by Ted Bell
He chose a much-loved tattersall shirt, and a cavalry twill jacket over an old pair of flannels. Then, with a shudder of pleasure, he slipped on the brand-new pair of driving shoes he’d bought at Mr. J.P. Todd’s establishment. They were red, a rather vivid shade, which Ambrose thought gave them quite a racy flair. Dorothy’s slippers, Sutherland had called them upon their debut, and Congreve, unlike Ross himself, had not been even slightly amused.
He switched off the lights in his dressing room and the single lamp beside his bed and headed for the back staircase. At the end of a short corridor was a door to a room he’d seldom entered until very recently. An enchanted room, full of magic and wonder he’d only just discovered. He took three long strides and was there, hand on knob.
He could hardly believe his zooming pulse rate as he entered his garage and reached for the light switch.
Click.
Oh.
Just the light reflected in the mirror finish of the long sculpted bonnet took his breath away. The car, his car, was a Morgan. The 1962 Plus Four Drophead. Forty-three years old, but she’d undergone a frame-off, rubber up restoration, whatever that meant. Wooden chassis, ash, stainless-steel wire wheels with spinners. A newish color one seldom saw on a Morgan, bright canary yellow for the body with a sort of Harrod’s green for the fenders. Forced to choose a word to describe the paint scheme to someone, he might use the word “snappy.” Yes, he thought, opening the driver’s side door and climbing behind the wooden steering wheel, definitely snappy.
And he’d bought the two-seater machine off the Internet (actually, his pal Chappy Morris at the Crown and Anchor had done it all on the pub’s office computer) for a good deal less than twenty thousand quid! Why, he’d simply stolen the jewels when you thought about it.
He sat there for a moment, just breathing in the smells of the thing. The leather seats, the grease on the wheels, the carnauba wax on the fenders, the fresh sawdust he’d sprinkled on the floor. Why, the entire garage was full of wondrous sensory inputs. The smell of old machine parts and oil and dirt in the dark space was intoxicating. How had he missed all this? This was the stuff of dreams.
This mechanical wizard (all right, it was dated) was nothing short of a personal rocket to the moon! He was free, in the bargain, free to roam, no longer held captive to the demonic Ross Sutherland and his midget racer. And, now, he was off to a midnight rendezvous with a beautiful woman—wait! He’d better let Mrs. Purvis know he was going out, lest she wonder if the new car was being stolen.
He’d had a wall phone mounted in the garage against the day when he’d spend more time out here, puttering around with wrenches and the like, cleaning the carburetors and whatnot. He climbed out of the Morgan and reached for the phone. He’d found this daunting egress far easier to accomplish with the top down, so he’d taken to leaving it down at all times. He’d already decided not to drive his dreamboat more than a mile from home if it even smelled like rain.
Someone was saying “Hello?” on the other end of the line.
“Oh, Mrs. Purvis, yes. I am so sorry to bother you at this hellish hour, but it’s Mr. Congreve, as I’m sure you know. Saw your light on. I just rang to inform you that I’m about to go out in the new car. You know, the Morgan. Take it for a spin about the countryside. I didn’t want you to worry needlessly on my account.”
“Not at all, Mr. Congreve. I saw the light go on in the garage and I supposed that’s what you were doing. I’m just tending to my needle-point. I must warn you that you’ve quite a surprise coming your way next Christmas. I am an absolute demon when it comes to needle-point.”
“Ah. Well, splendid. I’m off then, Mrs. Purvis, with a roar and a chitty-chitty, bang-bang. Goodnight!”
He climbed back aboard the contraption and hit the ignition button. The Morgan roared to life (well, perhaps “roar” was too strong a word), and he engaged reverse and backed the thing carefully out of the garage. Reverse, he’d recently learned, was a damned tricky business. When one went backward, everything was the reverse of going forward. Eminently logical, but still. Took some getting used to, naturally, but he’d crack it. That crumpled left rear fender and brake-light assembly would be fairly easy to mend, he guessed.
