by Amy Myers
He looked round the unresponsive faces. ‘Damn it all, Pascal was a youngster. He and Florence both thought it a great lark. After all, the car was genuine enough. There was even a letter included from Georges Cormier, who drove the De Dion in the Peking to Paris 1907 rally, saying he’s pleased to hear the car has another life.’
‘Faked?’ I enquired.
The Major turned bright red as he realized he’d scored an own goal. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Copy for Florence?’
‘No. She had one sent from Victor Collignon, the driver of the other De Dion.’
‘Right,’ Tom said heavily after we’d absorbed this little titbit, ‘you’ve had your say. Firstly you overlook the fact that the car still belongs to Patricia’s family unless you can prove otherwise. You can’t. You’ve admitted that Pascal was a first-class crook.’
‘A first-class player,’ the Major roared. ‘His bill of sale is genuine. Anyway, it was all a game.’
‘A game that ended in a draw,’ Helen observed.
‘Shouldn’t have done,’ the Major rumbled. ‘Poor show. Pascal married someone else, Florence took offence and wouldn’t let him have the car back.’
‘Seems reasonable to me,’ Helen said drily.
The Major glared. ‘Different times.’
I pointed out that different times were usually pretty much like our own times, as regards human feelings. ‘You’re claiming that this is the real car, Major, and that only some of the documents are false. Yet Alf and Victoria were both convinced that the car was not the original.’
Tom remembered his own interests. ‘They were wrong. It is the real thing. We’ll soon prove that.’
Brenda had been silent for so long I had almost forgotten her presence. She made it clear now though. ‘There would be little point,’ she said primly, pink in the face. ‘Mr Benson is in full agreement that the car is no longer safe in this country. I shall be taking it to France – as Victoria wished.’
When I went to the hotel’s secure garage the next morning I half expected the car to have disappeared already after Brenda’s announcement. Gone was yesterday’s exultation in the sheer wonder of driving the De Dion. The row that had broken out scotched that. Brenda swept away all arguments. The car, even by what the Major had told us, was the genuine article, it was hers and she was taking it as soon as she could. Any objections could be referred to Mr Benson. I was beginning to wonder whether she was eloping with him, such was the fervour with which she announced this. I was also increasingly uneasy. Just how quickly did she intend to move the car?
The De Dion looked as innocently splendid as yesterday, however, ready to lead the rally procession as far as ‘Irkutsk’, twenty miles or so, at which point she would be borne aloft by Charlie for the rest of the day. ‘Irkutsk’ was Battle, so called because the Battle of Hastings took place there when William the Conqueror so rudely invaded England’s green and pleasant land. Today we would be passing the ‘Trans-Siberian railway’, otherwise known as the Ashford to Hastings railway line, and we would still be in ‘Siberia’ at ‘Omsk’, for our second overnight stop, Tunbridge Wells. This took the rally along more enchanting single-track lanes and so Charlie would be taking a long but safer diversion.
It worried me, however, as we would be fairly isolated in Charlie. I reasoned that if Meyton had his eye upon our precious charge, he would gain nothing unless his purpose was to destroy the car, but the worry still remained, so I asked Len to do a thorough check of Charlie as well as the De Dion. ‘Clean as a whistle,’ was his verdict and I tried to dismiss Meyton from my mind.
Charlie’s route was a roundabout one, but it took us through part of Ashdown Forest. I love this forest with its associations with Winnie the Pooh, but as we drove through it I was still anxious about being so far separated from the main rally procession. The roads through the forest are reasonably wide and the wooded areas not so thick that Meyton might be hiding behind every tree, but I was painfully aware that a lot of passions had been stirred up the previous evening and it was difficult to see in which directions they were flying. Add to that the possibility of Pen stomping into the limelight again and I began to wish we were safely back at Frogs Hill and I could hand over responsibility for the car. It would not take long for Pen to winkle out Meyton’s story, and right or wrong it would be a first-class one for her. I was surprised that she hadn’t followed us, rather than the rally itself, but I saw no sign of her. All was suspiciously quiet. Even so we organized an armed guard around Charlie while two of us had lunch and the other watched the De Dion. The ‘armed’ ingredient was an alarm whistle.
