Vere had gone as red as a turkey cock. “I stand by the story which I told the court of inquiry,” he said stubbornly. “I refuse to have my name blackened. Beau gave me the slip, turned up at the hangar, and took off in my place.” Vere glared at Lofty. “I suppose I cannot stop you from advancing your own theories, but you will never get any endorsement from me. When I found Beau was already airborne, I naturally made myself scarce. Slipped out of the station on a bicycle, and put up at a pub some miles away.” As if in explanation, he added to Henry, “Wouldn’t have done, you see, to be sitting around in the Mess when I was supposed to be up on patrol.”
“I wouldn’t have thought it necessary to stay out all night,” said Henry.
Vere turned on him, suddenly angry. “Just what are you driving at?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all. I just wondered…”
“You civilian types need everything explained in words of one syllable,” said Vere. “Look. I should have been in that Typhoon and I wasn’t. Beau was. Had all gone according to plan, he would have completed the patrol, landed, changed out of flying clothes in my billet, and gone quietly back to the Mess. Meanwhile, I had notified the Mess that after patrol I’d be leaving the station and sleeping out. I didn’t dare turn up, of course.”
“Why do you say of course?” Henry asked. “I should have thought…”
“It has apparently escaped your attention,” said Vere, with growing impatience, “that we were a station with a Sector Operations Room.”
“I know. But…”
“What Vere means,” said Emmy, “is that all aircraft from Dymfield were tracked continually in the Operations Room, and it was very usual for off-duty pilots to drop in there in the evenings to watch what was going on. If Vere had gone back to the Mess, there would probably have been several chaps there who had followed his patrol—or rather, Beau’s—on the Operations Room Table. It wouldn’t have done for them to know more about the evening’s air activity then Vere did.”
“Thank you, Blandish,” said Vere. “Very neatly put.”
“You must have caused quite a sensation when you turned up the next day alive and well,” said Henry.
Vere stood up. “I’m not prepared to talk about it,” he said, and stalked out of the room.
Lofty made a face at Emmy. “What’s eating him?” he asked.
Barbara said quickly, “Oh, don’t mind old Vere. He—he’s still very sensitive about the whole thing. Beau was his best friend, you see. I think he feels somehow responsible.”
“Responsibility,” said Lofty, “will have to be assigned, one way or the other. You are editor in chief, Barbara. I await your instructions.”
“I don’t understand you.”
“What line are we to take about Beau’s death? I presume that we plump fair and square for suicide?”
“Certainly not,” said Barbara. “He lost his sense of balance, had a dizzy spell, and lost control of…”
“My dear Barbara,” said Lofty, “don’t be idiotic. Everyone knew that he deliberately killed himself, and if we simply stick to the official line, we may as well drop the whole idea, because Beau’s suicide is the really interesting part of the story. The question is—what is to be the motive? I suggest something noble but not flashy.”
“What do you mean by that?” Barbara looked up sharply, with unfriendly eyes.
Lofty tilted his chair back. “Possibility number one,” he said. “Beau Guest, the dedicated pilot, realizes that he can never fly again. His life is therefore not worth living, and he chooses to die—as he had wished to live—at the controls of an aircraft. A bit too noble to be convincing, perhaps, but we could try it. Possibility number two. Beau Guest, golden boy of the Battle of Britain, has degenerated into a mutilated and unheroic ground staffer. Sooner than submit his beautiful wife to the humiliation of being tied to such a wreck, he decides to free her by…”
Without warning Barbara stood up and hit Lofty across the face. “You filthy swine!” she shouted.
Lofty rubbed his cheek and grinned imperturbably.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “that I had to provoke you into that display, especially in front of Henry and Emmy. It was done quite deliberately.”
“You’re bloody right, it was.” Barbara was so angry that Henry had the impression of smoke rising from the top of her head.
Lofty went on calmly. “Somebody had to rub your nose in a few facts. Don’t you see, my dear idiot, that unless we produce a strong theory about Beau’s death, people are going to draw their own conclusions. If they are charitable, they will probably pick one or the other of my two possibilities. If they are not…” He shrugged. “I think you’d better abandon the whole idea.”
