Mad About the Boy?

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  ‘Did you want me?’ asked Ashley, looking up. ‘I say, Haldean, what is it?’

  ‘I want to check something,’ said Haldean, forcing the excitement out of his voice. ‘I need to see Adamson’s statement.’

  ‘Adamson’s statement? Well, of course. All the paperwork’s in the gun room.’

  He led the way into the gun room and searched out the file. Watched closely by the others, Haldean ran his finger down Adamson’s statement, and sighed.

  ‘I’m right. I wish I wasn’t, but I am.’ He closed the file and got up.

  ‘Hold on a minute,’ said Ashley. ‘You’ve cracked it, haven’t you? What is it?’

  Haldean looked horribly uncomfortable. ‘I’ve got an inkling of what might have happened, but I really don’t want to say what it is. Not yet. I’m sorry, Ashley. You know I won’t keep you in the dark for a moment longer than I have to, but I’m simply not sure yet and I want to be sure. This may all be nonsense.’

  ‘I’d like to hear it though, nonsense or not. Come on,’ said Ashley, his eyes on Haldean’s tense face. ‘You must be able to tell me something. I haven’t got much longer on this case. If I don’t get somewhere soon, the Chief’ll have to give it to the Yard. Even an idea would be helpful.’

  ‘No. I can’t tell you anything.’ That was too harsh. Ashley looked affronted, as well he might. Haldean tried to explain himself. ‘Ashley, I’m sorry. I want to tell you what I’ve got in mind, but it’s a question of friendship, you see? He deserves that much, at least. I need to make absolutely sure.’

  ‘Is the friend Captain Stanton?’ Ashley asked shrewdly.

  Haldean nodded. ‘Give me a day, Ashley. Maybe a day and a night. That’s all I want. Please.’

  Ashley drew a deep breath. ‘All right.’ He half smiled. ‘Not that I can stand in your way. But remember, Haldean, this is murder you’re talking about. You can’t ignore the law just because Captain Stanton’s a friend of yours.’

  Haldean bit his lip. ‘No. I couldn’t do that.’ He turned and walked quickly out of the gun room and up the stairs from the hall.

  Isabelle caught up with him at the doorway to his room. ‘What’s going on, Jack?’ demanded Isabelle. ‘You might not be able to tell Mr Ashley but you’ve got to tell me.’

  He looked at her with a twisted face. ‘Oh, my dear, what if I’m wrong? I hope I’m wrong. Look, will you help me get this sling off my wretched arm? And you’ll have to help me on with my coat. I can’t quite manage it. And pass me that leather case, will you? It’s got all my maps in it.’

  Still firing questions at him, she followed him round the room, but Haldean refused to answer. ‘I may be the biggest idiot in England, but I think I’ve got it,’ was the most she got out of him. When he’d finally got his coat on, he scooped up the money from his dressing table and turned to Isabelle, taking her hand in his. ‘Belle,’ he said seriously. ‘My dear Belle. For what I’ve done, and for what I have to do – sorry to sound so churchy – I really am very sorry. If you fancy praying, pray that I’m wrong.’

  ‘But why?’ she said impatiently. ‘And where are you going?’

  A very small smile lifted the corners of his mouth. ‘That’s easy enough to answer, at any rate. I’m going to get Arthur.’

  ‘What!’ She drew back. ‘Do you know where he is?’

  Haldean nodded. ‘Well, if he was between Melling Bridge and Caynor the night before last, he should be there by now. Don’t tell anyone, though, just in case I’m not right. It’d cause a fearful stink and it wouldn’t be fair.’ He walked to the door. ‘I should be back today but it might be tomorrow. I’m going in my car.’

  ‘Jack! What will the doctor say?’

  He grinned. ‘Tell him I’ve made a miracle recovery After all, I’ve got another arm.’

  ‘I wish you’d tell me what was happening.’

  ‘Oh, dash it all, Belle, work it out for yourself,’ said Haldean with a return to his normal manner. ‘There’s a coat on the beach, Arthur hared off with Lyvenden’s cigarette case and Smith-Fennimore got kidnapped.’

  ‘Don’t give me that,’ said Isabelle. ‘You know perfectly well it doesn’t make any sense. You can tell me one thing. Was Tim murdered by mistake?’

  Haldean shuddered. ‘No. The person who murdered Tim knew exactly what they were doing. I’m not going to say another word.’ And with that, he clattered down the stairs and was gone.

