Thaddeus Hunloke drew his Webley revolver and disappeared from sight. He found and threw the light switches to illuminate the interior. Immediately, his eyes were drawn to the overhead flowering brass chandeliers suspended from the vaulted cream plastered ceiling. His eyes rapidly scanned the chapel’s interior, unsure of where next to look. It was with a sense of relief he noticed Henry Halfpenny standing at his shoulder. He motioned for the private to advance down the right hand side of the nave. When Brian Conway finally made an appearance, he was dispatched to the left.
The floor of the nave was decorated with exquisite tessarae of a deep vivid blue, bordered by stained wooden pews. The altar in the chancel ahead of him was reached by four green Connemara marble steps to which Hunloke was inexorably drawn. He heard Conway’s studded heels echoing as he stepped with a precise gait of assumed veneration.
Flanking the chancel steps stood an elaborate rood screen of intricate iron filigree and an imposing brass eagle lectern. As if by divine intervention, a fleeting shaft of low sunlight punctured the fog and backlit the stained glass windows on the southern wall, illuminating the chancel in a transitory spectrum of dazzling light.
A chill seeped down Hunloke’s spine when the light fell upon the silver cross on the altar table. It was as though a celestial switch had been thrown, allowing the precious red stones encrusting the crucifix to radiate sublimely. The large native Blue John gemstone, mounted at the centre of the crucifix, revealed the diffuse beauty of its striated internal structure.
Hunloke had been raised to attend church and grew up immersed in High Church of England liturgy. He had lapsed from organised religion, becoming a born again atheist. It was paradoxically just as well that he was unaware of his actions when he crossed himself as he had as a child when receiving the Sacrament.
He turned to look back down the length of the nave where Christine now stood watching him from the crossing between the north and south transept, a look of wonderment etched upon her face.
“Sir!” Conway’s shout startled Hunloke. He cursed himself for feeling so edgy. “Sir, there is a door here!”
At once, Hunloke found himself limping towards the lieutenant standing by an arched door located in the south transept. “Stay with the corporal, Halfpenny,” ordered Hunloke officiously. Without conferring with Conway, he grasped the circular door handle and pulled the door outwards.
A narrow spiral staircase twisted anticlockwise down into the crypt. Hunloke recognised Conway’s reluctance to descend and unwittingly emoted his expansive asymmetric grin, which offered little comfort to the nervous lieutenant. Hunloke plunged down the crisply hewn limestone steps, which were virtually as sharp as the day they were carved. At the bottom of the staircase, a door barred the way into the crypt.
So it was that Thaddeus Hunloke found himself in the last resting place of the all but extinct Gray dynasty, the family who had selflessly given so many heirs and spares in the service of the Empire. It was as well that the dark did not intimidate him. He groped in the blackness for a light switch with only the weak light from the staircase offering luminescence. With a resonant click, two paltry unshaded bulbs burst into life overhead.
He sensed rather than saw Conway behind him and lingered in the doorway until his eyes became accustomed to the gloom. A hotchpotch of sepulchres lay dotted around the catacomb, weeping angels stood guard over the mausoleum along with the plain marble vaults that reflected the changing tastes in burial fashions.
Perhaps the most elaborate tomb was that of the earliest Gray to have died in post industrial revolution England, namely James Gray, brother of the entrepreneurial creator of Flash. He had died at the Battle of Waterloo in 1815. It was as Hunloke was scanning the vault that he noticed the substantial door at the far end of the cellar. It was from here he supposed the Grays arrived via the gully floor on their final earthly journey and through which the craftsmen had entered to place the ornate resting places in position.
Hunloke checked the door and found it sound and secure. When he turned around, he found Conway standing by one particular vault. It was difficult for Hunloke to say with any certainty due to the indistinct light within the crypt, but Lieutenant Conway appeared to look pale and drawn.
“What is it, Brian...?” asked Hunloke quietly.