“I won’t abandon it,” said Barbara. She sat down again, her back to Lofty, like a child sulking.
“There is always,” said Lofty, “possibility number three, which rather appeals to me. Without actually committing ourselves, we could hint that Beau was, in fact, on a special mission, so secret that it could never be acknowledged…”
“But he wasn’t. Everyone knows that.”
“How? How does everyone know?” Lofty was warming to his theme. “How do you know, come to that? Supposing that argument between Beau and Vere at the Dymfield party had been just a put-up job, a cover? I’ll give you one or two other things to think about. First of all, if you recall, there was a German parachutist scare that evening…”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Well, of course, as a civilian, you wouldn’t have. But I dare say Blandish may remember.”
Emmy frowned. “Oh, yes. That’s right. An Observer Corps Post started the scare. But Lofty, we had wild reports like that coming in all the time. It doesn’t mean anything.”
Lofty grinned. “It makes a nice, tantalizing red herring,” he said. “Then there’s another thing. Why did Beau arrive at the airfield at four o’clock, when he didn’t take off till six? What was he doing all that time?”
Henry was surprised to see that Emmy looked upset, almost frightened.
“How do you know when he arrived?” she demanded.
“Because I saw him. I was wending my lonely way back to the Operations Room and duty. Beau was in the Guardroom as I came in—telephoning. I got a glimpse of him when the Duty Guard came out to open the gate for me. So there. Now more red herrings. Why did Beau sing out tally-ho when there wasn’t another aircraft for miles? And why—this is very significant—why is old Vere carrying on like a prima donna now?”
“Because he doesn’t want it published that he told fibs to the court of inquiry twenty years ago,” suggested Emmy.
“Maybe,” said Lofty. “But what about this as a more exciting theory. I have already demonstrated, my dear Watson, that Vere must have been in the know from the beginning. Supposing there are still secrets which can’t be told, even after twenty years? Supposing that Vere is afraid we may stumble on the truth about Beau’s mission?” Lofty looked at Barbara. “Well? How do you like it?”
“It stinks,” said Barbara. She was very angry. “I absolutely forbid you even to hint at anything of the sort. In any case, it couldn’t possibly be true.”
“What couldn’t be true?” said Vere’s voice, loudly.
They all turned, almost guiltily, like conspirators. Vere had come back into the drawing room. He had put on a pair of rubber boots, and he carried a gun under his arm.
“Oh, nothing, darling,” said Barbara quickly.
Lofty grinned. “Just a theory I was advancing about Beau’s death,” he said. It sounded impudent.
“What theory?”
“That it might not have been suicide after all.”
“This has gone far enough,” said Vere Prendergast. For a moment Henry found him almost impressive. “You may have found it amusing, Parker, but I have not, and neither has Barbara. I don’t often put the old foot down, but I’m doing it now. This nonsense has got to stop.”
“Dear old Vere,” said Lofty. He s
ounded as though he were laughing. “You can’t stop me. Nor can Barbara.”
“I certainly could, if I wanted to,” said Barbara.
“No you couldn’t, imbecile. You could withdraw your financial support, but I’m interested now, and I intend to carry on until I find the truth. And so does Blandish, don’t you?”
“I—I don’t know, Lofty…”
Vere shrugged. He seemed to be making a great effort to control his anger. Then he said, “Well, Tibbett? Coming?”
“Yes, indeed,” said Henry. He stood up.
“No use asking Barbara. You coming, Blandish?”
“Thank you, Vere. I’ll go and change my shoes.”
As the three of them walked out through the hall a few minutes later, Henry noticed that Barbara and Lofty were still sitting at the breakfast table. They did not appear to have moved a muscle between them.
The walk in the park was damp and uneventful. Vere shot a pigeon, which seemed to relieve his feelings. Conversation was desultory, punctuated by long silences, but this did not worry Henry. He was glad to have the chance of turning over in his mind the things that he had heard about R.A.F. Dymfield back in the nineteen-forties. He found himself much intrigued by those long-ago events. In fact, in his own mind Henry was beginning to think of the whole thing in terms of a case.
