Dancing with Artie (Thaddeus Hunloke Book 1)

by Pete Heathmoor

  “Because I don’t want Thaddeus hurt. You have a rare gift, quite an actress when it comes to manipulating men.”

  “I’m not the one who is playing with his affections... There is only one manipulating woman here as far as I can see,” countered Carey with surety.

  “As a woman, I possess a certain influence but no, I don’t pretend to be what I’m not. I like you Carey, always have. I respect the way you are currently playing a role, living in that hovel of a cottage when I would guess you don’t have to. However, I’m also very fond Thaddeus. I won’t see you hurt him.”

  Carey paused before answering. “Thaddeus Hunloke means nothing to me.”

  “Good... Are you coming back here to help out when the others return?”

  “Do you want me to?”

  “Of course I want you to.”

  “Then yes, I will, for a while...”

  “I thought you would...,” said Poppy with a becoming grin.

  Thaddeus Hunloke changed into his battledress uniform and comforting boots. Before returning to join the ladies, he wanted to make a phone call. It was potluck whether he would reach Brian Conway but it was worth a try.

  He had last spoken with Conway on Saturday when he had confirmed that Hans-Georg Bonhof was still very much alive. Hunloke searched for the scrap of paper on the library desk where he had scribbled the telephone number of the London Hotel where Conway and Chrissie were booked to stay.

  Providence was with him. Brian and Christine were dining in the hotel restaurant. His request was very simple. He asked Brian to find out all he could about the adoption of any child born to Constance Gray. Unsurprisingly, the lieutenant accepted the extra burden of work without complaint.

  Carey Gladwin declared she had developed a headache and wished to be taken home. He was unaware of the animosity that quietly simmered between Carey and Poppy.

  The Barley mow pub appeared as he remembered it from his visit the previous Sunday, the familiar smell of spilt ale, tobacco, and the same hostile faces. He recognised two faces from the camp and exchanged nods with them, which at least offered a little reassuring familiarity. There was not a woman in sight. The Sunday lunchtime session appeared to be the preserve of men.

  George Burrows was sitting at a corner table on his own. Conceivably, he had been sat there the preceding Sunday; his silent, introspective brooding did not attract attention or any notion of enquiry. Hunloke ordered a pint of bitter and walked over to the table.

  “Mind if I take a pew?” asked Hunloke. Burrows looked up from the table and shrugged. Hunloke had expected to be told to go forth and multiply. “Can I get you a beer?” asked Hunloke by way of conversation.

  Burrows shook his head. “Nah, wife wouldn’t like it...,” answered Burrows in a confessional tone. It became clear at once that appearances could be deceptive. George Burrows was not the burly brawler Hunloke had taken him to be. The display in the chapel had been a show of defiance against his wife. It was clear who wore the trousers at Flash Farm.

  “Do you mind if I ask a few questions?” asked Hunloke.

  “Feel free, doubt if ah can tell thee much.”

  “At the chapel, you mentioned the Germans working at the farm. You implied you didn’t like them very much.”

  “Nah, like I said, snidey buggers. Good workers though...”

  “You were going to mention one in particular...”

  “Aye, Bonhof. ‘E were gaffer. Always creeping around Cath.”

  “He and Cathy were friends?”

  “Friends? Fancy they were a bit more than that. Can’t be sure though, never actually caught ‘em together.”

  Hunloke absorbed the information. Could it be possible that Bonhof and Cathy Maxfield were involved in some sort of relationship? He was not experienced enough to know if such things took place. There was supposedly a strict ‘no fraternisation’ policy between POW’s and the civilian population. Yet human nature being what it was, especially the British, it was inevitable that consorting with the enemy would take place.

  Had he misread Cathy Maxfield? Superficially, she appeared somewhat mannish in her demeanour. He wouldn’t have been surprised if someone had suggested she ‘lived with her sister’. There was truth in the adage not to judge a book by its cover.

  “Mrs Maxfield wasn’t at church,” said Hunloke as an open-ended statement.

