The two POW’s were still at large without so much as a whisper as to where they might be. The unearthing of Bonhof’s miraculous resurrection appeared to have made little impact with regard to the death of Charles Beevor, no matter how he extrapolated the data. It was a belittling experience and he desperately strove in his mind for ways to nudge the investigation along.
He regretted allowing Conway and Christine weekend leave. It was an odd confession but he found he was missing the lieutenant and corporal. He wasn’t sure what had possessed him to come up with the idea of granting them leave. It was an emotional act, which was not true to Thaddeus Hunloke’s character.
Once again, he found Flash House stifling his ability to think clearly. More than that, he believed the house actually affected his decision making process. He had to get away and decided his time would be better spent at the camp where he might even find something to alleviate his hunger. He felt the first pangs of a headache.
It was after seven o’clock when Thaddeus Hunloke returned to Flash House after working with Donovan on improving the conditions at the camp for both guards and prisoners. Despite several attempts, he failed to make contact with the MI6 man, Henry Mills. He refused to allow himself to be drawn into conjecture concerning the spy’s agenda.
He halted beneath the high clerestory window and looked up the main staircase with its deep-pile red carpet. His eyes followed the portraits up the flight of steps to the balcony.
“Looking for anyone in particular, Artie?” Poppy appeared at his side, the headscarf long since abandoned.
“Jesus, don’t do that!” exclaimed Hunloke.
“Do what?”
“Sneak up on people!”
“It’s not my fault you’re deaf. You should have worn earmuffs when you were playing with your guns. Daddy always puts cotton wool in his ears when he goes game shooting.”
“Oh, I’d look really good leading men into combat with cotton wool sticking out of my bloody ears! The blokes would have thought I had earache!”
“Nanny used to do that when we had earache. Warm olive oil and cotton wool... I don’t suppose you had a nanny?”
“Of course I didn’t have a flippin’ nanny!”
“It shows...”
“Talking of nannies, where’s Carey?” He had been thinking about her during the course of the afternoon.
“So you’d like her to be your nanny?” smiled Poppy provocatively.
“No, you just reminded me that I haven’t seen her. I was hoping to talk to her later.”
“She wanted to go and sort out a few things in Chesterfield or Matlock. I told her not to bother working this weekend. With the others away, she’s not required. She’s spending the weekend at her cottage.”
“You mean there’s only you and me here?” He regretted his hasty departure from the refectory at breakfast time. His rushed exodus turned out to be purely a theatrical gesture.
“Yes, don’t worry. She’s still expecting you to take her to chapel on Sunday. So who are you looking for?” she asked, harking back to her original question.
“Connie...”
“What is the fascination you men have with Constance Gray?”
“You know about Brian’s dreams?”
“Of course I do. I stayed with him the night it first occurred.”
“You slept with him?”
“No, I didn’t fall asleep.”
“You know what I mean!”
“No, I did not partake in any gymnastics with him. I don’t think he even knew I was there. Why, what if I had? He is far more handsome than you. Would you have been jealous?” She giggled her girlish laugh. He was incapable of blushing but felt his ears burning.
Was he jealous? The word that occurred to him was resentful. After a day of reflection, it was his conscious conviction that he shouldn’t allow himself to care for Poppy on an emotional level. Who was he to assume anything from Violet Gray? Their disparate backgrounds made a nonsense of it. Nevertheless, he was aware that his feelings for her were affronted by the thought of her being intimate with anyone else. He blamed the house for his ridiculous and perverse reasoning. He held Poppy responsible for his confused feelings towards Carey, who by class alone was not precluded from mutual association. He blamed himself for his inappropriate shenanigans with the married nineteen-year-old the previous night. His Edwardian morality should have left him wracked by guilt. Perversely, he felt none. Nobody said Thaddeus Hunloke was an easy man to understand.
“Come on, Artie, if you’re that obsessed, I’ll show you dear old Constance Gray...” She grabbed his hand and tugged him up the staircase.