Whitchurch Manor was very peaceful when they got back from their walk. Barbara was arranging bowls of chrysanthemums in the drawing room, singing a number from a long-forgotten musical comedy to herself. Lofty had his feet up on a wickerwork chaise longue on the terrace, and was sipping his second Pimm’s. Serenity reigned, and whatever conversation Barbara and Lofty might have had while alone, they were now clearly at some pains to present an innocent and united front. No more was heard of the projected book during luncheon.
The best train back to London left Colchester at four o’clock, so after lunch the house guests went to pack their suitcases, and at a quarter past three Vere was waiting with the Bentley. Good-byes were said and thanks tendered with polite formality. Only the briefest of mutually understanding looks which passed between Barbara and Lofty betrayed—at least to Henry—that future plans had been securely laid.
The train had barely pulled out of the station when Lofty Parker began to laugh, aloud and apparently with genuine amusement.
“What’s so funny?” asked Emmy.
“Better than I could have hoped,” chortled Lofty. “What a performance, eh? And that’s only act one. Wait until the real drama starts.”
“Look, Lofty,” said Emmy, “I’ve been thinking. I don’t really want to go on with this. I’m sorry I ever got involved in it. Vere’s dead against it, and I can’t see any point in raking up old memories that would be better forgotten…”
“So you’re backing out, are you, Blandish?”
“Not exactly backing out, but…”
“Good. Your next assignment—after you’ve gathered those dates and so on from Air Ministry—is a round of visits. I have not been idle this last week. I have collected all the addresses.”
“Whose addresses?”
“They’re all written down for you.” Lofty produced a sheet of paper. “You’d better start with Annie, to make sure of catching her while she’s still in London. Also in or around London are Sammy Smith, Jimmy Baggot, and Arthur Price. When you’re through with that, you can have a day in the country as a reward. Beau’s father, the Reverend Sidney, lives not far from Dymfield. That should be a particularly interesting visit. By the way, whatever you do, don’t tell Barbara you’re going to see the old man.”
“But what am I to say to all these people, Lofty?”
“Just talk to them about Beau and Dymfield. Use your wits and keep your eyes and ears open, and make careful notes afterward. I’ve prepared a questionnaire, which I’m having duplicated in my office. Your ostensible purpose will be to give a copy of this to each person and persuade them to fill it in. I dare say most of them will simply tear it up. It doesn’t matter much if they do, although the information on it would be useful. As far as Sammy is concerned, I’m chiefly interested in the time when he and Beau were both at Falconfield and Beau had his crash. For the others—I don’t mind telling you frankly, Blandish, that I’m more interested in Beau’s death than in his life.”
“That’s surely not what Barbara wants…”
“What Barbara wants and what Barbara is going to get are two different things. This is my book, and it’s not going to be a portrait of Dymfield, nor is it going to be a biography of Beau Guest.”
“May one ask what it is going to be?” Henry said.
“Certainly,” said Lofty. “A mystery story. The unraveling of a twenty-year-old enigma. Are you with me, Chief Inspector?”
“I follow what you mean, yes,” said Henry carefully.
“If I’m not mistaken,” said Lofty, “it will put several cats among a horde of pigeons.” He smiled beatifically, delighted by the idea.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE FINCHLEY TELEPHONE number was answered by a young, languid, feminine voice. “Mrs. Smith speaking. Mr. Smith? Oh, no… Well, he’s working, of course. What else would be doing? Who is it?”
“You don’t know me, Mrs. Smith,” said Emmy. “My name is Emmy Tibbett and I’m an old Air Force colleague of your husband’s. I’m trying to get in touch with him about…”
“Oh, lord. Not again. That ghastly Mr. Price kept on and on at Sammy…”
“About the reunion, you mean?”
“It’s all so silly,” said Mrs. Smith.
Emmy, for some reason, had a clear mental picture of the woman at the other end of the telephone line. She was sure that Mrs. Smith was wearing tight black trousers with high-heeled shoes.