  “Nah, she hasn’t been of late... Says she prefers t’ go for a walk. So she can think. Bloody fool notion... She does enough walkin’ durin’ week. She’ll not be back ‘til milkin’ time.”

  Hunloke had heard enough. It was when loitering by the Snipe that he spied the figure of Richard Rogers walking towards him, exercising a fussy Yorkshire terrier. A question popped into Hunloke’s head as the smiling minister drew close by. “Mr Rogers.... Cathy Maxfield’s husband... Did you know him?”

  Rogers stopped and watched his dog cock its leg against a telegraph pole. “Yes, I knew Reg. For a while we were part of the LDV unit in the area.”

  “Local Defence Volunteers? I didn’t know you had a Home Guard unit here?

  “We didn’t... But during the heady days of the invasion threats we attempted to form a unit. Not enough bodies to make it worthwhile. Reg enjoyed the taste of the Army life though and, despite being in a reserved occupation, joined up. Died out in Libya. Cathy wasn’t best pleased. Left her up a creek without a paddle. She had to sign the tenancy of the farm over to her sister and husband. Sort of plays second fiddle to them now. It doesn’t sit well with her.”

  “She wasn’t in chapel...” The dog began sniffing around Hunloke’s boots and he felt the urge to kick it away.

  “No, stopped a while back. Claims to have lost her faith.”

  Hunloke paused to consider his next question. “What so enamoured Mr Maxfield to service life?”

  “Oh, it wasn’t the service life he liked. A most slovenly soldier but a keen scrapper. It was rumoured he joined one of the Home Defence Auxiliary Units for special training.”

  “What the hell is that? Pardon my French...”

  Rogers laughed. “Well, being an old soldier, I got the gist of what was going on. All very hush-hush. It’s amazing what you can pick up being a minister. The idea was to create four to eight men units called Operational Patrols. They were supposedly set up in concealed bases with food stores and weaponry around the country. The idea being that when the Hun overran the country they would act covertly, sabotaging and generally causing mischief.”

  “You mean they were suicide squads?”

  “Inevitably, I suppose they were.”

  “And Reg was in one of those groups?”

  “Apparently...”

  “Where was the nearest base?”

  “Again, it is only hearsay, but you have a vast woodland estate not a mile away. It would be an ideal location, don’t you think?”

  “Who built these bunkers?”

  “Royal Engineers, I suppose. I doubt you’ll find any official record. Why the interest?”

  It was Hunloke’s turn to grin. “Oh, just military curiosity, I suppose.”

  “No, I meant about Cathy Maxfield?”

  “I was just trying to hold a conversation with George Burrows. Her name cropped up...”

  Thaddeus Hunloke returned the Snipe to the garage. Making his way through the twisting corridors of Flash House, he sought out Poppy in the morning room.

  “Boots...!” shouted Poppy before the door from the hall had only partially opened. Hunloke cursed and ripped at the bootlaces before easing them off his feet. “I’ve just made a pot of tea, would you like one?” she asked.

  “Yea, go on then...”

  “Go on then, what?” enquired Poppy in her most superior manner.

  “Go on then, please...,” he sighed, exaggerating the last word. He sat heavily upon the sofa beside her, stretching out his long legs, and flexing his toes. He noticed and tried to hide the hole that had appeared in his sock at the end of his big toe.

&nbs
p; “I take it the motorcar is still in one piece?” she asked whilst pouring his tea. He missed the fact she had a spare cup ready for use.

  “Of course it is... She’s a beaut.”

  “The car or Mrs Gladwin?”

  He laughed, a sound not often associated with the thirty-one year old widower but something that was becoming a more regular event. “Do I detect a hint of jealousy, Lady Violet?”

  “Don’t delude yourself, Artie. Just because you’ve been out courting a damsel in distress, don’t assume all the women in the world find your deformed features attractive. Never heard of like attracting like?” From anybody else, he might have found the remark offensive.

  “I assume no such thing, Lady Violet.”

  “Good, so long as we are clear on the matter. I happen to be a married woman...” He could detect no hint of irony in her voice.