Eventually I began to relax and enjoy driving this glorious vehicle. Meyton’s accusations about the car’s authenticity began to fade. ‘Does the car feel right to you, Len?’ I asked, after I had brought him and Zoe up to date on Meyton.
‘Bits of paper – what do they know?’ Len pronounced.
I saw his point. This car felt real. She was a De Dion ten h.p. from the right year. Anything else was ‘bits of paper’. Moreover I was with the Major. His grandfather would not pinch any old De Dion. Pascal would want the best. And this was it.
I was reassured to see everyone when we gathered in ‘Omsk’. It seemed to be rally business as usual and the De Dion was still with us. There might be unfinished business over it, but I had persuaded myself that that would be for tomorrow, Sunday. Tonight, we could eat, drink and be merry.
Everything on the surface was pleasant enough that evening. There was no sign of Meyton or of Brenda. Helen was talking enthusiastically about the last lap of the rally on the Sunday, and Julian chatted as though the De Dion were already a fixture in Treasure Island and of the money collected for opening the museum to the public. If he was in denial of reality, I didn’t care. He was envisaging a fairy-tale ending in which the De Dion would be driven straight into Treasure Island after the finale to the rally and remain there for ever. Let him dream on. I’d dream too. With Helen.
Even the Morrises didn’t cause any trouble that evening. I suspected this might be because they were busy with some plan of their own, having heard Brenda’s intention to take the car to France sooner rather than later. That seemed a dotty idea which I could not believe Benson had sanctioned and I decided to ring him myself on Monday. Perhaps Brenda saw a fairy-tale ending. I was not so sure. Meyton’s threat to tell the world at the finale that the De Dion was not the original rally car still remained, and with it some other question marks.
In the midst of all these differing plans, however, sat this beautifully restored grey De Dion ten h.p. Len always says he has a nose for cars and I do for trouble. It seemed to me that tomorrow both of us might have our powers tested.
‘When exactly are you planning to take the car to France?’ I asked Brenda curiously as we waited to set off in the De Dion the next morning.
‘Soon.’
It was such a short reply that I looked at her sharply. ‘Are you sure that’s wise?’
She looked at me sternly, as my mother used to do when she thought she had caught me out. ‘Why not? The car will be restored to its place of birth. Just as Victoria wanted.’
I was beginning to wonder if ‘as Victoria wanted’ wasn’t becoming a mantra to avoid facing her own secret desires.
There seemed to be more cars joining in the rally for this final day, judging by the full hotel car park, all of them splendid classics. It was looking good and I struggled to put reservations to the back of my mind, including the fact that I knew the press would be gathering for the kill like prairie dogs.
Almost as soon as we had left with the procession, I stopped, and Brenda left me to join Julian again. There had been signs of a leak yesterday and I didn’t want to risk it worsening at the vital moment of the ‘lap of honour’ along the Roman road that led to Harford Lee and Treasure Island.
With the De Dion the star of the show, despite her being on Charlie’s flatbed much of the time, we flashed through the rest of ‘Siberia
’ and arrived at ‘Moscow’ (Tenterden) for a coffee, making rather better time than our predecessors in 1907. We then shot through ‘Poland’, ‘Warsaw’, and ‘Berlin’ (Lympne) and reached the ‘border of France’, otherwise known as the county of Kent, where we stopped for lunch. On the 1907 rally the two De Dions had had a slow drive back to France suffering breakdowns near the border – with the champagne reception prepared for them being on the far side. Our ‘border’ was just before the M20 and the Roman road, our triumphal route.
‘Ready, Jack?’ Len asked.
We pushed the De Dion down from Charlie’s floor on to the modern roadway, and turned her around to face her as yet unknown destiny. I felt surprisingly cheerful and ready for the challenge. No matter what it was, no matter whether it was the true 1907 De Dion or not, this was a magnificent car and we would pay her due homage. Surprisingly, Brenda decided not to be my passenger for this last stretch.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to ride in glory?’ I asked her in amazement.