  Chapter Twelve

  Haldean drew the car into the side of the road, switched off the engine and lent his forehead on the steering wheel with relief. Although he had confidently told Isabelle that he could manage the drive, he had found the twenty-two miles from Hesperus rough in places and agonizing in others. The landlord of the pub where he had stopped for a break had looked at his white face critically before consenting to serve him with a double brandy. The last four miles over unmetalled roads had made his left arm feel on fire every time the car had jolted. After a few minutes’ rest he wearily climbed out of the Spyker and, leaving the car under the shelter of a tree, walked up the overgrown lane which ran off the main road.

  With the ache in his arm reduced to a dull throb, he pushed open the gate which hung on one hinge and walked into the woods beyond.

  It was all very quiet. These were the grounds of Arthur’s childhood home, choked with brambles, nettles and ivy after the neglect of the war and a succession of tenants. Haldean had never been here but Arthur had described it often enough. If he took the path through the woods he should come to an outcrop of chalky rock with a cave at the base. The cave had, Arthur said, a small opening leading on to a space where a man could stand upright.

  He knew Arthur had been thinking a lot about his old home recently. He’d said as much at lunch the other day.

  Aunt Alice had started the conversation, one of those ice-breaking conversations good hostesses do start when the talk is flagging, along the lines of ‘Where in the world would you like to be most?’ Haldean, who knew his aunt loved Hesperus, thought it showed something of the strain she was under when she picked Egypt where she and Uncle Phil had been stationed years ago. After all, in Egypt there had been no daughter Isabelle or son Greg – and more to the point, no Lord Lyvenden, Lady Harriet or Alfred Charnock.

  Malcolm Smith-Fennimore wanted to be by a river in the Baltic where he’d spent youthful summers; Isabelle chose Paris with references to hats and shoes, but Arthur had remained quiet. ‘Home,’ he said, when Haldean had prompted him. ‘My old home when I was a kid.’ Hesperus reminded him of The Priory, with its high rooms and winding stairs, but what really stuck in his mind was the cave. ‘I loved it,’ he said. ‘I played endless games of shipwrecked sailors, pirates, and Robin Hood there. It was my big secret. I always holed out there when things weren’t going right or I was in trouble.’

  Haldean thought at the time the remark had a wistful significance. Now it seemed like a prophecy.

  He nearly missed the entrance to the cave. An elder sapling, with masses of tiny black berries, had sprung up outside a narrow vertical crack in the rock. A freshly broken twig hung limply from the tree and there were churned footmarks in the mud. Haldean squeezed himself into a gap more suited for a boy than a man and was relieved to find the split in the rocks opened out. It wasn’t really a cave, but a damp, moss-covered gap between the rocks, roofed over by earth-packed tree roots. As a place for a boy to play it was excellent, but as a place for a man to stay it was wretched. Haldean shivered. Still, he had slept in far worse places in France and so had Arthur.

  He blinked, letting his eyes adjust to the dim, green-filtered light, then smiled and stooped down. On a low spur of rock, away from the wet earth, were the remains of a fire. The embers were still warm. Haldean lit a cigarette, sat down on the earth floor, propped his back against the wall and waited. Tiredness swept over him in an engulfing wave. He blinked himself awake, then relaxed against the chalk wall. Perhaps he could just shut his eyes for a few minutes . . . Seconds later he was fast as
leep.

  He woke in agony. White stabs of pain lanced through his arm and he jerked his eyes open to see Stanton’s furious face close to his. He twisted out from under Stanton’s clutching hand and was very nearly sick. ‘My arm!’ he gasped. ‘Arthur, let go, you’re hurting my arm!’

  Stanton, his face contorted with anger and fear, dropped his hand and stepped back, fists clenched. Haldean gazed at him in dismay. With two days’ growth of beard and filthy clothes, Stanton looked wild.

  ‘You!’ Stanton snarled and struck out. Haldean writhed away, sprawling on the ground. He scrambled to his knees. Stanton caught him, hauled him to his feet and slammed him against the wall, his open hand on Haldean’s chest.

  ‘I won’t let you take me back,’ said Stanton in a voice that was nearly a sob. ‘I’m not going back to hospital, I’m not. I’ll kill you first. I mean it.’

  ‘I’m not taking you back,’ gasped out Haldean. ‘Not to hospital, anyway,’ he added, feeling like Judas.