  “I have a question for you,” he asked in a less confrontational manner.

  “About Carey Gladwin?”

  “So you are bothered about Carey?” taunted Hunloke.

  “I’m not bothered about her; I just have my own interests in her.”

  “Interests?”

  “What was your question, major?”

  “I’m a captain... I was going to ask if you were aware of any building work, back in forty, taking place on the estate?”

  “In 1940, Major, I was a fifteen and interested only in Pip and pretty frocks.”

  “Pip?”

  “Pippin was the pony Daddy bought me.”

  “Who is your father?”

  “None of your concern.”

  “Okay..., so do you know of any building works?”

  “No, I told you, I didn’t live here then.”

  “So who would know?”

  “Trotter has been here since he was a tadpole. He might know.”

  “Where’s he?”

  “It’s his day off.”

  “That wasn’t my question.”

  “What do most people do on a Sunday afternoon?”

  “Sleep, that’s what I like to do,” grinned Hunloke.

  “Well, I think you’ll find Trotter cleaning what is left of the family silver.”

  “On his day off?”

  “It’s a labour of love for Trotter. Reminds him of the good old days.”

  “Where can I find him?”

  “In the strong room, although if you really want to speak to him, you can ring the bell...”

  “What, you mean the old servants’ bell? Won’t he be offended?”

  “No, he happens to be a servant. Actually, it will make his day.” Poppy almost giggled but instead a chuckle was all that escaped her lips. “Go on, I dare you...” Her vivacious hazel eyes taunted him.

  “I can’t ring for the ruddy butler!”

  “Scaredy cat!” she poked her tongue out at the officer slouching at her side.

  A skewed, devilish grin lit up his face. “Where is it?”

  “The button by the fireplace....” She waved her arm absently.

  A laughing Hunloke limped across to the blazing fireplace. “He isn’t going to say ‘You rang, milord’ is he?”

  “We do suffer delusions of grandeur, don’t we...? That’s the trouble when common people with no breeding reach a certain rank. It goes to their head...,” she grinned mischievously.

  He pressed the button. The smile vanished from his face the moment the excruciating, piercing flash of light shot through his head and the subliminal image of a coat rack supporting surplices came and went in the twinkling of an eye.

  “Are you alright?” demanded Poppy. She was on her feet in a second, her cool hand placed against his scarred left cheek. Her puckered nose betrayed her concern for his abrupt and frightening change of expression.

  He screwed up his eyes before blinking several times, and placed his hands on her narrow shoulders for support. “Yea... must have been that bloody lunchtime pint...,” he muttered.

  “You’d better sit down before you fall down,” whispered an anxious Poppy gently. It was with an unspoken reluctance that they slowly parted, neither wishing to break contact with the other. As he was instructed, he placed himself clumsily, with Poppy’s support in the chair earlier occupied by Carey Gladwin.

  “Are you okay?” she asked, peering into his troubled face.

  “Fine...” His reply was uttered with a returning surety.

  “Sure...?”

  “Yes! For God sake sit down!” He felt awkward and embarrassed by the look of genuine distress on her youthful features.

  Satisfied, she took her seat on the sofa only seconds before the door gaped and the erect septuagenarian figure of Trotter strode doggedly into the room. Hunloke distractedly noticed that Trotter did not wear a uniform but a shabby lounge suit over a thick woollen sweater.

  “Yes, Mrs Gray?” asked the butler of Flash House.

  “Trotter, Captain Hunloke would like to ask you a few questions about the estate, is that alright with you?” requested Poppy. Hunloke noticed she addressed him in a polite and friendly manner, without the edgy nuances she habitually used when conversing with others.

  “Of course, Mrs Gray, it would be my pleasure.” For the first time since entering the morning room, Trotter turned to face Captain Hunloke.

  “Mr Trotter...,” began Hunloke.

  “Trotter, he likes to be called Trotter,” interjected Poppy. Trotter did not bat an eyelid; his attention remained focused upon the visiting officer.

  “Mr Trotter, are you aware of any building work taking place on the estate, around about 1940, give or take...?” enquired Hunloke.