She seemed subdued, not the feisty lady who had tackled the Morrises and Connor Meyton.
‘Helen should take my place,’ she told me. ‘She’s done so much for the rally.’
I agreed, but considering that Helen must represent the ‘enemy’ to Brenda because of her connection with the Major, this was good of her. I handed Helen up like the queen she was and like the Edwardian gent I was pretending to be and we travelled regally along that Roman road towards the finale to the rally. No matter what lay ahead, I exulted, nothing could take the grandeur of this last ride away from us. The De Dion’s engine purred, the leak was not obvious, and in any case we were well supplied with water. The sun was out, lifting the grey paint to a sparkling twilight. People were lining the roadside, sparsely I admit in the open country, but they had turned out in their hundreds as we passed Stelling Minnis. Helen developed a regal wave of the hand with great aplomb.
Once past the village however she turned to me. ‘What’s ahead, Jack?’ she asked quietly.
‘Whatever it is, we’ll come through it. I’m sure Dave’s got his men there in case of a punch-up.’ I said this lightly knowing full well that punch-up would not begin to describe whatever Meyton had in store.
‘And the car’s not an impostor?’
‘The real thing.’ I had a feeling this was significant, and yet for the life of me I couldn’t think why. As we approached the turning for Harford Lee, I patted the De Dion encouragingly. ‘You can do it, old girl. You can do it,’ I told her.
Helen managed a laugh. ‘You talking to me?’
‘I know we can do it. It’s the car that needs encouragement.’
It would be ignominious for the De Dion to have to be driven along here on Charlie. Luckily Julian had repaired the worst of the potholes in his driveway with this in mind, but even so as we turned in at the gates towards Cobba House and Burnt Barn Bottom, trepidation hit me like a punch in the stomach. We were trapped now, with nowhere to go but onwards.
The press, photographers and TV cameramen were lining the drive. I glanced behind me and saw the other cars turning one by one to follow us in, but none of us crusaders knew what lay ahead. I still had a nagging feeling that I had missed a connection. As we chugged towards Armageddon, I remembered Yeats’ line about the rough beast slouching towards Bethlehem to be born. What rough beast awaited our arrival? Whatever it was, I knew it had been preparing for this over the past weeks and it was now awake.
FIFTEEN
We made a triumphal entry into ‘Paris’, Helen, the De Dion and I. The only resemblance to the French city, however, was in the huge blown-up photo posters of the Eiffel Tower, placards and tricolours welcoming us along the driveway. The De Dion had not taken kindly to ‘Paris’ despite the work on the potholes, so progress had been slow, but she had got us here in the end – just as the De Dions had done in 1907.
We had passed a low-loader on one side of the driveway, which at first I thought was Charlie, but I decided it must be a safety measure for any rally participants whose precious babes were complaining at the thought of the long journey home. It was just as well it was parked there and not at Burnt Barn Bottom because Len was banking on parking in the best spot from which to convey our own precious burden back to its temporary secure home. I noticed at least half a dozen security guards preparing for the worst, eager to defend us both from marauders and casual sightseers. That didn’t apply to the press so the Pen Roxtons of this world were to be seen in their numbers, with TV cameras poised for action.
Helen breathed a sigh of relief as we reached Burnt Barn Bottom and Treasure Island. ‘Journey’s end,’ she declared and the De Dion let out a belch of petrol fumes in her support.
‘Journeys traditionally end in lovers’ meetings,’ I told her happily, as I parked in the allotted place she pointed out under a triumphal arch of flags, flowers and photos of the 1907 rally, which framed the De Dion nicely. This was at a suitable distance from Charlie ready for the take-off. Only five or six other cars were to be permitted to park in Burnt Barn Bottom. The rest of the rally cars and press had to drive past it to the field behind, so that this area could be free for speeches, buns and drinks. A dais had been erected at the side of the De Dion and the more mundane needs of sustenance and Portaloos were at the far end by Pompeii and Herculaneum.