There was no portrait of Constance Gray hanging in the stairway gallery. Poppy explained that those portraits mainly featured first and second generation Grays from the relatively short-lived halcyon period of the mansion’s life, untroubled that is if you discounted the premature deaths due to disease, childbirth, and war.
Retaining his hand, she steered him along the passage off the first floor gallery. His bedroom was the first door on the right and she ushered him the length of the pale green corridor, passing the bathroom favoured by the domicile captain. A dogleg heralded a small passage running to the end of the eastern facade of the house. Poppy pointed out the east turret room, one time bedroom of Thomas and Constance Gray.
Hanging singularly on the corridor wall was, by the standards of the stairwell gallery, a small portrait in a decorative gilt-effect frame.
“Here is the lady you men seem so fascinated by...,” grinned Poppy. She took a step backwards, allowing him to inspect the picture. He didn’t possess an ounce of artistic appreciation. Artwork fell into two purely subjective categories. He either liked a painting or he didn’t, there was no vacillation on his part. He didn’t give a damn about genre or artistic intent. If it was a picture of a horse, he wanted it to look like a horse, not some impressionistic or surrealist interpretation of the equine form.
The oil portrait didn’t present a problem for Thaddeus Hunloke. It depicted a young woman, her hair neatly coiffured atop her head. She wore a high-collared pale dress, the lace collar lying snugly against her pallid swan-like neck. He would have described her as handsome rather than beautiful since she expressed a haughty conceit common to many Victorian and Edwardian portraits.
Representations of a patron could be flatteringly deceptive and yet Hunloke was of the impression the portrait was of a sound likeness. The nose was straight and too long to be considered fetching. Oddly, like Poppy, she bore a slight aquiline distortion at the bridge of her nose.
Somehow, the artist had captured the eyes beautifully. The deep brown eyes sparkled with life-like vibrancy. The longer he stared, the more the portrait came alive. Constance Gray lost her mien of proud condescension, he saw beyond the superficial deception to peer at the vibrant young woman with the come-to-bed eyes.
“Why is she here?” he enquired pensively.
“It’s where she lived, silly.”
“No, I mean, why is she tucked away down this pokey corridor?”
“Connie was a naughty girl...” She startled him by slapping his backside.
“I thought that was the way of you upper-class types. ‘Don’t do as I do, do as I say’...”
“I think you’re mixing us up with the Armed Forces.”
“You know what I mean...”
“Connie made the mistake of falling foul of the Grays.”
“How?”
“I’ll tell you after dinner if you’re that interested, Artie. Mutton pie alright with you?”
Following dinner, Poppy suggested they retire to the morning room. It was by far the cosiest room on the ground floor and reeked of femininity. This was Poppy’s private space. During the days of the great house, it was where the ladies spent their day, benefiting from the sunny aspect to read, sew, or engaging in the pursuit of whatever was in vogue at any given moment.
The room, just along from the library, was by far the most contempo
rary space in the house and its relatively small size promoted an intimacy that the grander rooms lacked.
Poppy’s tastes embraced Art Deco. The pastel wallpaper afforded the room an airy aspect unlike the heavily embossed patterns favoured elsewhere. The Bakelite wireless and gramophone, along with magazines spread upon the coffee table, gave the room a ‘lived in’ air. With the fire well stoked, it was the warmest room in the house. Artie Shaw’s beguiling clarinet saturated the air with its jazzy tenor. Hunloke considered the title of the piece very apt, for he wondered if both Constance and Violet Gray needed 'Someone to watch over me'.
“Why haven’t I been in here before?” he asked, settling on the sofa beside the fireplace. With a full stomach and the direct warmth from the fire, he felt sleepy and improbably calm.
“Because this is my exclusive plot. It’s what your lot might call my living room.”
“My lot? That sounds very condescending, Lady Violet.”
She smiled in a beguiling fashion that made his stony heart flutter and chose to sit next to him after first preparing two glasses of whisky.
