There was a pattern. He located the four ever-changing undergraduates, marked by a (U), and discounted them, the remainder being college dignitaries with the odd invited luminary. Joe noted that “Sir G. Pertinax” had attended a week after Aidan’s arrival. His name appeared again five days later, on Friday, the twentieth. Contact made, apparently.
Joe wrote down the dates and turned his attention to the night of the twenty-seventh. A Friday. He could see nothing special at this dinner when Aidan had clapped eyes on his disturbing man. An intensive check told Joe that all the diners had appeared on previous occasions and none therefore would have surprised him by making a fresh appearance. Odd.
Before leaving the college, Joe called in at the porter’s lodge. Information flowed through here constantly, and Joe could not afford to neglect a last check.
Mr. Coulson was very ready to help but had little to offer. Joe applied his usual technique of pinpoint questioning when faced with genial fuzziness. “You must have been the last person to see Sir Aidan when he left college on the thirty-first, Coulson. How did he look?”
“Yes, sir. I was on duty. Seven forty-five p.m. I clocked him out. Everyone else was still in hall. He looked his usual self: chirpy. Exchanged a few words, hoped I had an untroubled evening—it being Hallowe’en—grinned and told me not to wait up. He marched off in that ‘out of my way’ swagger that he had.”
“So, nothing out of the ordinary.”
“No, sir . . .” The porter hesitated, and then, into Joe’s expectant silence, added, “There was something three days earlier. Nothing to get excited about! Last Saturday, the twenty-eighth that would be. He came out and asked me what time dinner was expected to finish on All Hallows’.”
“He knew the routine by then?” Joe said doubtfully.
“He knew there was a change in routine. Dinner was due to start at the regular time but as so many young gentlemen had either signed out or wanted to get off early—parties and junketing going on—it would be over pretty sharpish. I told him the hall would be cleared by eight and the domestic staff were expecting to get home by ten before the lamps went out. Nasty night to be caught out in the dark, sir.”
“Why did you think it was a strange question, Coulson?”
“I didn’t at the time. Just the normal query of a gent sorting out his timetable. But then I discovered that he was already signed out anyway for All Hallow’s Eve. He’d made plans to eat elsewhere. He often did. So why the questions about the timing of dinner in hall?”
“I agree, Coulson. It doesn’t make a lot of sense. I’ll ponder on it.”
Ah, well. Joe looked forward to his own appearance at dinner here the next evening. To sit in Aidan’s place at the table might well reveal a fresh perspective. Or an old, familiar face?
Chapter 15
Bacchus’s package arrived at the reception desk of the hotel, where Joe had been waiting for ten anxious minutes. He signed for it, tipped the motorcyclist and bolted upstairs to read the contents.
The sheets of A4 paper were a typed copy of the original that Mrs. Alsopp had seen Aidan writing on the morning of the day he died. Transcription smoothly organised by Bacchus. Bleak and official with the usual office stamps at the top and dire warnings of an “Eyes only. For the sole attention of . . .” nature. Joe would have much preferred to read the sheets written in his friend’s handwriting with blots, crossings out, underlining and all, but the character shone through the impersonal typeface.
Joe! Greetings! And to any other poor lug who has the job of reading these ramblings—good luck, mate. I did my best! I gave my all in the service of the State such as it is.
First communication. Report on first three weeks, 8–31 October, follows. I hope it was worth the wait. Take a comfortable seat. I’ve set the whole morning aside to write this!
Joe was alarmed. At a quick glance, this communication was decidedly improper. What in hell had got into Aidan? He’d been meticulous to this point. What possessed him to present an official report that might find its way to the desk of the prime minister himself in this devil-may-care style? Complete scorn for the security services? Embarrassed braggadocio? Coercion? Gone over to the enemy? The one predictable consequence of this outpouring was that serious questions, and possibly the resignation, would be asked of the assistant commissioner who had put this joker into a sensitive position.
Joe slumped down at his desk and read on in a turmoil of conflicting emotions.