Half an hour later, he’d found his way to the A404 to Marlow. From there, he simply followed his memory and swung through the stately Brixden House gates five minutes later. Moonlight turned the Roman sarcophagi in the gardens blue. After a seemingly endless succession of orchards and sloping meadows, he came to a narrow lane that ran east along the silvery Thames. He saw one of the tall brick chimneys through the treetops first. Smoke was curling out over the gabled slate roof. Lady Mars had apparently arrived at Spring Cottage first and got a fire going.
He turned right into a small car park beside the Tudor cottage. It was situated in a thickly wooded plot on a bend in the river. The many windows on the two sides he could see were dark, but there was an orange glow visible within the fanlight above the front entrance. He tried the door; it was open. He pushed inside and saw orange light licking the walls of a further room. The fire was the only light burning in the house. The smell of smoke cut through the musty odors of a place long closed and shuttered.
“Hello? Is that you, Diana?” he said, pausing in the doorway of the library. The fact that it might not be, he had to admit, had occurred to him. Someone, he still hadn’t learned who, was trying to kill him. He sometimes found himself thinking like a mystery writer at times like these, and this deserted house by the river would be a perfect trap for the unwary victim. No one on earth knew he was here. Once he was done away with, it was simply a matter of weighting him down with stones and heaving him into the chilly dark waters flowing beyond the windows.
“Oh, Ambrose, I’m so glad you’re safe. Come take a seat by the fire,” Lady Mars said. Her voice was trembling.
There were two leather wing chairs facing the hearth. She was seated in the one to his left. In the firelight, her auburn hair had a reddish-gold glow. She was leaning forward, poking at the sparking embers with a fire-iron. On a low ottoman stood a many-faceted crystal decanter full of amber liquor and two glasses. He sat down and tried to speak. He realized that, having seen her face again, he could not.
“Er, well, here we are,” he managed.
“I’ll fill you in, dear, and then we’ll have an adult beverage,” she said, getting right down to it. “Does that suit?”
“Yes,” he said, and shut his mouth. Dear?
“My head gardener came to see me earlier this evening. His name is Jeremy Pordage. He was my father’s chief groundsman. He’s eighty-three years old. I’ve known him since I was a child. I would trust him with my life.”
“I see.”
“Jeremy and his wife attended services at St. John’s on Sunday as it was All Saints’ Day. St. John’s is a small chapel in the village of Upper Slaughter. Do you know it? It’s the church where that horrific murder occurred last summer. Do you remember?”
“I stood up for the groom at that wedding. I was Alex Hawke’s best man. Still am, I suppose.”
“Oh! How perfectly awful for you, Ambrose. And that poor man Hawke. I’m so sorry. Did they ever catch the fiend who killed his perfectly lovely bride?”
“Yes. We did manage that.”
“Ah. That’s some small consolation, I suppose. They should hang him high, if they haven’t already done so. At any rate, after church last Sunday, Jeremy and Alma decided to walk to Castle Combe for lunch. They took the country walk, not the roads. But, dear Alma twisted her ankle passing through a muddy stile. There was a small pub at the bottom of the hill. A place you’d certainly never go unless you knew of it.”
“What was the name of this pub?”
“The Feathers.”
“I know it. Please continue.”
“The proprietor showed them to a booth and brought tea. Alma wasn’t seriously injured, you see, she just needed to take the weight off the foot for a while. Shortly after they’d been se
ated, they heard the proprietor greeting another party. He seated them in the booth adjacent to the one Jeremy and Alma occupied. The seat backs were high, wooden, you couldn’t see from one booth to the other.”
“I understand perfectly. An overheard conversation.”
“Yes. It was a man and a woman. Jeremy recognized the male voice immediately and almost spoke up. It belonged to my butler, Oakshott.”
“Ah. The butler did it.”
“Ambrose, be serious a moment. The conversation Jeremy overheard was about you. Oakshott began by telling the woman about your visit to Brixden House. She became very agitated. Wanted to know everything he’d overheard during your visit. He’d heard a lot, Ambrose. He’s some kind of specter, I think, hears through walls. Oakshott told her all about that picture you showed me. The New Year’s Eve party. The man with the orange hair.”
“Stop. You were absolutely right to call me, Diana. Please continue.”