  Stanton lashed out. Haldean flinched away from the blow and Stanton’s fist brushed past his jaw and crunched into his shoulder. With an agonized cry, Haldean doubled up, clutching his arm. This time he did retch. Utterly helpless, pressed against the chalk wail, he was violently sick. ‘Arthur, you bloody idiot,’ he managed to say after the fit was over. ‘It’s me, Jack. Jack! For God’s sake, man, stop it!’

  Stanton looked at him in bewilderment, then gave a convulsive shudder and dropped to his knees, covering his face with his arms. ‘I’ve dreamt about you,’ he said in a muffled voice. ‘Once before I was free and then you took me back. You. You took me in the van and they locked me up. It was a dreadful place. You left me there. You. I’m not going again.’

  Haldean wearily got to his feet, stumbled the few steps to Stanton, then knelt beside him and put his arm round his shoulders, gentling him cautiously as a man gentles a frightened dog. ‘I know you hated me for it,’ he said awkwardly, ‘but I had to do it. If I hadn’t stayed with you, Arthur, they’d have restrained you.’ Stanton gave another shudder, then was still. ‘I couldn’t let them do that to you, Arthur. Not when I could be there to stop them.’

  Stanton looked at him with frightened eyes. ‘What have I done wrong? There are people hunting me. I’ve had to hide. I didn’t think you’d find me here. I thought I was safe. I can’t remember what I’ve done. I can’t remember anything.’

  ‘Oh, Lord.’ Haldean, still with his hand on Stanton’s arm, collapsed back against the wall of the cave. ‘Arthur, when you say you can’t remember, do you mean it?’ He received a scared look in reply. ‘Isabelle? Smith-Fennimore? Do they mean anything to you?’

  ‘Isabelle?’ said Stanton slowly. His breathing steadied and he sat back next to Haldean. The fear gradually faded from his face. ‘Isabelle?’ he repeated. He sank his forehead on to his crooked knees for a few moments and when he looked up, Haldean was relieved to see him look himself again. ‘Isabelle,’ he repeated once more. ‘Is she the girl with the lovely smile?’

  Haldean nodded. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘The thought of her makes me feel sad,’ said Stanton in a puzzled voice. ‘I don’t know why it should. There’s a man I can remember, too. Tim? Is that right? Something awful happened, didn’t it?’

  Haldean sighed. ‘Yes. Something awful happened. If you’ll listen to me, I’ll tell you what I know.’

  There was a grocer’s paper bag on the ground which Stanton had evidently dropped. Haldean reached out and pulled it towards him. ‘The trouble is, I’d rather hoped you could fill in some gaps for me.’ He opened the bag. ‘What have you got in here, old man?’ His calm voice and slow movements were having their effect on his friend’s nerves. ‘There’s a loaf, a piece of cheese and some beer. Let’s have something to eat.’ Keeping his actions very deliberate, he took out his pocket knife and gave it to Stanton. ‘You’ll have to cut the bread and cheese. I’ve injured my arm and I’m not up to it.’

  Stanton took the knife, snapped it open and stared for a moment at the blade in his hand. Then he picked up the loaf and cut off two slices and a hunk of cheese. Despite what he firmly believed, Haldean realized he’d been holding his breath.

  ‘Can you open the bottle, too?’ he asked.

  He smiled as Stanton took the cork out. ‘Have a drink, Arthur. You look as if you could do with it. Good man. What’s the last thing you can remember?’

  Stanton took the bottle and the roughly cut bread and cheese warily. He was obviously trying very hard to strap down his fear. ‘It’s all a muddle, really. Bits of Passchendaele – that’s come back to me – and the . . .’ He swallowed. ‘The hospital. After that, it’s just odd flashes. You were my friend, weren’t you?’ He paused. ‘A good friend. I’m starting to remember that. Jack.’ He said the name cautiously, as one remembering old certainties. ‘Jack, I’m sorry. You are my friend, aren’t you?’

  ‘Of course I am, old son,’ said Haldean quietly.

  ‘I can remember how it really was now. That time you took me back before, I mean.’ He rested his hand on his forehead. ‘I think I always resented what you did. Actually, that’s not being honest. I know I resented what you did. I also know I shouldn’t have done. I remember trying very hard not to blame you for it. After all, you’d helped me. But every time I tried to think about it, I couldn’t think about it, if you see what I mean. I’ve never been able to get that straightened out and it left me feeling bitter. About you, I mean. That’s so unfair.’ He looked up and Haldean was reassured to see a very faint smile. ‘It’s rotten, isn’t it? I know you helped me and yet . . .’ He shrugged.