Characters in order of appearance:
The Master. As expected. In post for just two years. Youngish for the job. Finding his way, making his reputation. Sees my promised research when published as a feather in his cap. Establishes him as a man who cares about the past and the welfare of his college men. Couldn’t be more helpful. I have full access to the college records and permission to interview any old dodderers still in possession of their memories. Hardly any of these remain after two decades and a world war. None, sadly, who knew me as a student. But I did receive permission to work with P.’s old college, Trinity, where I had more success jogging memories. Perhaps P.’s constant injections of cash to his Alma Mater keep his memory bright! Material unexpectedly useful! See later note.
Other dons: none significant. They wander on and off stage muttering obscure warnings like a Greek chorus. Polite but wary. No approaches made to me of a political or social nature.
Pertinax. First contact 17 October. Both guests at High Table. He was warmly welcomed by other dons. Behaviour exemplary. A good man to have at your table. Chatty and has a fund of funny stories. Many at the expense of other colleges where he appears to be a welcome guest. But he’s clearly not a professional academic and a breath of fresh air on account of that. I liked him. He sought me out after dinner and we spoke more intimately over brandy in the Combination Room. I liked him even more. He established that I was a single man who enjoyed cards, music, hunting, gambling—the usual gentlemanly pursuits. Suggested that, after a week of monkish seclusion toiling in the archives, I might be ready for a bit of lighter entertainment. Did I enjoy jazz bands? Good claret and French food? Pigeon shooting? Pig-sticking? Other delights of the autumnal countryside? What could I say? He invited me to dinner at Madingley Court the coming Friday to ‘further the acquaintance.’ I accepted.
Friday dinner turned out to be a long weekend. Toothbrush and all other material comforts provided. Back in college much the worse for wear. Condition passed off as a bout of the ‘flu that’s doing the rounds.
Madingley guest list: six congenial gentlemen on pleasure bent whose names I shall not commit to paper but undertake to whisper into Joe’s ear when next I see him, and eight ladies ditto. The latter had arrived as a group during the afternoon I discovered, not in taxis, which would have attracted local attention, but by van. Yes, van! Shipped out from Cambridge in a conveyance labelled ‘East Coast Fish Co.’ (Friday delivery, you see.) The van has undergone interior re-appointments and the ladies are collected on Monday mornings by a similarly restyled motor which is ostensibly and appropriately, a laundry van. (‘Dimity’s Personal Laundry Services.’) They load and unload round the back so never raise local eyebrows. Joe, this enterprise is run with martial precision and a sense of mischief.
The girls are young, pretty and stylishly dressed` and perfectly able to join the gents at dinner and hold a conversation. It’s not High at St. Benedict’s but it has its points. My dinner partner dazzled me with her views on the after-effects of the Versailles Treaty (the French got it all wrong), greyhound racing (not in favour of the electric hare) and the works of Dashiell Hammett (The Maltese Falcon, highly recommended). I think I proposed marriage between the fish and the game. And again during the dessert. The ladies are recruited in London and seem to be under the direction of an older woman of considerable address whom they refer to as Minerva. Really, I don’t think the Goddess of Wisdom herself would begrudge the use of her name! I overhea
rd her conducting a little verbal fencing with Pertinax and getting the better of him with style, brevity and wit. A formidable lady.
I spoke to each of the girls in the course of the evening (no suspicions raised, normal behaviour in this company) and established that none were local girls. They spend their time when on manoeuvres in Cambridge at an address in Cherrystone Road, number 50. I have investigated on foot and confirm that number 50 exists. It is on a secluded corner spot, a capacious Edwardian villa, and the beautifully-executed name board outside announces: ‘Minerva Milton Secretarial College. Instruction to Diploma Level for young ladies in shorthand, typing and general office skills.’ As far as my informant was aware, the maison has never had a visit from the local constabulary. Not, at any rate, in its formal capacity. Make what you like of that!