“The woman sounded very frustrated with the lack of action since the failed attempt on your life ten days ago. Why didn’t you tell me someone was trying to kill you? My dear boy, you’re in danger!”
“Diana, this is not the first time someone has thought the world would be a sunnier spot absent Ambrose Congreve. Were any other names mentioned?”
“The name Henry Bulling came up. I vaguely recall meeting him at Brixden House. He’s the fellow in the photo you showed me, isn’t he?”
Ambrose nodded.
“Somebody wants you dead, my dear Ambrose. Bulling does. Or she does. I don’t know. But they aim to kill you and they are apparently deadly serious about it.”
“Over my dead body,” Ambrose said, smiling.
The concern in Diana’s eyes was most touching. He reached over and patted her hand, which was fluttering like a white butterfly above the folds of her skirt. “Which one really wants me pushing up daisies, Diana? Surely not young Oakshott the butler. I’ve never harmed a blond hair on his brutishly handsome head.”
“Listen. Here’s what Jeremy was able to gather. Henry Bulling was some kind of spy inside the French embassy. He was in fact working for the Chinese government. Passing along information. Something to do with oil. New French refineries being built. Capacity of oil tankers, et cetera. Does this make any sense?”
“Indeed, it fits perfectly. One wonders why the Chinese are so interested in French oil, since the French have virtually none of their own. They import all of it from the Gulf States, most notably, until the war, Iraq.”
“I’ve no idea. But the Chinese secret police, who were running Henry, discovered that he was having secret meetings with British Intelligence. In St. James’ Park. That Henry Bulling was a double agent. They abducted him from his flat and somehow got the truth out of him. Henry gave them your name.”
“Ah, it all starts to make sense. The Te-Wu may well have issued a death warrant with my name on it,” Ambrose said. “Sending a signal to MI6 to mind its own business. That wouldn’t be unusual.”
“Ambrose, how can you be so damned cool about this information? She, the woman, was apparently the one who orchestrated the kidnapping and did the interrogating. She gave Bulling a choice. She could kill him. Or he could kill you.”
“He missed, didn’t he?” Ambrose said, feeling a sudden pang for Mrs. Purvis. After all, the bullet that had nearly nicked her heart had been meant for his.
“Yes, and thank God he did miss, Ambrose. But I fear the next attempt will not be quite so catch-as-catch-can.”
“You were very kind to call, Diana,” Ambrose said. “And, wise. Now, let me pour you a brandy. I think we could both use one.”
“I need to be clear in my mind. That man, the one with orange hair, Ambrose,” she began, “is your cousin.”
“Yes. Caught spying on the French by the Chinese. Who clearly have something to hide.”
“Yes. And if he’s dead, the woman is planning to kill you herself. Jeremy managed to sneak a peek at her when they left. She was Chinese, Ambrose. She was the woman in the photograph. That dreadful Chinese spy.”
“Yes, I guessed as much. Hawke and I had a small run-in with the Chinese some years ago. Nasty affair. A lot of people ended up dead. We, Hawke and I, ended up on some kind of list in Beijing, according to MI6. Since I’ve been rattling their cage recently, I suppose it’s possible the Mandarins have worked their way round to me again.”
“Again?”
“Their previous attempts were unsuccessful. I thought they’d forgotten about me. It is not beyond the realm of possibility that my dear cousin Henry would sic this woman on me out of pure spite and malice. Or that he is himself very much alive and the true villain of the piece. He does have motive, after all. He is of the opinion that I stole his inheritance.”
“Your lovely cottage.”
“Yes. Heart’s Ease. We shall see whether or not that shoe fits. Diana, you used the phrase ‘running him’ a few moments ago. Spy lingo. Do you enjoy such light entertainments? Spy thrillers and the like?”
“Well, I—”
There was a sound beyond the window. A dull thud, as if something heavy had fallen in the rose bed. Lady Mars leaped to her feet, her hand at her throat.
“Ambrose! Someone has been listening at that window!”
“Get down, Lady Mars!” Ambrose said, moving to the window and pulling his gun. “Get on the floor, now!”
The glass in the window exploded inward and a bullet tore into the plasterwork inches away from Congreve’s head. He saw a dark blur of shadow moving quickly away from the window. He raised his pistol and fired once, twice, three times.
