Dancing with Artie (Thaddeus Hunloke Book 1)

by Pete Heathmoor

  “They appeared to have had a nice time in London,” stated Poppy.

  “I hate the word ‘nice’, it’s so insipid,” growled Hunloke. Poppy caught the sullen manner that now permeated his hunched body. He missed her smile when she concluded her wish had come true. The irritable Thaddeus Hunloke had reappeared with a vengeance. “Go and see your reverend friend whilst I find the bloody Co-op...”

  Thaddeus Hunloke bought a dark grey worsted suit. He paid far more money than he had intended which only exacerbated his bad mood. The cheap wartime suits were just that, of poor quality and not something he wanted to be seen wearing in public. The salesmen skilfully directed him towards the more expensive garments where he had to pay a premium. He had just sufficient clothing coupons to purchase the suit and one shirt. He even succumbed to purchasing a grey fedora hat, fortunately not requiring coupons. He loathed trilbies and homburgs. If he had his way, he wouldn’t wear a hat in Civvy Street at all. It amazed him that hats were exempt from rationing, typifying the country’s idiosyncratic approach to ‘Total War’.

  He left the shop carrying the new suit wrapped in a brown parcel beneath his arm. The writing of the cheque had depressed Hunloke’s spirits even lower.

  The chosen rendezvous point with Poppy was outside the Crooked Spire on the paved path beneath the dormant trees. Whilst waiting, he followed the twisting spire’s corkscrewing ascent into the prematurely dark late afternoon sky. The structure possessed a malevolent aura in the tangled mind of Thaddeus Hunloke. For a place of worship, the steeple and spire enjoyed an altogether ungodly characteristic. He was staring high up to the weather vane beneath the leafless trees when he felt an arm tugging at his.

  “Take me home please, Artie...,” whispered Poppy. Hunloke silently obeyed, Poppy had clearly not enjoyed her visit to church. He wondered what thoughts the proximity to God had stirred in her baffling mind.

  The shift away from the cosy set up at Flash House continued upon their return that evening. Rod Bidder informed Hunloke that he had taken a message from Brian Conway. The lieutenant and the corporal had been ordered by Fakir, now his commanding officer, to join him at his temporary billet at the Red Lion.

  A letter had been delivered to Poppy, written by Major Fakir, requesting a meeting to discuss taking over Charles Beevor’s lodgings at Honeysuckle Cottage. Hunloke swore volubly and stated in no uncertain terms that the cottage was still his crime scene and the pernicious little major could go and euphemistically make love to himself.

  Under Bidder’s calming influence, Hunloke finally settled down and assumed a degree of control over his brooding temper. He told his superior about his conversation with Conway.

  “So that’s what upset you so much. You forgot that Conway was no longer your man...,” stated Bidder from his seat in the homely morning room. Hunloke sat at the opposite end of the sofa from Poppy, who appeared engrossed in her copy of ‘Wuthering Heights’.

  “Had I realised at the time, I wouldn’t have told him of my suspicions about the POW’s still being here,” replied Hunloke irritably.

  “No point crying over spilt milk, lad. I read about your suspicions in your notes. Why have you not searched the gulley?”

  “I was going to, today, only you turned up...” Hunloke offered a penitent smile for his superior’s benefit.

  “And you think Conway will tell Major Fakir about your idea?”

  “He won’t be able to help himself, not if I know Brian and anything about that little fucker Fakir.”

  “Tell you what, Thad... We’ll take a look ourselves in the morning. Will that make you feel better?”

  “It would if I knew what we’d find. They could be armed; there still might be weapons in the bunker. Are you armed?”

  “No, you...?”

  “I’ve got the trusty old Webley.”

  “Then I guess that will have to do, Inspector Hunloke.”

  Chapter 27 - The Gulley.

  Tuesday, 5th December 1944.

  That the fog chose to reappear that morning should not have come as a surprise to anyone familiar with the microclimate atop the Flash escarpment.

  Hunloke and Bidder left the stately home well before eight o’clock when it was still dark. The fog hung in the still air, compounding the darkness to the extent that had Hunloke not been familiar with the estate, he might never have dared to venture outdoors. Even the normal mocking commentary from the estate’s carrion was as yet absent from the day.