  ‘Funny how hard it is to be grateful, isn’t it?’ said Haldean. ‘I knew you felt like that.’

  Stanton looked startled. ‘Did you?’

  Haldean nodded. ‘Of course I did. Things were never quite the same afterwards and I guessed why. I resented it too, of course. I tried to pretend nothing had happened, but that didn’t work. I don’t know if you’ll believe me, but I only did what I had to do.’

  Stanton reached out his hand, resting it on Haldean’s arm. ‘I think you did a damn sight more than that. I suppose we’ve just had the conversation we should have had years ago.’ This time he did smile. ‘I’d never intended to throw you round the room, though. Actually . . .’ Stanton looked puzzled again. ‘How come I was able to do that? You were a pretty useful fighter, as I recall. At school I could only ever draw with you on points.’

  Haldean took a swig of beer. ‘I had a bullet through my arm last night.’

  ‘Good God! Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m better now you’ve stopped lashing out, I must say.’

  ‘Jack!’ Stanton looked horrified. ‘I’m really sorry. I’d never –’

  ‘Relax.’ Haldean grinned at him. ‘It’s over. Forget about it. Who are these people who are hunting for you?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Stanton broke off a piece of bread and chewed it thoughtfully. ‘My God, I’m hungry. I’ve been steering clear of the police. I had an idea that was a sound move. What the devil have I done, by the way?’

  ‘I’ll tell you later,’ said Haldean. ‘Go on. Who’s hunting you?’

  ‘It was yesterday evening. There’s four men. Two have got beards. I think they’re foreign, but the other two are English. One’s a little red-haired chap, a Cockney, I think, and the other English bloke is bald and looks a real tough. He’s called Mick. I’d gone down to the village to try and get something to eat. A car was pulled up in the main street and these men were sitting in it.’

  ‘The car wasn’t a Wolseley by any chance, was it?’

  Stanton looked startled. ‘Yes, it was. How did you know?’

  Haldean tapped his arm. ‘They were responsible for this. Go on.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t pay much attention at first, apart from thinking the car looked out of place in such a small village. Then one of the bearded blokes caught sight of me and pointed. He shouted something I couldn’t understand, then t
his red-headed chap yelled, “Bloody hell, that’s him,” or words to that effect. “Come on, Mick.” They jumped out of the car and came towards me. I ran for it. I got down an alleyway and managed to hop over into someone’s back yard and laid low. I could hear them talking on the other side of the wall. That’s how I know one’s a Cockney. They said my name and they also said that The Boss wouldn’t be happy that I’d escaped. I don’t know who The Boss is, but they were scared rigid of him. I think one of the foreign blokes is called Boris. They said his name, too. They pushed off eventually. They said something about not wanting to be late for another job.’

  ‘I can guess where they were headed,’ said Haldean. ‘They came to Hesperus last night.’

  ‘Hesperus?’ asked Stanton. ‘What’s Hesperus?’

  Haldean handed him the rest of the food. ‘Eat that while I tell you what’s happened. Believe me, it’s some story.’

  Stanton ate hungrily, nodding occasionally as parts of Haldean’s story chimed in with his memory. He finished the last of the bread and cheese and drained the remains of the beer. ‘So these Russian devils not only tried to kill you, they’ve taken this poor Smith-Fennimore chap as well?’ he said slowly. ‘I wonder what they want him for? Perhaps they’re after the gold, as your policeman friend said. But who did the murders, Jack? It sounds as if these Russians might have had a hand in that, too. D’you know?’

  ‘Well, the police think it’s you,’ said Haldean, hesitantly. ‘As I said, I’d hoped you could tell me what happened. You see, I think you’re a key to all this. When you ran off after the murder, you took Lord Lyvenden’s cigarette case with you. Have you still got it?’

  ‘What, this awful thing?’ Stanton drew the gold case out of his pocket and glanced up with the ghost of a smile. ‘I’m glad to know it’s not mine.’

  ‘It’s too dreadful for words,’ Haldean agreed, opening and shutting it absently. ‘Heavy, too. I wonder . . .’