by Jack Treby
‘One final test,’ the Colonel declared, from his own leather armchair. ‘Capital fun! Ha ha! Where on earth did you learn that trick with the hat pin, my dear?’
Lettie grinned. ‘It’s amazing what you can pick up, living in an orphanage.’ She placed the music box back down on the table and closed the lid. There was only so much of The Nutcracker anyone could appreciate in one sitting.
Professor Singh had won the contest, but Lettie had ended up with the prize. It was, I suppose, a satisfactory conclusion to what had proved – aside from my encounter with Doctor Lefranc – a rather lacklustre event. What further delights would the Colonel have in store for us this afternoon? I wondered.
A few of the stragglers from the treasure hunt were still arriving at the library. Mr and Mrs Smith swept in from the hallway, laughing gaily, and behind them came a glum-faced Dorothy Kilbride. She had been partnered with Anthony Sinclair, so it was hardly surprising she was not in the best of spirits.
‘Looks like you’re the last, Mr Sinclair,’ I observed with some relish. ‘The clues a bit too difficult for you?’
Sinclair smiled icily. ‘Not at all. And I believe Doctor Lefranc is yet to arrive, so we are not quite the last.’
‘You’re right. Second to last.’ I nodded smugly. ‘Not quite as bad.’
Sinclair raised an eyebrow. ‘It’s the taking part that counts, Sir Hilary.’
‘Quite right,’ the Colonel agreed, pulling himself up from the armchair. ‘And now, I believe, it’s time for lunch.’
The dinner suit was freshly laundered. It showed none of the alcohol stains I vaguely remembered dribbling over the lapels the previous evening. Hargreaves was hanging it up in the wardrobe. He tensed slightly as I opened the door, his eyes betraying the usual mix of embarrassment and admiration. ‘Did you have an enjoyable morning, sir?’ he asked, as I moved into the bedroom.
‘Passable, Hargreaves, passable.’ I flopped down onto the bed and stretched out my arms. ‘Didn’t win the damn treasure hunt though.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that, sir. And how was Miss Young as a companion?’
‘Loud and crude. Although I must confess I’m beginning to warm to her.’
‘She has a lovely singing voice.’
I grimaced. ‘She’ll probably be singing again tonight, worst luck. Is the car back yet?’
Hargreaves nodded. He turned and gestured to the bedside table. ‘Mr Latimer returned the keys ten minutes ago. I took the liberty of parking the car myself.’
Ever efficient. ‘Did you check the milometer?’
‘Thirty-five miles, sir, since this morning.’
That was dashed odd. ‘He must have been gone nearly three hours. What on earth was he doing?’
‘That I couldn’t say, sir.’
I lay thinking for a moment. I didn’t like this at all. There was far too much going on that I didn’t understand. There was all that business with the Honourable Felicity Mandeville Jones as well. Hargreaves seemed unaffected, however. Perhaps he hadn’t had the opportunity yet to get a really good look at Gaston Lefranc.
There was something altogether dog like about my valet. I often caught him looking at me with a kind of doey-eyed affection; that mindless adoration only dogs can have, because they lack the sense to see the faults in their masters. Not that I have many faults. I drink like a fish, gamble to excess and have something of a weakness for men in uniform, but such things are hardly unusual for somebody of my class. Hargreaves was a good seven years older than me and I suspected that – in his sad middle-aged way – he was a little bit in love with me. Not that he would ever have admitted it, but he was always a little too keen to scrub my back when I was in the bath. And although I found the very idea of it nauseating, it did at least mean that he was easy to control. There was none of that inverted master-servant relationship between us that PG Wodehouse later parodied so well, though I knew plenty of other people for whom it was true.
‘Have you bumped into that Frenchman yet?’ I asked. There was no point beating about the bush. ‘The doctor?’
Hargreaves tensed again. His shoulders always tended to slope somewhat, so when they hunched together, you really noticed it. ‘I...saw him this morning, sir. As I was preparing the car for Mr Latimer.’
‘You recognised him, of course?’
Hargreaves nodded, turning towards me apologetically.
‘I’m afraid I did, sir.’
I took a deep breath and then allowed myself to explode. ‘Well, why the blazes didn’t you tell me?!?’