  Trotter looked up towards the architrave around the far window for a second before replying. “No, captain, nothing was built at that time.”

  “Nothing at all?” There was a pleading quality to Hunloke’s voice.

  “No, sir... However, there was work carried out in the gulley.”

  “The where?”

  “The gulley, sir. The old quarry where the estate chapel might be found.”

  Hunloke nodded his understanding. “Who carried out the work, Mr Trotter?”

  “I’m not sure; the work was carried out through Mr Gray. I believe it was executed by the military, sir.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I was with Mr David during the Boer War, sir. I developed a nose for Army types, no offence, sir...”

  “None taken...,” smiled Hunloke. “Any idea what they were up to?”

  “No, sir. The area was very much off limits. I couldn’t see much of a change when they finally left, save for perhaps a little more debris in the gulley.”

  “Thank you, Mr Trotter. You’ve been a great help.”

  “Thank you, sir.” The butler returned his attention to Poppy, “Mrs Gray, could I get you more tea?”

  “No, Trotter, you trot off home,” answered Poppy.

  “Of course, Mrs Gray.” Trotter looked disappointed. “I’d like to finish polishing the silver first...”

  “Of course,” smiled Poppy genially, “take as long as you like.”

  “Thank you, Mrs Gray...” Trotter’s face lit up like a little boy who had won a goldfish in a bag at a fairground sideshow.

  “Isn’t he priceless?” smiled Poppy after Trotter had returned to his cherished cleaning duties. “Why are you so keen to know about what might have been built?”

  “Just an idea I’m toying with. Trouble is, I don’t want to make a fool of myself.”

  “Are you going to tell me what you’re thinking?”

  “No...”

  “I thought I was part of your precious team?” teased Poppy.

  “Not where this is concerned. If I’m right, it will require men from the camp and I’m not going to make a prick of myself in front of them, not yet anyway... My reputation was already in tatters before I got here. I don’t intend ruining it anymore than I have to.”

  “Are you prevaricating, major?”

  “Yes, Lady Violet, I believe I a
m vacillating.”

  “Faint heart never won fair lady...,” insisted Poppy with a smirk.

  Chapter 24 - Unravelling of Yarn.

  Monday, 4th December 1944.

  His breathing was shallow, his unseen breath condensing in the cold air before vanishing like his dislocated dreams. Consciousness mingled with the subliminal, dream from reality indistinguishable. In his dreams, he was always the fit young soldier, untarnished by age or war. He heard the ethereal voice of a child that he knew to be his own flesh and blood calling him. He had been a lousy father. His son had been scared of him, scared of the man he barely knew, a stranger who went to war and who had returned a wounded, even stranger, oddity.

  He would never forget the smile on his child’s face when Harry Hunloke opened his eyes and took his final breaths. Harry looked up at his father from his bed in Chessel Street with his bewildered, frightened eyes. They shared a moment of sublime understanding, father and son exchanging unspoken love.

  Elsa Hunloke had answered a call of nature having spent days by the dying child’s bed nursing him through his sickness and missed her precious boy’s last glimpse upon the world. She never forgave Thaddeus Hunloke for stealing her last moment of intimacy when she discovered him cradling the limp body of her son in a loving, penitent embrace.

  He awoke startled, his mind awash with a sense of culpable self-loathing. “What time is it?” murmured the former father and soldier sluggishly.

  “About two o’clock, I’d guess...,” came the cultured whispered reply he had come to expect.

  “Don’t you ever sleep?”

  “You’ve asked that before,” she chided softly.

  “Yea, I suppose...”

  “I ought to go.”

  “Why? It’s still early...”

  “Early...? Sometimes I think it’s almost too late.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Too late to undo the things that have been done.”

  “What the hell are you talking about, woman?”

  “I am not ‘woman’, I’m Poppy...” There was a detached quality to her voice.

  “No, you’re not; you’re the Lady Violet Gray née Eason.”

  “My sister is one of the Queen’s Ladies in Waiting....”