  Hunloke took a simple pleasure from his superior’s reluctance to follow him. Despite Hunloke’s early morning stiffness, his stride remained longer and more confident than Rod Bidder’s, whose cautious steps left him trailing in the wake of the inspector.

  “This is worse than a London pea souper!” cried Bidder. He was only a yard or two behind Hunloke but his voice sounded distant and ethereal.

  Visibility varied with the swirling nature of the vapour. One moment it was an acceptable fifteen yards, the next a claustrophobic five. Unlike Bidder, there was no way Hunloke was going to wear his new suit. He wore his battledress trousers and black boots with his greatcoat over the loaned tweed jacket. However, like Bidder, He did wear his fedora for insulation against the damp and cold.

  The two men followed the tarmac road from the house towards the north gate, passing the walled garden and stable block. Even though Hunloke wouldn’t admit it, he soon lost all sense of scale and distance. He was convinced they must have missed the left hand path to the chapel and was prepared to turn back when Christine’s monkey-puzzle tree emerged from the grey gloom. Even so, it still took him several seconds to locate the gravel path to the former quarry.

  Hunloke had done his best to prepare Bidder for his first visit to the chapel. Nevertheless, it would have necessitated a far more stirring orator than the likes of the terse inspector to prepare his boss for the visual astonishment of Sir Gervais Montclair’s stunning creation when it crystallised out of the daybreak mist. Hunloke himself found himself stuttering to a halt at the sight of the Gothic Revival wonder.

  They stood in silence, which Hunloke could only describe as a state of stupefaction. It was the nearest he had ever come to experiencing what he might describe as a spiritual moment. Evidently, the emotion was shared by the transfixed Rodney Bidder. Their moment of veneration was shattered by a shout ahead of them that Hunloke knew must have sprung from what he called the drawbridge. He had heard the voice only once before but it was unmistakably the pretentious squeak of Major Fakir.

  “Look lively down there; it will be light soon enough! Chop-chop!”

  Hunloke at once loped along the path towards the sound of the voice, followed by Bidder. Hunloke’s drawbridge was the platform supported by the vast stone abutment that rose from the gorge. They found Fakir leaning against the stone parapet, peering down into the murky bottom of the gulley some thirty feet below. He resembled a naval captain issuing orders from the poop deck.

  “What the heck are you doing, Fakir?” demanded Hunloke. Fakir turned around to face the interloper. Hunloke did not like the look of the Enfield revolver in the strutting major’s right hand.

  “I might ask the same of a civilian. Clear off now before I have you carried off!” replied Fakir with civil contempt.

  “I asked you what you are doing!” Hunloke’s anger flavoured his speech. It was a vocalisation with which Rodney Bidder was familiar and deemed it prudent to remain silent.

  “I’m looking for the escaped POW’s based on information provided by a junior officer,” answered Fakir grudgingly.

  “You mean Lieutenant Conway?”

  “Of course I mean Conway!”

  “Don’t you think it’s a bit rash looking for them alone? Wouldn’t it be better to get some experienced troops to do the job?”

  “There is nothing wrong with nine-platoon,” insisted Fakir defensively.

  “Who have just come off a twenty-four hour guard duty,” declared Hunloke.

  “They are more than capable
of finding a cave entrance!”

  “It will be more that a cave entrance,” asserted Hunloke.

  “So you’re an expert on the local cave systems as well, are you?”

  Hunloke realised at that point that Brian Conway had probably misinterpreted the intelligence concerning the auxiliary bunker, possibly describing it as no more than a cave. That was like describing Michelangelo’s David as a bit of chiselled rock.

  A distant shout rose from the gulley floor. “Sir! We found something!”

  Fakir smiled, a look of self-righteous satisfaction. “Well, as you are here, why don’t we all take a look? But I would ask you not to interfere; this is after all a military matter...” Fakir was actually pleased that the exiled Hunloke was able to witness his moment of personal glory.

  Hunloke and Bidder exchanged glances and the superintendent nodded his approval.

  Fakir led the trio around to the head of the gully and to the far side. Almost directly opposite the chapel, Fakir scrambled closer to the edge and finally found the carved steps that dropped away to the quarried floor of the gorge. The descent was half walk, half climb, the men following the path of the old quarrymen who had once worked the gully. It was a short walk across the scree where tufts of grass and brambles now sprouted since the quarry’s disuse.