It was Hargreaves’ turn to take a breath. ‘If you recall, sir, I tried to speak to you just as you were leaving with Miss Young this morning, but you told me not to disturb you.’
That was true enough. I’d been in a foul mood. ‘You should have insisted.’
‘I...I didn’t like to.’
I growled in despair. ‘You’re hopeless, Hargreaves. Absolutely hopeless.’
‘I’m sorry, sir. Did...did the doctor speak to you?’
‘He did.’ I sat up on the bed. ‘He knows everything. The child. You, me. One word from that man and I’ll be ruined. A laughing stock.’ And what Elizabeth would think I didn’t dare contemplate. She would be humiliated and worse still she would lose her title. ‘Why couldn’t you have kept yourself out of the way?’ I said. ‘He wouldn’t have recognised me. It was you he remembered.’
‘I’m very sorry, sir.’
‘Stop apologising, damn you!’
Hargreaves was quiet for a moment. ‘What are we going to do?’ he asked, at length.
I bit my lip and reached into my jacket. My cigarette case was in the inside pocket. ‘Nothing we can do. He doesn’t seem inclined to tell anyone. Actually, he seems a rather decent sort. But even so...’
‘He lives in France, sir. That I do know. I spoke to the Colonel’s man about him this morning. He’s heading straight back to Bordeaux tomorrow evening. He has the ferry booked already.’
I lit a cigarette. ‘That’s something, I suppose.’ I took a long drag. Hargreaves and I had stayed somewhere near Bordeaux, during my confinement. ‘That farmhouse we rented, a couple of years back. Didn’t Harry have something to do with that?’
Hargreaves considered for a moment. ‘I believe he did, sir. You sent him a cable, when he was in America.’
‘Good lord. So I did.’ I had needed to rent a property for six months. I’d asked Harry if he knew anywhere suitable and he had wired back, giving me the name of a friend in the South of France. The friend had provided the farmhouse.
‘A bit odd that, sir.’
‘I’ll say.’ Another damn coincidence. Perhaps Harry did know Doctor Lefranc. He had claimed not to, when I’d pointed to the fellow the night before, but he might well have been lying. I growled in frustration. ‘I wish I’d never agreed to come here this weekend. You should have talked me out of it.’
‘Yes, sir. Will you be needing anything this afternoon, sir?’
‘What? No, just the evening wear. They’ve got a dance band coming, can you believe it?’
Hargreaves grimaced. He was a worse dancer than I was. Not that he had any reason to fear. He wouldn’t be the one forced onto the ballroom floor. And knowing my luck, I would probably end up spending most of the evening waltzing with Dorothy Kilbride. Perhaps I could tear one of the younger girls away from Harry.
I stood up and walked over to the window. Before the dance, there was an even greater horror to face. A couple of servants were making their way along the side of the house, carrying a table between them laden down with various sporting implements. The afternoon’s entertainment was being prepared over by the lake.
I shuddered.
Dancing I could cope with, but croquet...
Chapter Seven
Lunch had been laid out on the edge of the croquet lawn, some distance from the main house. A protective stand overshadowed the tables, in case of rain, and a succession of outdoor chairs had been provided for those of us not di
rectly involved in the game. The lawn itself was elongated, running along the south side of the lake, adjacent to a narrow pathway that circled the water. Half a dozen hoops had been hammered into the grass at regulation intervals and mallets had been provided for the first four competitors. It was a mixed doubles match and with a toss of a coin – the Colonel acting as umpire – it was Dorothy Kilbride and Professor Singh who chose to tee off (or whatever the correct expression is). Lettie Young had joined a frostily polite Anthony Sinclair to form the opposing team and a more ill matched pair you could scarcely have hoped to find. It was a joy to behold.
I had a plate of food in my lap and was sitting back happily, waiting to observe the carnage. It was a little chilly out, but Hargreaves had insisted I dress for a blizzard so there was little chance of me catching cold. A few glasses of whisky and soda, in any case, would provide all the warmth any woman could want.