Conway made no response but stared at the white marble tomb. Standing beside him, Hunloke too read the various inscriptions. The vault proclaimed to contain the remains of two Grays. The nearest marble effigy atop the sepulchre bore a remarkably good likeness of a uniformed Thomas Gray. The inscription stated that Gray died in 1918. Poppy had told him that no trace of Tommy was ever found; hence, this tomb was no more than a cenotaph.
Conway’s attention was absorbed by the second effigy of a handsome woman. Here lay Constance Gray, wife of Tommy.
Hunloke allowed himself a wry smile when, ignoring the sentimental lamentations, he read the date of her death. She had died in 1919, a victim, like millions of others, of the Spanish Flu epidemic that swept the country. He wondered if Connie was happy resting alone in the crypt or whether she missed her Tommy?
“Come on, Brian, there are no Jerries down here...” Conway failed once again to make any reply. Frustratedly, Hunloke tugged at his arm.
“Don’t do that!” snapped Conway. Hunloke was not a man prone to being astonished but Conway’s out of character outburst certainly took him aback.
“I beg your pardon, lieutenant?” demanded Hunloke, reverting to his intuitive autocratic style.
“I said, don’t do that!” Conway’s voice trembled. Hunloke’s instinctive reaction was to challenge the insubordination but something held his impulsive anger in check.
“What is it, Brian?”
“I know her...”
“You can’t know her. You were only a toddler when she died.” Hunloke slapped Conway on the arm. “Come on, son, we’ve the rest of the place to search yet. Do you want to stay here for a while? If you do, switch the light off behind you.”
The prospect of being alone in the dark crypt appeared to snap Conway out of his uncharacteristically aggressive mood. He was no nyctophobe and yet had no desire to be left alone in the house of the dead.
Slowly, the two officers walked thoughtfully away from the tomb of Tommy and Connie Gray.
Chapter 17 - Lost Causes.
Wednesday, 29th November 1944.
Day had long since yielded to ethereal night when the last search party finally arrived back at Flash Camp. It was a relief to everyone that roll call was cancelled owing to the fact no one had left camp. Even Hunloke, as the nominal head of the camp, conceded that if anyone wanted to escape on such an inhospitable night, they had to be mad. A frost was anticipated and the wood allocation to the huts had been duly increased by Hunloke after requests by Lagerführer, Günter Grass. As if in salute to Hunloke’s munificence, feathery tendrils of smoke wafted from the barrack chimneys into the freezing fog.
A meeting convened in Major Beevor’s office concluded that no trace of the prisoners had been found in the vicinity. A phone call also revealed that the searching paratroopers had found no hint of the missing prisoners in the Mansfield area. It was now becoming feasible to think that the POW’s might have reached the coast, looking for a boat to take them off the island.
A message was relayed to the absent council officials and Günter Grass that work-details would recommence in the morning. Small cheers erupted from the huts in the POW compound when the news of the return to work filtered through the grapevine. The camp settled down to its nocturnal routine and Hunloke suggested to Conway and Christine that they return to Flash House.
Once again, Hunloke was beset by a reluctance to go back. Conway too appeared unenthusiastic about the idea and it was only the miserable image of a cold and wet Christine Baldwin sitting alone in the guardroom that overcame his disinclination. Hunloke informed them that he would return by motorcycle later.
In part, much of his unwillingness to go back to t
he house was because he knew Carey Gladwin would be there. He was aware of his feelings for her, an indefinable attraction that defied rational explanation. On one hand, he welcomed the emotion as an innovative contentment and yet true to his character, he was loathed to embrace the concept of pleasure. Pleasure came at a price, a price he was not yet prepared to accept.
Secondly, throughout the day, Hunloke was aware of a growing sense of unease that gnawed at his stomach, making him restless and suspicious. Something about this whole episode sat uneasily with him. He felt the whole scenario was a chicken and egg situation. What came first? The allegations of misconduct at Flash Camp? Brian Conway’s investigation into alleged war criminals in the camp? Operation Rabe and whatever that may entail?
He still had no real idea why Major Henry Mills had brought him to Derbyshire. Any serving redcap could have done the job. Why drag a grouchy semi-invalid ex-Army officer, who had fallen foul of Scotland Yard, to Derbyshire? Moreover, why didn’t anyone seem to care that Major Beevor, the camp commandant, had been absent during the whole affair?