  Guided by the sound of excited voices hidden by the nebulous mist, they stumbled over the rocky ground until Bidder gave a sharp cry of alarm and Hunloke heard him thump heavily to the ground. Fakir halted and looked down with disdain at the anonymous civilian clutching his twisted and sprained left ankle. Whilst Hunloke knelt at Bidder’s side, Fakir headed off towards the agitated searchers somewhere ahead in the gloom.

  “Are you alright, Rod?” asked Hunloke.

  “Do I look bloody alright, Thaddeus?” Bidder groaned with frustration and pain. “And there was me thinking you were the damned invalid!”

  “Can you walk on it, sir?” Hunloke noticed the broken skin on Bidder’s forehead where he had banged his head after the fall. The inspector retrieved Bidder’s hat and placed it gingerly atop his superior’s head.

  “I doubt it. Jesus...!” groaned Bidder. “I’m stuck in the middle of a bloody ravine with a mad major on the prowl. Go and make sure he doesn’t do something stupid, lad!”

  “I’ll get you out of here as soon as I can,” grinned Hunloke. He pushed himself erect and went off in pursuit of Fakir. Despite the situation, little things still pleased Thaddeus Hunloke. Like the decision to wear his black Army boots instead of leather-soled shoes.

  A group of a dozen jittery men emerged like wraiths out of the fog. At the centre of the group stood Fakir and Brian Conway. Everyone appeared to be looking earnestly up at the rock face, located ten yards or so down the ravine away from the chapel.

  Fakir was pointing something out to a corporal when Conway glanced towards the approaching Hunloke. He looked sheepishly down at the rubble beneath his feet before finding the confidence to raise his eyes once more to meet Hunloke’s enquiring gaze.

  It was perhaps one of the bravest things Conway had ever done when he broke free from the posse and walked the few yards to face up to Hunloke, standing a respectful distance from the crowd. A less perturbed Conway might have found Hunloke’s appearance gently amusing. The grey fedora with khaki trousers and greatcoat was not a good look.

  “Morning, sir,” smiled Conway bashfully.

  “Morning, lieutenant. What’s happening?”

  “Found a concealed entrance in the rock face. Damned lucky really, the recent rain must have disturbed the hidden doorway. Looks like a cave tunnel behind it.”

  “It will be more than a tunnel, Brian. It will possibly lead to an equipped bunker with food stores and a weapons cache.” Hunloke was unsure if any weapons remained but he felt like painting as compelling a picture as possible.

  “I shall be taking a shufti in a while...,” announced Conway with an air of what Hunloke knew to be assumed bravado.

  “Why you, Brian?”

  “The Major said it was to be my honour, saying that I came up with the story.”

  Hunloke gave Conway a scathing scowl.

  “I’m sorry, sir. But I was debriefed last night, I was tired and what you told me just came out. Fakir leapt on the news and insisted we came out here this morning. I had to say something to redeem myself after...”

  “... After associating with me...,” answered Hunloke evenly. He appreciated that as far as the military were concerned, he was once again persona non grata. “Was I really that bad, Brian?” questioned the former captain from the Buffs.

  Conway unconsciously shuffled his feet and looked over his shoulder towards the gaggle of soldiers. “I’d better go, sir... They’re waiting for me.” Conway turned and prepared to slope away.

  “Brian...?”

  Conway stopped, hesitated, and turned to offer his profile to the scarred detective and waited for Hunloke’s pronouncement.

  “Be careful, Brian...” Hunloke wished he hadn’t spoken the words, or at least offered something a little more constructive. Conway nodded with the flicker of a smile and headed off into the mist.

  Thaddeus Hunloke shook his head and closed in on the crowd of spectating men. He watched while Conway was given a leg up from two soldiers before the lieutenant vanished into the camouflaged opening carved into the cliff face. The beam of Conway’s flashlight bounced back off the tunnel wall, illuminating the water vapour in the gulley like a miniature searchlight.

  Hunloke scampered back to the sitting Rod Bidder.

  “What the hell is happening, Thaddeus?” demanded Bidder.