What had possessed the Colonel to organise a croquet match in late October was beyond me. A hunt would have been more appropriate; a bit of grouse shooting or some such. But the estate wasn’t really big enough for that and, in any case, it was not for the likes of me to question the decisions of Major-General Sir Vincent Kelly KMCG. Perhaps, as Harry Latimer had suggested, it was another demonstration of the man’s endearingly quirky sense of humour.
My American friend was observing the proceedings with a typically amused expression. Unlike me, he was going easy on the food, though he had cadged a cigarette from my case and joined me in a glass of Scottish nectar. ‘So what do you say, old man,’ he suggested, watching the two teams moving forward with their mallets. ‘How about a little wager?’
I didn’t see why not. ‘Two guineas. On Miss Kilbride and Professor Singh.’
Harry’s brow creased suspiciously. ‘Do you know something I don’t?’
‘Not at all. Just can’t bear the thought of Sinclair winning anything.’
That seemed to satisfy him. ‘Well, it seems a shame to take your money but...’ He reached across and we shook hands. ‘Two guineas it is.’
Dorothy Kilbride was just preparing to take her first shot. She lined up the mallet carefully and gave the ball a solid thwack. It flew across the lawn in a perfect straight line. There was a polite ripple of applause. Harry shot me a suspicious glance but I was saying nothing.
The last time I had seen Dorothy playing croquet was at Syon House back in the summer of 1913. She had slaughtered all comers. It was her one great skill. I was surprised Harry didn’t know, but then he had never visited the London office. I had lost a lot of money that weekend and it was shortly after that that I had been forced to propose to Elizabeth. No, there was no chance of anybody beating Miss Dorothy Kilbride, not when it came to croquet. Even if her partner was lacking in skill – and given his damnable proficiency at everything else Professor Singh was bound to be good at croquet – Dorothy Kilbride would take up the slack. It would be another well-earned slap in the face for Anthony Sinclair. Perhaps the afternoon might not be a total wash out after all.
There was one small matter I had to attend to, however, now that Harry and I were alone. ‘I was speaking to that doctor fellow this morning,’ I said, tentatively. ‘Doctor Lefranc.’
Harry dropped the end of his cigarette onto the grass and stubbed it out with his foot. ‘Oh yeah?’
‘You know he lives near Bordeaux?’
‘I can’t say I did, old man.’
‘Near that farmhouse I rented a couple of years back. You remember? The one your friend arranged for me.’
Harry raised an eyebrow. ‘Sure, I remember. So I guess you have met him before? You said he looked familiar.’
‘It’s damned odd, but yes, briefly. Hargreaves had a bit of a cold,’ I extemporised, ‘and Doctor Lefranc came out to the farmhouse to give him the once over.’
Harry frowned. ‘Bit of coincidence, old man, him being here as well.’
‘That’s what I thought. Are you sure you’ve never met him? You do have friends down there, near Bordeaux.’
‘Oh, one or two, one or two,’ Harry admitted. ‘But I’ve never come across Doctor Lefranc before.’ He drained his glass. ‘Leastways, not until this weekend.’
I nodded. When it came to bare-faced lying, Harry was in a class of his own, but he might just as easily be telling the truth. There was clearly nothing more to be got from him on the matter. Perhaps it was just a coincidence after all.
‘Oh, thanks for the loan of the car,’ Harry said, changing the subject. ‘You’re a life saver.’
‘I hope you didn’t damage it.’
‘Oh, not a scratch, old man. Not a scratch. I even filled up the gas tank on the way back.’
‘That’s not saying much. It was full when we arrived.’
He chuckled. ‘It’s the thought that counts, old man.’
‘So where did you go?’
‘Oh, here and there. Just a few errands to run. You know how it is.’
‘In other words, better not to ask. Oh good shot!’
Professor Singh had taken to the field and had got his ball through the first hoop after a perfect set up from Dorothy Kilbride.
The professor bowed in acknowledgement of the applause. ‘You are all very kind,’ he called. ‘It is a most exhilarating game.’
Harry was mortified. He hated losing money even more than I did, and he hadn’t had nearly as much practise.
‘It looks like you might lose two bets today,’ I teased.
‘How do you make that out?’
‘Well, you don’t seem to have got very far with Felicity Mandeville Jones.’ I gestured to the young woman, who was helping herself to a sandwich at the food table. ‘I think you must be losing your touch.’