“Sergeant!” shouted Hunloke through the open door of Beevor’s office. A dishevelled Sergeant Donovan walked smartly into the office wearing his greatcoat. Hunloke peered curiously up at him.
“Sorry, sir. Was just leaving. I forgot you were here. Corporal Deeley is duty NCO for the night,” answered Donovan.
Hunloke gave a restrained smile. The sergeant had been on duty since 06:00. Many things about Flash Camp were slovenly and lax but not Donovan. It was NCO’s like Donovan, who made the most of a bad posting, who were the unsung heroes of the war effort. “Sorry, sergeant. You get on your way. One thing, do you know where Major Beevor is billeted?”
“In one of the estate cottages, sir. Not sure the name of it. I can find out if you like?”
“No, serg, it can wait until morning. I assume it wasn’t searched today?”
“No, sir. It wasn’t.”
“Why is no one bothered that Major Beevor has been missing since the POW’s escaped?”
Donovan hesitated before making his reply. He had already formed his own opinion of Captain Hunloke and yet he was uncertain whether to voice his personal views. “Well, between you and me, sir...”
“Of course, sergeant.”
“Well, sir, we reckon he’s one of the funny brigade type.”
“Funny brigade?”
“Yes, sir, like you and Lieutenant Conway. And Major Mills.”
“You mean Military Intelligence?”
“Yes, sir, begging your pardon, sir. You don’t strike me as proper funny brigade, you seem like a proper soldier to me.”
Hunloke grinned again. “I’ll take that as a much appreciated compliment, sergeant. So Beevor is Military Intelligence? Why would he have a permanent posting here?”
“Dunno, sir. But he’s away as often as not.”
“How long has he been posted here?”
“Since June, sir.”
“I thought he’d been here longer than that?”
“No, sir. The original adjutant, Captain Daniels was posted elsewhere.”
“Thank you, sergeant. You and the lads did well today.” Donovan saluted in response to Hunloke’s recognition and made to leave the office. Hunloke reached for his wallet and extracted a few banknotes, which he handed over to the senior NCO. “Here, serg. See if you can round up a barrel of beer from the Barley Mow. Let the boys celebrate in the mess. They worked hard today.”
“Thank you, sir. The lads will appreciate that...” The staid Donovan almost smiled, but not quite.
When alone in the office, Hunloke gave a broad grin. The news about Beevor had the effect of settling his stomach. For the first time that day, he felt hungry. He hoped there might be something left for him at the house.
As his West Country mother might have said, Hunloke was completely shrammed by the time he climbed off the Norton motorbike. The freezing fog had set his face in a rictus of cold and his hands functioned without feeling in spite of the leather gauntlets.
With difficulty, he prised open the front door of Flash House and without removing the waterproof jacket or flying helmet, limped with painful and exaggerated steps towards the refectory. His fingers were tingling with heat pains by the time he reached the old servants’ dining room.
He found the household sitting around the table with Poppy Gray in her usual place at the head of the table. Brian Conway sat a respectable distance away from Christine along one side. Opposite them rested Carey Gladwin. They all looked up at the clumping figure hobbling into the refectory.
“Draw your cutlass, Brian, prepare to repel boarders. The Luftwaffe has landed!” declared Poppy with a giggle. Only Carey laughed, Conway and Christine appeared unmoved by Hunloke’s comical appearance.
“Any grub left?” asked Hunloke. He peeled the leather helmet from his head revealing his flattened blonde hair. He peered enquiringly at their plates that appeared to offer bubble and squeak with a smattering of boiled ham. Only Christine’s plate appeared to be hardly touched.
“I’ll get you some, Thaddeus. We put some by for you.” Carey raised herself from the table.
“No, no, Carey, I’ll find it, where is it, in the kitchen?” uttered Hunloke with assumed gallantry.
“No, Thaddeus,” insisted Carey, “you’ve had a long day. Sit!” Carey was at the doorway before Hunloke could respond.