La directrice. I shall call her ‘Minerva’ though she’s probably on your books under quite another name. I knew at once I’d seen her before and I think she recognised me. It’s this silver-gilt hair of mine! It signals my presence like a flashing lighthouse beam. As anti-vice supremo of London Town, Joe, you must be aware of an establishment called the ‘Satin Slipper Club’ or some such—the names change—in Regent Street. It is patronised by the highest in the land and is owned and run by a formidable dame called Mrs. Meyrick. She’s usually one step ahead of the Met but occasionally your vice boys catch up with her and mount a raid. She’s been in and out of jail for years but carries on valiantly with the enthusiastic support of some of her illustrious clients. When I last called at the Slipper, some five years ago, one of the dance hostesses was a spectacular woman, going by the name of . . . I think . . . ‘Circe.’ It was Pertinax’s associate, Minerva. (Still working to a classical theme, evidently.) Having served her apprenticeship with the best, she’s graduated to running her own show in Cambridge.
I spent the night with Prudence (no kidding!) because she seemed to me to be the youngest and therefore least likely to be wise to the ways of the world and in particular of Milord Pertinax’s corner of it. And so it proved. Prudence liked a joke, good manners and flattering attention. I searched the room thoroughly according to instructions given. I discovered no illicit camera holes or anything else to rouse my suspicions and douse my ardour.
Down shame! I sweet-talked Prudence into revealing that—yes—sometimes she was aware of clandestine filming going on. Indeed, those encounters were quite sought after by the girls since it was seen as promotion and the rewards were greater. Such sessions were always staged in one particular room, the one at the end of the corridor in the east wing, identifiable by its yellow door.
Saturday started late. Exhausted gents met for breakfast at midday, avoiding each other’s bleary eye. It’s like sighting an old friend in the nude through the steam in a Turkish bath, I suppose. A moment’s embarrassment, then it’s ‘Pass me the sponge, old boy . . . Nice to see more of you . . . Ho! Ho!’
Country sports filled the afternoon. I remember some shooting and some dashed dangerous pig-sticking on foot. Quarry—wild boar, can you believe! Pertinax keeps a small herd of flint-eyed, leathery creatures he’s rustled from the Ardennes Forest and a small army of flint-eyed, leathery keepers to chase after them. I counted a dozen of these. Excessive for a small estate? All, I suspect, judging by their demeanour, are ex-army. And not necessarily our army. I overheard cursing in Romanian, Russian and Italian. The men are far more dangerous than the beasts. The boarhounds (six of these) are the most dangerous of all. A foreign breed, not, I think, recognised at Crufts. They are vicious and barely under control. Spiked collars and terrible teeth! Guests were warned that they are allowed to roam freely after dark as an anti-poaching measure. I pass on the warning in case you or your friends should be caught out after dark in the environs of the Court.
The evening was a repetition of the previous one but even more jolly with an all-change general excuse-me going on to the strains of a rather good jazz band brought down from a West End club. The after-dinner friandises in bonbon dishes along the table were, on this occasion, accompanied by small, silver boxes containing white powder which seemed to have an instantly restorative effect on the gentlemen who sampled it. The jazz band called itself ‘The Limehouse Sextet.’ I wondered whether, with their declared connection with a dubious locale, they were responsible for bringing down the exotic substance. More work for B.?
When the music stopped, I found myself in the company of ‘Constancy’ in the room with the yellow door. Sorry, folks! An indignity too far! When the moment came, I opted out of the What the Butler Saw treatment—incidentally it was the bloody butler! Very nifty with a film camera, Prudence had told me the night before. He’s a thug who should be investigated. Goes by the name of Jennings. Picture a warthog in black tie and tailcoat. London man. Thirties, six feet tall, sandy hair, brown eyes, hands of a prizefighter. Well, one hand. Half his left is missing. Blown off in the war? Chewed up by a guard dog? I’d like to think so! And, if you’re looking him up, don’t bother riffling through the annals of the Junior Ganymede Club in St. James’s; he’s no butler. Try the guest list at Wormwood Scrubs, filed under ‘Grievous Bodily Harm.’ He has a knife scar under his left ear, extending down to his collarbone.
