by Amy Myers
I had longed to drive my Lagonda or the Gordon-Keeble on today’s trip but had reluctantly decided that being inconspicuous would be advisable. The journey from Frogs Hill to Lamberhurst is so spectacular it lifts the heart. After rounding the two sharp bends into Goudhurst one descends through the village to magnificent views of the Weald lying beneath. The landscape here presents a gentler face than does the sharper Downland of eastern Kent, and as my Alfa passed the village duck pond the ducks seemed to be lining up to quack welcome at this gateway to the Weald.
I passed the entrance to Finchcocks, another majestic house hidden in the heart of the countryside, this one devoted to keyboard music; then I looked for the turning to Shoulder Mutton Green. The green is still common ground open to all, although the houses bordering it would, I guessed, be far from common.
There was no pub or shop or church in this hamlet to give me a legitimate reason for stopping, and I was well aware that any unusual arrivals in a place this size would be sure to be noted by someone. I drove slowly past the row of houses which did not in fact look particularly grand, but they were early Victorian and therefore large compared with today’s offerings in the way of housing. So were the gardens in front of the houses and I imagined the rear ones were even larger. I couldn’t see much of Elmtree House itself, because the trees and shrubs in front of it had grown so high that they shielded most of it. If the closed gateway was anything to go by, however, it needed repainting.
Did the De Dion Bouton live behind those trees in a high security garage? My guess was no. If Victoria Drake did still own it, it was probably not for sale, and nor would she be disposed to let the world know about it. If it was too close at hand, tradesmen, guests, casual callers might all spread the story.
I remembered spotting a postbox on the green, which would give me an apparent reason for wandering back for another look at the house. I parked the Alfa further up the road, took an old envelope out of the glove compartment and sauntered along with this legitimate mission in hand. We sleuths are adept in such cunning schemes. Dad knew someone who had been a real-life spy in the 1930s and his chief strategy to avoid detection had been to slink past his prey with his hat pulled down over his eyes.
I could only see one garage from the gateway to Elmtree House as I walked back to the Alfa. It was closed and Mrs Drake’s silver Polo stood outside it. Could there be another garage anywhere? Possibly, but I still thought she would store it further away. Where though? I’m no psychologist but I did my best. In a barn or garage for sure, but not too far away. I remembered Brenda Carlyle reacting to my mention of a De Dion Bouton at the funeral, and she was a neighbour. I could be way out, but Victoria Drake’s husband must have loved the car and he would want it reasonably nearby to keep an eye on it. Victoria was unlikely to have moved it after his death.
Satisfied with this reasoning, I continued walking towards my Alfa. Elmtree House was the last in the row of these detached Victorian houses and next to it on the far side was a driveway to a farm. A narrow road skirted the bulge of the green, but further up opposite where I was now standing there was another driveway. In the distance I could see more farm buildings. My money (although admittedly I haven’t got much) would be on the De Dion being in one of those two farms. I did not dare investigate further, because although the countryside might seem quiet and devoid of human life, it’s a safe bet that a whole army of unseen eyes can be focused on you, and I did not want Victoria Drake forewarned of my presence.
The best of plans go awry. As I reached my Alfa I ran straight into Brenda Carlyle, ostensibly on her way back from the farm with some eggs. I say ostensibly because the bag she was carrying looked empty.
‘I thought I knew that car,’ she beamed. ‘You’re Mrs King’s friend, aren’t you? We talked at poor Mr King’s funeral.’
‘You’ve caught me out,’ I admitted ruefully and I hoped disarmingly, while I fished in the Alfa for my credentials. ‘I have to confess I’m from the Kent Police Car Crime Unit, and I’d hoped for a chat with your neighbour Mrs Drake. She didn’t want to talk to me on the phone so I thought I’d come over here in the hope she might relent if she saw I wasn’t a Policeman Plod. Nothing sinister – I just need to know more about Mr King’s business life.’
‘Oh.’ She looked the picture of a village worthy from Miss Marple’s St Mary Mead. ‘Victoria can be difficult.’