“You were going to tell me about Constance. What did she do to incur the wrath of the Grays?” he enquired whilst accepting a glass. Poppy kicked off her shoes and adjusted her tweed skirt, enabling her to tuck her right leg up under her left thigh. Hunloke begrudged her the dexterity of youth.
“She became begotten with child,” she answered.
“‘Begotten with child’! You mean she got knocked up.”
“I sometimes doubt your credentials as an officer, Artie... You can be rather coarse at times. But yes, she became pregnant with a child that was deemed not to be Tommy’s.”
“Occupational hazard for a woman putting it about.”
“Nevertheless, the fact is, in Connie’s case, she overstepped the mark. The Grays were no different to many of our caste. Infidelity by the males was not unusual and resulting pregnancies tolerated. Things were a little different in the case of Tommy and Connie. For a start, Connie was a woman. She may have got away with it had Tommy been sound of limb. Then the child might have been accepted, well at least taken care of by someone on the estate.”
“Tommy was disabled?”
“Not visibly...,” declared Poppy after sipping her whisky.
“Shell-shock?”
“Poor Tommy was emasculated, physically or mentally, I don’t know...”
“Poor bugger...”
“Yes, he was certainly incapable of that, as well... Had he lost a leg or an arm then things might have been different. As it was, the child was born and Tommy was dead. The child was made to disappear and Connie was heartbroken.”
“And Connie died during the Spanish flu epidemic,” stated an intrigued Hunloke.
“Yes, very sad...”
“And the child?” he pressed.
“Adopted, I suppose...”
“Who was the father?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps one of the guests staying at the house at the time.”
“Why do you think I dreamt about Tommy? And why should Brian dream about Connie?”
“I told you, you didn’t have a dream. Brian’s experiences were more dreamlike. It is the way of Flash. She won’t let things lie. She allows memories to resurface. I suspect your affiliation to the Army has opened old wounds. She is very much like that.”
“I take it you’re talking about the house again...”
Poppy idly played with the string of pearls about her neck, momentarily lost in thought. “I sometimes think that Eddie and I should move out, find a home of our own.”
“Then why don’t you?”
“William inherited the house and the estate money. He has frittered it away. Lord knows how much remains. He spends nothing on the house. He’ll occasionally bring up friends from London to entertain them for a weekend but he hates it here. The house doesn’t like him either; she resents the way he has allowed her to decline. There is money in the kitty to keep things ticking over but never enough. My dowry and Daddy’s allowance is being spent to pay the bills and pay the Trotters and the likes of Carey. I’ve used my money to get some repairs done, like using the German chaps. There is only so much one can do...”
“I’m sorry. I had no idea...” It was a heartfelt offering from Thaddeus Hunloke.
“It’s not your problem, Artie. Unfortunately, I’m afraid I’ve very much made it mine. We couldn’t leave her now... She would die...”
“So you live here alone, rattling around inside this bloody great big place. It’s no wonder you’re mad... Well, somewhat eccentric,” grinned Hunloke amiably.
“I’ve no choice. We are the last of the Grays.”
“Doesn’t William have children?”
“No, nor is he ever likely to. He is not interested in ladies.”
“Ah, I see...”
“I don’t want any more to drink...,” she declared, sounding unusually melancholy. “I think I’ll have an early night. Do you think you might lock up, Artie and switch out the lights?” She did not wait for an answer nor bid him goodnight. The longcase clock struck the three quarter hour chime when she left the room. It was not yet ten o’clock.
Chapter 22 – Methodists in the Madness.
Sunday, 3rd December 1944.
“Very smart, Captain Hunloke,” commented Poppy whilst she and Hunloke stood in the hall at Flash House. “I can see now why you brought so few clothes with you. How did you manage to pack two uniforms in that case of yours?”
“Years of practice, Lady Violet, years of practice... Has the laundry been done by the way?”
“Do you mean have I done the laundry? Yes, I think we’ll all be pleased to know it is airing nicely in the drawing room.”