Helen couldn’t have heard me as there was no reply. We were too busy watching the other cars drive by and then their owners milling with the press. From being populated solely by the media, the place quickly filled up. I saw the Major and Julian arrive, together with Brenda and the Morrises in their wake. Brenda quickly disappeared, a fact of which the Morrises quickly took advantage for their own self promotion to the press.
The other familiar face that had not yet put in an appearance was Connor Meyton. I realized I could well be seeing bogeys where none existed, but not seeing them might be far worse. What had he come on this rally for if not to cause trouble? I’d expected to see him with the press but there was Pen – but no Meyton. And no Dean Warren either.
Nevertheless I felt an instinctive need to remain glued to the De Dion. There was a murderer on the loose, perhaps two, and the probability was that at least one of them was, or would be, here today. The De Dion must surely feature in the saga. That second low-loader lingered in my mind.
Time to cudgel my little grey cells like Poirot. There was nothing I could do about Meyton, but there was something I could do about the De Dion. Mad though it seemed, Brenda claimed to have Benson’s approval for taking the car away. Could she possibly be planning to take it now? Straight to the Channel ferries? I fought for reason. It was Sunday. There would be no rousing Benson at his office, but I had his full contact details, thanks to Dave, which included a mobile number.
And of course it was on voicemail. I left an urgent message – and hoped. As I switched off, I saw Nick Morris striding towards me.
‘Hope you’re guarding that car, Colby. You’re taking it back to the garage it came from, aren’t you?’
‘I’m planning to.’
Instant alarm on Nick’s face. ‘You’ll stop that maniac woman driving it away, won’t you?’
‘If the solicitors have agreed, I can hardly stop her,’ I pointed out. I could see Brenda sitting by herself at a table, and the dejected slope of her shoulders made me think I was vastly over-exaggerating the chances of her planning to take the car anywhere today, let alone France.
‘Dad’s been trying to get hold of Benson to ask him what the hell’s going on,’ Nick said viciously, ‘but the office number’s on voicemail all the time and he’s made sure he’s ex-directory. Typical. All Dad, I and that Major fellow are concerned about is that the car is in good hands.’
Nick strode off to join his parents and just as I was wondering who would end up partnering whom in this merry dance, I saw Pen come stalking towards me, nose quivering, determined stride, and eyes gleaming. Ah well, it had to happen sometime, I thought.
‘Heard
there was a little fracas at the hotel, Jack,’ she said. ‘How did I miss that?’
‘Unlike you, Pen.’
‘Got a great story, though. Guess what. This car’s a fraud. Just any old De Dion, not the one in the—’
I groaned. So Meyton had already struck. ‘All unproven,’ I broke in. ‘You wouldn’t want to print something that could be discredited at any moment?’
She considered this seriously. ‘No . . .’ Then she brightened up. ‘If I quote the horse’s mouth, that lets me out and gives me another story.’
‘It doesn’t let you out if it’s libellous, and I, dearest Pen, am not a horse. As the saying goes, you can take me to the water, but you can’t make me drink.’
‘No, but Connor Meyton can. Rang me last night.’
Retreat impossible, advance impossible. Dig in was the answer. I braced myself. ‘Part of what he says about the documentation might be true, but it does not invalidate the fact that the car itself is the genuine article. There’s a valid bill of sale in existence which—’
‘Oh no there isn’t.’
‘Pen, I’ve seen it.’
She looked smug. ‘It’s a scoop. Meyton told me he’s been holding back on you. That bill of sale from the agent Vaugirard in Dunkirk – he went out of business in late 1906. The bill’s a fake. And don’t say it’s Meyton trying it on. I checked it out today. He’s right.’
Not only did my heart sink, it hit my boots. Both bills of sale were faked. I couldn’t wrestle with that now though. Meyton had temporarily won, and this beautiful car was probably not the lady I had taken her for – if he was right. And I feared he was. I pulled myself together to deal with the situation facing me – which did not look good.