Chapter Twenty
Hawkesmoor
“GOOD MORNING, YOUNG PELHAM!” AMBROSE CRIED, STORMING into the kitchen, the bright yellow scarf wound round his neck fluttering behind him like a cricket pennant on opening day. “Come out, come out, wherever you are!”
“He’s in the butler’s pantry, Chief Inspector,” said a pretty young woman in a toque blanche who was sitting at a counter sorting Brussels sprouts. A beam of pure sunlight was streaming down on her white bowl of green vegetables and it looked like the kind of scene that would have sent Vermeer or his like rushing madly for his brushes.
“You’ll find me back here, sir,” Pelham’s distinctive and fluty voice floated from the pantry.
“A-ha!” Ambrose said, and headed in that direction, nodding and smiling at all and sundry. “Good morning, all! Lovely day, isn’t it?”
Congreve had awoken in a splendid humor. He wasn’t sure what was behind it. Still alive, for one thing. His marvelous new car, perhaps, or, chasing murderers in the moonlight across the grounds at Brixden House. Or the kiss Diana had planted on his cheek when he’d said goodnight. Whatever it was, life seemed full of sunshine and bursting with promise.
“Good morning, sir!” the kitchen staff replied as one, their voices hale and full of good cheer. This unbridled enthusiasm for the day at hand was one of the reasons Ambrose so enjoyed these early morning surprise visits to Hawkesmoor. The house was always a bustle of happy activity on a clear, sunny summer morning like this one. In the kitchens, in the gardens, in the stables, and throughout the house itself. Everywhere one went, someone was polishing something, dusting books, plumping pillows, making acres of glass sparkle in the sun.
It had become, Ambrose reflected as he passed through the bustling kitchen, a happy house once more. Vicky’s untimely death had cast a pall over Hawkesmoor. Alex Hawke’s doomed bride had been a great favorite in this house. Everyone was keenly anticipating the arrival of Lady Hawke, the new mistress of Hawkesmoor and the first woman to lay claim to that title since the death of Alex’s mother, tortured and killed at the hands of pirates in the Caribbean in the seventies.
When you thought about it, as Ambrose did at that moment, Alex Hawke’s entire life was just one long pirate story.
Victoria Sweet’s horrific murder on the steps of St. John’s Church had shocked and saddened everyone under this roof. And, indee
d, many people throughout England still spoke of her loss with great sorrow. They had been a beautiful, popular couple. An aura of permanence and glamor seemed to surround them. It all vanished in an instant. After Hawke returned from Vicky’s funeral in Louisiana, this house, once so full of youth and promise, had gone dark once more.
Alex left Hawkesmoor for good after weeks of grieving, vowing never to return to the scene of so much sorrow. But now, on this fine June morning, it seemed as if the very sun itself had once more come from behind the clouds. And, perhaps it had.
“Ah, there you are, young Pelham!” Ambrose said, and sailed his straw boater into the pantry, causing the aged retainer to duck his head.
“Morning, Mr. Congreve,” the octogenarian said, giving the chief inspector a decidedly narrow look. In Pelham’s personal view, the man sometimes bordered on the overly boisterous.
Pelham said, “I’m just on my way up to his lordship with the morning tray. Follow along, if you’d like.”
“Having breakfast in bed, is he?” Congreve frowned.
“Hardly. His lordship was down for his breakfast at six, sir. Had it out there on the lawn with his papers, joined by a gentleman from the CIA, a houseguest who has since departed via helicopter. A helo, I believe he called it.”
“Ah, what’s this, then?” Ambrose asked, looking at the silver tray Pelham was preparing.
“A lemon, sir,” the butler sniffed. He was long accustomed to Congreve snooping about the kitchen, lifting pot lids and sampling soups. The two men had joined forces to raise the child Hawke after the loss of his parents and, finally, his grandfather when the boy was not yet twelve. Theirs was a long-simmering rivalry over the care and feeding of Alex Hawke.
“I can see that, Pelham, but what’s it for?”
“He’s going to eat it, sir. It’s become his daily midmorning pick-me-up, as it were.”