Hunloke was standing in front of the mirror, adjusting his tie. He was glad he had brought his new service dress uniform to Derbyshire. The uniform possessed a formal smartness his battledress lacked. He fussed over his Sam Browne belt, tweaking it to fit snugly over his right shoulder.
He had spent most of Saturday at the camp. There was still no trace of the missing POW’s but at least the camp was returning to a degree of normality. The rehearsals continued in the makeshift theatre whilst Günter Grass’s English class had been endowed with a new blackboard and paper for the POW’s to write upon. Hut 15 exacted revenge upon hut 11 after having lost the football match the previous weekend.
He might have been wrong in his surmising, but he believed the escape of Bonhof and Flohe, along with the death of Private Etherington, had engendered an improvement in the morale of the camp as a whole. The barrel of beer, purchased by Hunloke for the guards’ benediction, was empty by the end of the Saturday evening. War in all its manifestations was a peculiar mistress.
“And how do you intend getting to the village?” she solicited, peering around his right shoulder into the mirror. She made her own contribution to his sartorial appearance by tugging the jacket straight and removing one of her blonde hairs.
“On the Norton,” he replied matter of factly.
“Why are we wasting time trying to make you look smart? You’ll look like a bedraggled scarecrow by the time you get there! Have you seen the weather? It’s raining shillings and sixpences!”
In truth, he had not looked outside that morning; he had been absorbed with dressing for the morning service at the Methodist chapel in Flash village. It reminded him of the church parades he was forced to attend during his time at barracks.
She followed him to the cloister where he peered out of the central window onto the forecourt. The rain bounced determinedly off the chippings. He swore under his breath. Poppy was correct, rain, motorbike, and smart uniform were not happy bedfellows.
“Why don’t you take the motorcar?” she suggested.
“What car...?” He glanced down to his left at Poppy. She absently stared ahead, studying the incessant rain.
“William’s car. It sits in the garage at the side of the house. Come on, I’ll show you...”
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He was vaguely aware of the area to which she was referring. Beyond the refectory and kitchen stood the outbuildings that comprised the old servants’ area of the great house. He noted various aged signs on the doors they passed, ‘gun room’ and ‘brew house’ particularly catching his attention. Poppy opened an outside door revealing a cobbled courtyard, the polished stone glistening in the cold morning rain. Across the yard, built into a high brick wall were two slatted wooden doors of a garage.
She had procured a coat from a rack along the way and held it umbrella-like above her head whilst performing a hip swinging dash for the doors. He looked angrily at the sky and loped across the yard, conscious that every drop of rain was potentially ruining his pristine jacket.
She tugged open the right hand door and slipped into the garage. By the time he had arrived, she had flicked the switch, illuminating the windowless space. Hunloke’s nose twitched at the heady aroma of engine oil and stood hands on hips, his mouth agape as he took in the svelte lines of the 1939 Humber Super Snipe. The polished blue metalwork and chrome gleamed in the paltry light. The four-door saloon was nothing like most of the vehicles of his youth with their angular lines. This was a vehicle of class, betraying its American design roots.
“Does it go?” was all a shell-shocked Hunloke could ask.
“It ran a month or so ago when Mr Stevens from Matlock took it for a service. Why wouldn’t it go?”
“Just thinking the battery might be flat...” He rubbed his chin and stretched his jaw whilst studying the vehicular fantasy.
“I think you’ll find this motorcar runs on petrol, not a battery, Artie...,” she answered in all seriousness.
“Won’t he mind if I borrow it?”
“William? Probably... However, I won’t tell him if you don’t. God knows how much of the estate money he frittered away on this trifle. He hates driving it. I think it frightens him.”
“Four litre, straight. Top speed of about seventy...,” declared Hunloke to a disinterested Poppy.
“Is that supposed to impress a girl, Major?”
“Captain, I’m a captain... Open the other garage door and I’ll see if I can turn her over.”
Dancing with Artie (Thaddeus Hunloke Book 1) Page 23
