. ‘That door’s inaccessible. A bookcase was moved in front of the other side to make more room in the library. It’s been so for years.’
‘And there’s no possibility this bookcase could have been moved?’ Digby asked.
Hawker shook his head. ‘We’ve checked already. It hasn’t.’
Katherine frowned. ‘The outer door’s more normally kept locked. The General has the key.’
‘I keep it on me,’ he chimed in, backing her up. ‘There’s no way anyone else could have got hold of it.’
‘Where is it more normally kept?’
‘In my dressing table drawer. . . .’ Katherine answered.
‘You’re sure it’s the only one?’
‘Of course I’m sure!’ she snapped, her gaze following the Chief Inspector’s towards the window. ‘And that’s jammed and hasn’t been used for years,’ she said, finishing the account of a conundrum to which, already, she’d given many a troubled thought and to which so far she’d managed to come up with no viable solution. But someone had managed to break in and steal those precious papers and she could only pray this man would quickly discover who it was.
Crossing to the window to satisfy himself as to the truth of all she’d told him, Digby swung round to face the room again. His expression was fierce and inscrutable. ‘Someone’s been in here as shouldn’t have been but rest assured, ma’am, I’ll find out who!’ he muttered but with such vehemence and determination, for the first time that morning, Katherine’s spirits lifted.