A window of hope? Brenda was clearly dithering over whether to help or hinder me. ‘I know Mr King did restore her De Dion Bouton some years ago.’
I prompted her. ‘What’s happened to it now?’
‘Is this to do with the Peking to Paris rally?’ Brenda enquired, unexpectedly sharply. Then her cherubic face blushed, as she saw my astonishment. ‘We were talking about that at the funeral . . . I wonder . . .’
‘Yes?’ I said encouragingly when she paused.
‘If you just wanted to talk to Victoria about that . . . I might be able . . . Not today, of course. I’d need a day or two.’
She needed seven to be precise, and during that time several things had happened. Firstly, I’d reported to Dave my theory that Alfred King’s death and the rumour about the 1907 De Dion Bouton might be linked. He didn’t think much of it. Connor Meyton and his racket were the line he preferred me to follow up. Secondly, I also had to report to the Mad Major.
‘Interim report only,’ I explained.
He wasn’t easily deterred. ‘Come on, man, spit it out.’
‘I have tracked down a De Dion Bouton, but I don’t know whether it’s the one you’re after. I’m hoping to find out shortly.’
‘Whose is it?’ he shouted down the phone.
Time to be firm, although it was an interesting reply. ‘I have to do it my way. Clash of interests.’
He ranted and raved, but calmed down in the end. The third development came a few days later, and was even less welcome. I looked out of the farmhouse window early one morning and saw Zoe drawing up in a cloud of smoke. (Physician, heal thyself, as they say.) So far all was as usual. What was not as usual was that I saw her running and not to the Pits but towards the farmhouse, waving a newspaper. A newspaper that looked suspiciously familiar. I had a horrible feeling it was the Kentish Graphic and Wednesday was its publication day.
In her eagerness Zoe almost fell through the door as I opened it. ‘Seen this?’
I hadn’t. It wasn’t the lead story, but not far off it. It was a splendid picture of an early De Dion Bouton and above it a huge caption blared out: ‘Have you seen this car?’
I grabbed the paper from her to look more closely and my appalled eyes took in the fact that a donation would be made to a charity for any information leading to the discovery of a mysterious De Dion Bouton said to be the actual one that ran in the Peking to Paris rally. It ended with the news that it was thought to be in Kent and that the Kentish Graphic was hot on its trail. I didn’t even need to look at the reporter’s name. I knew it already.
It was Pen Roxton.
She and I go back a long way, and most of it has been a troubled path. I like Pen. Who could fail to be charmed by her quivering sharp nose, her lanky blondish hair and wiry pushy figure busy pushing itself into other people’s business? Indefatigable is Pen. Harsh words or criticism roll off her quicker than water from a penguin. I had as much chance of knocking this story on the head as finding the Contal tricar buried in the sands of the Gobi Desert. That had been the fifth contender in the 1907 rally, but its driver had had to abandon it at this early stage.
However, did I want to knock the story on the head? I was being paid to find the De Dion Bouton and Pen’s story might help. I say ‘might’ because with Pen nothing is certain except that she’ll be there exactly when you don’t want her. She claims this is because she’s very good at her job. I maintain it’s because thinking round a story never occurs to her. She says she’s paid to produce, not think.
‘Thanks, Zoe.’
‘Saw the word De Dion on the placards so I went i
n to buy one for you.’
I glanced at it. ‘Any mention of Alf King or Dean?’
‘No. Should there be?’ she asked warily.
‘Not if I can keep it out, and even if I can’t, not yet.’
‘Want me to ask Dean about this?’ A mite too casual.
‘Why not?’ I can do casual too. ‘Are you seeing him soon?’
‘Dinner tonight.’
‘There or here?’
‘Halfway. He lives at West Malling.’
‘Married?’
She shot me a disdainful look and marched away, leaving me feeling ashamed of myself. There had after all been no Mrs Dean at the funeral, and even though Greek-god types aren’t my first choice for Zoe, they’re a whole lot better than Rob Lane. At least this one had a job. Admittedly this was now likely to be with Connor Meyton. Greek gods have always struck me as being somewhat short on the IQ front. Of course, the business would be Doris’s to sell but no doubt Dean was playing a role in it.