  “That damn fool Fakir has sent Brian into a tunnel to see what’s in there. He’s the last guy I’d have sent in, my Gran would make a better soldier than Brian!”

  A solitary shot shattered the calm of the morning.

  The blast originated from within the very rock itself, the sound wave amplified and compressed as it travelled the length of the tunnel, to emerge and echo sinisterly around the gulley.

  “Fuck it...!” shouted Hunloke under his breath.

  He staggered to his feet, drew his concealed Webley revolver, and joined the semicircle of spectating troops gathered around the cave entrance. Each man stood wide-mouthed, gripping his rifle tightly in nervous hands, gaping at the up the rock as though expecting the second coming.

  “What happened?” demanded Hunloke of Fakir. The major remained mute, his eyes fixed expectantly upon the tunnel entry point.

  A beam of torchlight wafted lazily from the tunnel entrance. A second or two later, a shaken Brian Conway emerged, crouching at the portal.

  “Lend that man a hand!” ordered Fakir. Hunloke sensed the commanding officer’s relief. Conway was helped down and stood on the valley floor and with difficulty raised himself erect. Hunloke was the first to react.

  “Orderly...!”

  The urgent shout jarred the camp guards but not one of the stunned men reacted. Hunloke dashed towards the swooning lieutenant like a concerned parent. Brian Conway, the whites of his eyes conveying his shock and disbelief, took two faltering steps towards the frantically hobbling Hunloke.

  Hunloke caught Conway in his arms when the younger man’s legs suddenly gave way, buckling without coordination, no longer capable of supporting the weight of the attached body. With unaccustomed tenderness, Thaddeus Hunloke lowered the wounded man gently to the ground, resting his head on his service cap, which he had carefully peeled away from Conway’s heavily perspiring brow.

  “It doesn’t hurt at all...,” smiled a relieved Conway. “Not at all... I’m so glad...”

  “Hold on, Brian,” whispered Hunloke. He looked up at the enquiring faces of the camp guards. These men had been on guard duty the previous day and had not been involved in Hunloke’s departure parade. That he realised this in an instant revealed a great deal about the workings of his mind in moments of duress. He addressed the question to the nearest man. “Where’s the medical orderly?” />
  “On his way, Captain Hunloke, sir...,” replied the man nervously.

  A cough from the supine Conway drew Hunloke’s eyes back at once to the wounded man.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” muttered Conway in an audible and firm voice. His face was desperately pale and yet Hunloke refused to accept the displayed symptoms and likely prognosis. He wondered why the faces of the dying always looked so vibrant and youthful despite the proximity and the pain associated with Death’s advancement.

  He placed both his hands over the sucking hole in Conway’s chest and applied pressure to the wound.

  “Won’t be long, Brian... Soon have you out of here,” stated Hunloke with a forced smile.

  “Don’t worry, sir, it doesn’t hurt. I do feel dreadfully chilly though...”

  Despite Conway’s reassurances, the kneeling Hunloke refused to relax the pressure of his hands. Blood continued to seep and bubble between his fingers.

  “Sir...!” Conway’s sudden plaintive cry demanded attention. Thaddeus Hunloke felt the lieutenant fighting to push himself erect, his eyes suddenly betraying the enormity of what he was facing and the consequences it entailed.

  “What is it, Brian?”

  “Sir...! Take care of Chrissie for me!” shouted Conway in a moment of fearful yet lucid acceptance that his life was ending. “Please, sir...! She can’t be left alone...”

  “That’s your job to look after her, Brian, not mine...” Hunloke’s confident words betrayed no sense of despair, despite the certainty of the journey the young man was about to undertake.

  “Sir...? Promise me...?” begged a now clearly distraught Brian Conway. He coughed frothy blood from his mouth onto his smooth cheek.

  “Calm yourself, son... Don’t worry yourself now... I promise, Brian, I give you my word I’ll take care of Christine... Be still now, the medic is on his...”

  Hunloke’s words faltered when he felt the abrupt cessation of resistance from Brian Conway’s body. Even after witnessing the deaths of dozens of men, Hunloke could never quite get used to the transition of life to death. How, in the blink of a former heartbeat, eyes that had witnessed the wonders of life could instantaneously be so devoid of vivacity.