“Sammy didn’t want to go, so why should he? The way Mr. Price went on…”
“I can assure you,” said Emmy, “that I have nothing to do with reunions. As a matter of fact, I’m collecting material for a book.”
“A book?” There was a quickening of interest in the voice. “You mean, you’re going to put Sammy in a book?”
“In a way,” said Emmy. “It’s to be a biography of Beau Guest…”
“Come again. Of who?”
“One of the Battle of Britain heroes.” Emmy was aware that she had spoken sharply. It irritated her unreasonably that this girl should never have heard of Beau. “Your husband was one of his colleagues.”
“Battle of Britain? That’s a long time ago…”
“We hoped that your husband would help us.”
“Oh, yes. Well, I’m sure he will. If it’s a book. I mean, it’s all good publicity, isn’t it? Will you be mentioning Sammy’s name?”
“Almost certainly. That is,” added Emmy, craftily, “if he can give us the information we need. If he’s too busy, I can probably get it elsewhere.”
“Oh, no. Don’t do that. I mean, I know he’ll want to help. Why don’t you go around to his office? Are you in London?”
“Yes. I’ve just come from the Air Ministry. I’m in Whitehall.”
“Well, Sammy’s at Supercharged Motors in Euston Place. Do go and see him, Mrs.—sorry, I didn’t get your name…”
“Tibbett,” said Emmy. “Thanks very much, Mrs. Smith. I will.”
Supercharged Motors was a large showroom fronted with plate glass, which looked exactly like many others in the same quarter of London. Gazing in from the pavement, Emmy was confronted by an array of burnished and lacquered motor cars, all well past their youth, most of which had been designed for the race track rather than the highway. Chromium pipes sprouted from their shiny hoods, and leather straps held many of their vital parts in position. Only one was effeminate enough to have a roof. The others disdained even the elementary comfort of a cloth top. Emmy pushed the door open and went in.
Almost at once a stout young man came out of an inner office. He wore a slightly passé carnation in the buttonhole of his blue suit and he was smoking a cigarette in a long black holder.
>
“Good afternoon, madam,” he said, with all the warmth of a disc jockey. “Ah, I see you’re admiring the Panther Special. Lovely job, isn’t she? 1928, and in mint condition. Only one of her kind in London, I can promise you that. Twin overhead interconnecting camrods and triple…”
“Actually, I was looking for Mr. Smith,” said Emmy, repressing a strong desire to giggle.
“Oh.” The young man sounded damped. “You’re sure I can’t…?”
“It’s personal,” said Emmy.
“Oh, very well,” replied the young man with a touch of petulance. “I’ll see if he’s in.” He went back into the office and Emmy heard him calling, “Sammy! Someone to see you!” There was a pause. “Female… No, no, older than that—says it’s personal… Oh, all right…”
He came out into the showroom again. “Mr. Smith is rather busy,” he said. Emmy marveled that he could really imagine that she had not overheard every word. “If you’d just give me your name and…”
“Tell him it’s Emmy Blandish from Dymfield.”
He retired again, and once more Emmy heard the stage-whisper shout from the depths. “She says she’s Sally Chandler. From Dim-something. No, she looks quite harmless.”
There was a pause, and then the clatter of feet coming downstairs. A moment later Sammy Smith was in the showroom. He looked at Emmy for a moment in puzzlement, failing to place her; then, all at once, his face broke into a huge smile, and he cried, “Blandish! Emmy Blandish! Well, I’ll be damned. What brings you to this neck of the woods, my dear?”
He had not changed at all in twenty years. Even in uniform he had given the impression of a smooth, plump, jolly fellow in a well-tailored suit, and this is what he now was in fact. His ruddy face was clean-shaven, his brown hair had receded a little at the temples but was still abundant. His hazel eyes twinkled as wickedly as ever, and his smart brown suit disguised any small increase in girth. It crossed Emmy’s mind that he must be a very good second-hand car salesman.
“Well, well,” he went on, “Dymfield seems to be in the air these days, if you’ll pardon the pun. I had old Arthur Price pestering me a few weeks ago to go to some reunion. Couldn’t make it, unfortunately. Did you go?”
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