Zoe stopped short in her progress to the Pits and called back to me. ‘Forgot to tell you – sorry. Jack. Had a call on the Pits phone for you yesterday when you were out. Helen Palmer.’
I glared at her. ‘What did she want?’
‘To know if you were married. I said yes, with six kids.’ Zoe went off giggling.
Helen was on voicemail, so I gritted my teeth and rang Pen. Not a pleasant task. When I said I like her, I meant it – but that’s at a distance. Dealing with her when she has her nose to a story is a different matter.
‘Thought I’d be hearing from you, Jack,’ her inimitable voice squeaked at me.
‘Nice story, Pen,’ I purred. ‘Where did it come from?’
‘Does that matter?’ She sounded hurt. ‘I couldn’t tell you even if I remembered. Which I don’t.’
‘The rumour’s been going the rounds for a time now, Pen. It’s hardly a scoop.’
‘I’m the first to give it street cred. And I’ll be the first to find that car. You betcha.’
‘Or claim you are,’ I countered. Sometimes Pen can be persuaded to do deals.
She considered this proposition. ‘Possibly,’ she conceded. ‘I heard you’d been asking after the car’s health.’
I wasn’t going to be led by the nose, particularly by Pen. ‘I’m on the trail, Pen,’ I told her. ‘Give me leeway and you’ll be the first to know—’
‘Done.’
‘Unless,’ I finished, ‘it clashes with my police work.’ Fool, fool, that I am on occasion, usually when Pen is around.
‘So there might be a connection with Alf King’s death?’ she asked brightly. ‘Heard you were at the funeral. Knew there must be a story.’
‘Don’t go there,’ I warned her. ‘Just don’t.’
‘You know me, Jack.’
‘And, dear Pen, you know me.’ I put just enough threat into my voice to make her realize I was serious. There are some boundaries that even Pen wouldn’t cross – not out of delicacy or morals, just safety first for her own interests. Or so I comfort myself.
There was a brief silence, then: ‘Working on the story with an old lag.’
‘What?’
‘Well, doubt if he’s done stir, but looks as if he’s kicked around a bit. Sports photographer from years back.’
‘Does he live in these parts?’
‘Woolwich way. In a pub most of the time. Arthur Orton’s his professional name, known as Bob. He might tell you more. He’s glad of a pint or a penny or two, whatever’s on offer.’
‘Thanks, Pen.’
‘You owe me, darling.’
No sooner had I put the phone down than Brenda Carlyle rang me.
‘Such good news, Mr Colby,’ she trilled. ‘Victoria has agreed to talk to you. If you would like to come to tea here tomorrow she will be present.’
‘That’s splendid,’ I said warmly. I’d have preferred to talk to Victoria Drake alone, but this wasn’t too bad a scenario. I might even get Brenda’s support.
Unfortunately she continued hesitantly, ‘Her daughter Patricia Morris and her husband Tom might also be coming. They’re very interested in the Peking to Paris rally, so we can all chat about it.’
I inwardly groaned. A nice chat with half the world wasn’t exactly what I’d had in mind, but nevertheless half a loaf was better than none – provided of course the truth wasn’t masked by family considerations. Was it the rally or the De Dion Bouton that had caught the Morrises’ attention, I wondered.
When I arrived the next day with my best bib and tucker on, I was prepared to find tea, scones and maybe a cup cake or two. Afternoon tea isn’t a meal that figures highly in car detection work. One glance at TV documentaries demonstrates that the criminal life of the everyday copper in the vast run of true crime cases is either humdrum or vicious or both, often dealing with sad people who have lost or never found their way in life. Nevertheless there’s a huge stratum of society, just as real and perhaps equally humdrum, that proceeds along more gentle channels. Brenda Carlyle and the Morrises were doing just that. I was therefore pleasantly amazed to find not stale cupcakes, but a whole buffet of the most delicious-looking French pastries I’d seen this side of Paris.
‘Did you bring these over from France?’ I asked.