“I take it you’re not washing before dinner, major?” challenged Poppy.
“Captain, I’m a captain...,” muttered Hunloke. He stripped off the outer coat to divulge his battledress blouse and hung the coat on the back of the chair before collapsing onto it.
“Brian...?” Hunloke’s question roused Conway from his introspective state. “You and I will have a chat later... In the meantime, I believe it’s your flash.” Hunloke clicked his fingers in a summonsing manner and wished he hadn’t been so extravagant, for the action caused his blood to course painfully through his hands. He caught the tossed cigarette and lit it with his petrol lighter.
“Mrs Gray, tell me, do you know which cottage Major Beevor is living in?” asked Hunloke, his words projecting a stream of blue smoke over the table.
“Honeysuckle Cottage,” replied Poppy before finishing the last piece of fried potatoes and vegetables.
“Seen him lately?”
“I have not. He keeps very much to himself.”
“Lives alone, does he?”
“As far as I know.”
“And where is Honeysuckle cottage?”
“Just off the east drive.”
“Where’s the east drive?”
“The main entrance to the estate is via the eastern gatehouse. The riff raff and Army use the north gate.” She smiled unassumingly and he remembered the concealed gatehouse they had driven past when they had first arrived.
“Okay, after breakfast, the lieutenant and I are going to pay a visit to the cottage,” declared Hunloke. Carey returned with a steaming plate and placed it gently on the table before Hunloke along with a matching knife and fork.
Hunloke wanted to stimulate Conway’s interest. He was aware that the paper trail was Brian’s forte, not the manual searching of the estate. That partly explained his sullen mood. “Why are we searching for Beevor?” asked the lieutenant.
“Don’t you think it’s odd no one has been concerned about his absence?” suggested Hunloke between mouthfuls of food. Poppy looked on with distaste at his vociferous assault upon the plate.
“No, not really... Had my mind on other things...,” admitted Conway sourly.
“Sergeant Donovan reckons he’s Military Intelligence.”
“Which branch?”
“Search me, but I’m sure a bright boy like you can find out. You said the various departments don’t talk to each other very much.”
“No, everything is done on a need to know basis. The rule of thumb is that no one needs to know.”
“So these guys have carte blanche to do anything
?”
“They have their superiors to report to, but the whole point of covert operations is that they are just that.” Conway seemed to recover a little his natural manner whilst talking on a subject he knew something about, yet there remained a morose tone to his voice. “You remember the raid on the Ruhr dams when they breached the Möhne and Eder dams with mines?”
“Sure, everyone does.”
“That’s right, the powers-that-be made sure everyone knew. But what would have happened if it had failed?”
“How do you mean?”
“I mean, if the attack had failed, no one would have heard about it. It would have been filed away, forgotten. Who knows how many raids and commando attacks have failed and gone unreported. Need to know, old chap...” Conway sarcastically tapped the side of his nose.
“We knew all about Dieppe.”
“That what hardly a clandestine raid, that was a mini invasion, a rehearsal for Normandy.”
“Not much of a rehearsal for our boys and the Canadians. Anyway, I take your point. No one talks to anyone unless they have to. So Beevor, who has only been at the camp since June, could have been working on something that Major Mills knew nothing about?”
“Possibly...,” conceded Conway grudgingly. “We only know about Mills because you broke his confidence. On the other hand, either might have known what the other was up to without the other knowing, if you get my drift.”
“You make it sound like I shouldn’t have told you, Brian.”
“Where I come from, it’s a no-no to blab.”
“Even to your friends?”
Brian Conway declined to answer Hunloke’s question. “What did you want to talk to me about?” enquired the moody lieutenant.
“Nothing that can’t wait...,” mumbled Hunloke irritably.
The ensemble sat in silence whilst Hunloke finished his plate, a feat that took no time at all. It appeared as if the table was waiting for Hunloke or Poppy to speak again. It was the captain who made the move, standing up stiffly from his chair.
Dancing with Artie (Thaddeus Hunloke Book 1) Page 18