I wouldn’t have found the filming device, so carefully was it camouflaged by an exuberant William Morris wallpaper, but at a moment of calculated maximum distraction (which I’ll leave to your imagination) I glimpsed Constancy, with a swift bit of léger de main, move a picture an inch or two to the left. The minx! I promptly re-sited it. So the first and last image of the evening’s drama will have been a close-up of my grinning face. Really! The Mountfitchet bum is in pretty good nick still but not for public exposure. For future reference: the picture is a particularly unattractive Picasso of a woman (?) with two heads on a brown background. Sorry! Cover blown, I’m afraid, but I’d done what you’d sent me to do. Though I think I was never fooling the man. He’s one step ahead of us all the way. I hardly expected to survive the night. Perhaps I flatter myself? Was I indeed his main prey on that occasion or just a cheery and reassuring fellow guest who had the title, the aplomb and the dance steps to make the evening go with a swing? Though, if so, why did I qualify for the Yellow Room treatment? Insurance for good behaviour or a reciprocal favour at some future time? I count myself banked!
I should declare at this point perhaps that between them, Pertinax and Minerva played their roles with panache and their organisation was meticulous. They had many players on stage with wildly differing handling requirements and they managed to send everyone but yours truly home feeling ecstatic, valued or, at the least, rewarded. Their names should be put forward if ever another Delhi Durbar needs to be staged! I can see how men less worldly than I am could be totally ensnared . . . enchanted . . . by this taste of a glittering, sophisticated, devil-may-care world that knows exactly how to cater for their suppressed desires. And how desperate they must be when they realise they have been betrayed, that career and good name are shot to pieces, those dearest to them shocked and alienated. I see things now from the victims’ perspective. I cannot refurbish my own image but I can stop it from decaying further.
I beat a hasty retreat in the early hours of the morning. A clichéd departure involving ivy, drainpipe and extreme loss of dignity. Getting too old for all this nonsense, I’m afraid, though it loses none of its excitement. Exit was not straightforward but, with B.’s training, I managed. It’s really quite quick back into the centre of Cambridge on foot when you’re running from the Devil.
Joe broke off in alarm. “With Bacchus’s training . . . ?” In silent killing? “Oh, Aidan what have you done?” he muttered. He fought down a surge of nervous laughter at the picture of Aidan fleeing back down the dark lanes in his evening suit.
Pertinax was present on a further occasion at college dinner (24th). We exchanged cold nods across the table and he made no attempt to contact me. Excusable froideur, in the circs! I had committed two unforgi
vable social gaffes: I’d neglected to send him a bread-and-butter thank you note for his hospitality and left him with a dead dog on his hands.
So there you are! That’s how they catch their fish! Though I can’t imagine why P. would want an insignificant flounder like me gasping in his basket. Your suspicions are confirmed. I hope I’ve been of help. Now follows the truly interesting stuff! The stuff you ought to have told me to concentrate on.
The second part of Aidan’s report, dated the previous week, was rather more what Joe expected of an agent-in-place. The writing was less dashing and the single sheet was formally addressed. At first glance it looked reassuringly dull and fact filled. Not an exclamation mark in sight. Yet what had Aidan just called it? The truly interesting stuff?
Intrigued, Joe began to read:
Research conducted at Cambridge and London into the life and career of Sir Gregory Pertinax.
There follows an amalgam of evidence from college files, from conversations with elderly alumni and from details I extracted from contacts of my own in London. The name Mountfitchet still opens doors and jogs memories in military quarters. I can provide sources, names and dates, if you require them.
Being an old boy, Pertinax has his own dossier in college records.
He was an undergraduate (Politics and Economics) from 1907–1910. Left Cambridge before war was declared to join the army of his ancestral country, Latvia, which was at that time held by the Russians. Peter the Great invaded in 1710 and annexed Latvia into the Russian Empire. The capital and port, Riga, is—or was before the war—a splendid city. A map will reveal that it is close to the Russian frontier and St. Petersburg is only five hundred miles distant. Russian became the official language in 1891 but this was much resented by the Latvian inhabitants. Many of these—and I have an idea Pertinax the grandfather may have been one of them—regarded themselves as the descendants of the medieval Teutonic Knights of Riga, a military aristocracy with a chip on their shoulders. ‘Brothers of the Sword,’ they call themselves.
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