‘Oh no. I made them myself,’ said this surprising lady. ‘My neighbour in France showed me the way. The villagers said Monsieur Beaumont prepares the best eclairs in France, so ask him how to make them. So I did, and now I can make them too,’ she said with simple pride. ‘I do like France.’
That explained the prints and photographs on the walls, framed photos of the Loire and prints of Monet and Cézanne, even a Seurat. I was the first to arrive, and so I had had time to assess the room – and taste the delicious petits eclairs.
Such delights lasted only ten minutes or so and then the remaining guests arrived en masse, as if to underline a united family front. Their body language told me they were armed for battle and their set faces did not bode well for cosy chats.
‘I’m Patricia Morris,’ the daughter announced somewhat uncertainly. She was flanked by two men, not just the husband I had expected, and seemed dwarfed by them both in stature and confidence. She could only be in her early fifties but she looked and behaved older than that with clothes and hairstyle that owed nothing to fashion. The elder of the two men, obviously husband Tom, said he was pleased to meet me but did not look in the least pleased. He looked as if he was spoiling for a fight. Even his chin stuck pugnaciously out. The younger of the two was introduced by Brenda as ‘dear Nick’, their son. Dear Nick was a strapping lad in his mid twenties, who announced he’d taken the afternoon off because he liked cars. I wasn’t sure if I was meant to express gratitude or not. Tom Morris was, I guessed, also in his early fifties, and Brenda had earlier conveyed the news to me that he had recently been made redundant. That explained not only why he was here on a weekday afternoon but also his bullish attitude. He was out to make me reap the whirlwind of an unjust world.
I’ve deliberately left Victoria Drake until last. The Morrises might have taken the lead in announcing themselves, but this was where the power lay. No doubt about that. Victoria looked in her early seventies, smartly dressed and definitely formidable. She was a medium-sized woman with short cropped grey hair, thirties style, and was clearly a woman who knew her own mind – as I had already found out to my cost. She might even be a match for Pen. So why had she found it necessary to bring her daughter and family as back-up? Was it because she wanted to be seen as in control – even though this was her neighbour’s home? True, they would probably support her refusal to help me over the De Dion, but why would this sharp-eyed woman need such support? I already knew she was capable of telling me to get lost.
Brenda bustled around with coffee, tea and cakes, to which I could no longer give the attention they deserved, as it was evident that Victoria Drake was about to launch an assault.
‘I only agreed to speak to you, Mr Colby,’ she told me coldly,
‘because of this story in yesterday’s Graphic. Did you have anything to do with that?’
‘No. The story about the Peking-to-Paris De Dion has been around much longer than my own connection with it.’
‘That’s pretty hard to believe.’ Tom fired up like a Bugatti. ‘Brenda was under the impression it began when she met you at Alfred King’s funeral.’
‘The rumours began months before that, but it is true,’ I said blandly, ‘that the police for whom I work are interested in Alfred King’s contacts, which include Mrs Drake because of her De Dion.’
‘A car restored in 2006 is hardly likely to result in a death several years later,’ Victoria commented acidly.
Nick Morris was craning forward, eager to get his own oar in. ‘But if your car was the Peking-to-Paris competitor, Gran, you’d have told me, wouldn’t you?’
Silence from Granny Victoria.
‘Dad would have known, wouldn’t he?’ Patricia asked her mother. ‘You told me it belonged to him, didn’t you, Mummy? That’s why we didn’t know about it.’
Mummy turned her Gorgon-like stare on her daughter and Patricia promptly shut up.
‘Where is this car, Victoria?’ Tom barked at her. ‘You need my help over this, especially if it is the right car. Let’s get an expert in.’
‘No,’ Victoria replied calmly.
‘But, Gran . . .’ Nick began, only to be shouted down by Tom with the occasional cry from Patricia.
I let this interesting family situation go on for a while, until I could see a chink of light. I prepared to make it a beam.
‘Of course,’ I said blithely, ‘if you still possess your De Dion Bouton, you would have a very valuable possession, Mrs Drake, and it would be even more valuable if it was indeed one of the original two rally De Dions. It would be excellent if it could be on display at the rally in Kent that’s coming up in August. Is that a possibility?’