‘Now hang on, old man. I thought we said evens on her or Lettie Young.’
‘Harry, we said nothing of the kind. It was fifteen guineas to win, on the Honourable Felicity Mandeville Jones.’
‘Okay, okay. That’s what we agreed.’
‘You can pay up now if you like.’
‘Oh, I’ve no intention of conceding defeat.’ He smiled. ‘I figure I’ve got a few hours left. And there’s still the dance this evening. But what about you, old man? Do you fancy having a go at the delectable Miss Lettie Young? I hear the two of you spent the morning together.’
‘I’m a married man, Harry.’
‘Of course you are.’ He grinned mischievously. My lack of interest in women had always amused him. He often liked to tease me about it. Harry was of the opinion that I was a bit of a Nancy Boy – he knew relations with my wife were non-existent – and I was happy for him to think that way. It was a reasonable cover story and Harry was broad-minded enough not to think any less of me because of it. He wasn’t above a bit of blackmail, of course, but as he was never going to catch me in flagrante that hardly mattered.
‘Do you want another drink?’ he asked.
I proffered my glass. That was more like it. ‘Whisky and soda. Not too much soda. Actually, just make it a whisky.’
Harry nodded and made off. There was a loud ‘ooh’ from the spectators. Lettie Young had taken her first shot and had bungled it badly. ‘Bleedin’ hell!’ she exclaimed, with a laugh. ‘This is more difficult than it looks!’
Sinclair, needless to say, was glaring daggers at her, but Lettie seemed utterly oblivious. I leaned back in my chair with a rare feeling of satisfaction. Money in the bank at long last.
Harry was deep in conversation with Felicity Mandeville Jones over by the food table. She was smiling warmly at him. That was not such good news. I had fifteen guineas on the line, after all. But there was no need to fret. Harry could not win that bet, not when Felicity was already so thoroughly involved with Anthony Sinclair.
‘Do you think it will rain later?’ I flinched at the sudden booming voice. Mr Smith had wandered over from the house. ‘Looks a bit gloomy, don’t it?’ He spoke in a loud Yorkshire brogue, as disconcerting in its way as Lettie Young’s strangulated vowels.
<
br /> ‘We live in hope,’ I said. A bit of rain would suit me perfectly. It would put a stop to the croquet before anyone managed to drag me out onto the field. I was happy to sit and watch other people making fools of themselves, but I had no desire to join in.
Mr Smith pulled up a chair and sat down next to me. ‘You don’t mind us sitting here?’
‘Not at all,’ I replied, through gritted teeth. Just what I needed, some fat idiot providing me with a running commentary on the game. John Smith was a tall, oddly proportioned man. His face was proud if a little weather beaten and he sported an admirably unapologetic belly. It was a peculiarity of the age that whilst women were expected to look like stick insects, men were becoming ever more rotund. And there could be few more gut-wrenchingly obese than Mr John Smith. The man owned a string of factories in the North of England, and – if the size of his stomach was any indication – he was doing rather well for himself.
Smith had not been in the best of moods when I’d passed him in the main hall on my way out to the croquet lawn. He had been on the telephone trying to get a message through to New York. It was a tricky business at the weekend, and Mr Smith was unpardonably rude to the poor girl on the other end of the line.
‘Did you get your message sent?’ I asked him now. It was rather bad form making use of the telephone like that. Nobody was supposed to know we were here at Bletchley Park.
‘Aye, but lord knows when I’ll get a reply. Lazy buggers these telegraph people. Excuse my French. But if I don’t hear back from New York by tomorrow I’ll be in serious trouble.’
‘What is it? Some sort of business matter?’ I didn’t really care, but it seemed only polite to ask.
‘Aye. You must have seen what’s happening in the papers?’
‘I did glance at the Times over breakfast.’ There had been more on the problems in Wall Street. ‘They said things had stabilized yesterday.’
‘Aye, but I reckon it’s just the calm before the storm.’
‘Still. Doesn’t affect us. If the Americans go to the wall, too bad.’ I glanced over at Harry, who didn’t seem in any hurry to return with my whisky.
