Dancing with Artie (Thaddeus Hunloke Book 1)

by Pete Heathmoor

  “Well, if you’ve got the papers, I suppose there’s no harm...”

  Hunloke plodded up the staircase fitted with a narrow strip of carpet, centrally secured by stair rods, revealing painted wood on either side. The carpet was a positive luxury in the Baldwin household.

  Out of a choice of two, he assumed Christine’s room was at the rear of the small terraced house. He knocked and gingerly opened the door. It was instantly apparent that Christine shared the room and recalled to mind her brother Jimmy, currently serving in Italy with the 8th Army. The room felt overtly masculine despite Jimmy’s prolonged absence, merely the corner of the room by the small window overlooking the backyard betrayed any trace of feminine touches.

  With the blackout curtains pulled, only a weak bedside lamp illuminated Christine’s narrow bed. She appeared to be clothed but was lying beneath a pink quilted blanket with her back to him. He guessed the pose was recently assumed for his benefit.

  “How are you, Christine?” he asked whilst removing his hat and clutching it before him as a gesture of contrition.

  “Go away!” He knew her utterance could have been issued with greater aggression. That was a positive sign at least.

  “Sorry I couldn’t speak to you yesterday, I was...”

  Christine rolled over onto her back and sat up. Her eyes appeared rheumy and tearful but anger now flared there. “You bloody knew! When you telephoned the house and asked me to pick you up, you said it was Brian who asked. But Brian was already dead!”

  The enunciation of the last word expunged her anger and she toppled forwards to hug her covered knees whilst her head bounced, wracked by a fresh assault of tears of inconsolable grief and disappointment.

  He did not know how to react. He wanted to hold her, commiserate with her, share her agony. Nevertheless, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. “His last thoughts and words were of you...,” he whispered. His statement appeared to lessen her convulsive heaving. “He said he loved you and was sorry he couldn’t look after you as he would have liked...”

  “I don’t believe you!” sobbed Christine.

  “He asked me to give you this...” He reached inside his waistcoat pocket and extracted Brian’s gold signet ring. He placed the ring on the flattened palm of his hand and advanced towards the distraught Christine, the ring born as a token of grief and remorse.

  Chapter 32 - The Edgar Club.

  Thursday, 7th December 1944.

  Standing beneath the lofty polychromatic brickwork of St Pancras station, Thaddeus Hunloke could not help but notice the vague similarities of the Victorian Gothic architecture with that of Flash House. He was not sufficiently conversant with architectural concepts to interpret the Italian Gothic influences in William Henry Barlow’s terminus of the Midland Railway Company. Gothic seemed to be everywhere in his life.

  It was certainly convenient that St Pancras and Kings Cross were in such close proximity, for it was from the latter region of inner north London that he was expecting his ride to hail.

  With London bustling around him that Thursday morning, he certainly did not expect the distinctive two-fingered whistle to originate from beside a sable Bentley. The familiar grinning face of Sergeant Andrew Tebbs beneath his brown trilby had provided the recognised summons and Hunloke wasted no time in picking up his carpetbag and limping across to the waiting car.

  “See the northern air hasn’t done your leg any good, sir.”

  “Damp, cold air isn’t beneficial, Andy.”

  “Sling your bag on the back seat. I daren’t look to see what’s in the boot.”

  Hunloke fell into the spacious passenger seat. “Whose car is it?”

  “Some fella running a few ‘Piccadilly Commandoes’.”

  “They’ve got you on vice?” asked a surprised Hunloke.

  “Yea, good, innit!” Tebbs sang a few lines from the popular ditty doing the rounds. "Please don't be mean, better men than you have been, in the deepest shelter in town..."

  “Like putting the fox in charge of the chicken coop,” smiled Hunloke.

  “So where to, governor, we cabbies haven’t got all day.”

  “To the Edgar Club.” Hunloke appreciated his old sergeant’s humour but wasn’t in the mood to reciprocate.

  “So what you been up to? Last we heard, they’d stuck you back in military uniform. Them escaped Jerries nothing to do wiv you?”

  “‘Fraid not, Andy, and if I told you I was involved, I’d have to shoot you. Anyway, I’m out of uniform again and looking to speak to a man in connection with a murder.”

  “At the Edgar Club? They’ll never let you in, warrant card or not. You’ll need a judge’s order to get in there.”

  “Won’t any of your lodge members help me get in?” asked Hunloke acerbically.

  “They might do, sir. I told you to join. I could still get you in if you like?”

  “Sorry, Andy. I don’t do charity work...”

  “We do more than that, sir. It certainly wouldn’t do your career any harm. Beggin’ your pardon, but you needs all the ‘elp you can get.”

  “No, thanks, Andy. I’ll leave the funny handshakes to you.”

  “So ‘ow do you ‘ope to get in?”

  “I have a plan...”

  The remainder of the journey was taken up with Sergeant Tebbs relating a few less than wholesome stories a propos his time working vice, where he had been assigned since the breakup of Hunloke’s team.

  London appeared much drabber than Hunloke remembered it. Notwithstanding the watery winter sunlight, even the colourful advertising hoardings around Piccadilly Circus appeared muted and lacklustre. The boarded up statue of Eros didn’t help his mood. He found the pangs of homesickness that he experienced during the train ride down from Derbyshire replaced by a sense of despondency.

  If the identity of the architect of the Edgar Club was revealed to be Sir Gervais Montclair then it might easily be guessed the style in which the Victorian club had been fashioned. Again, the architecture had escaped Hunloke’s attention during his previous visits but that morning he viewed it with a fresh pair of eyes as if a pall had been lifted. As he had commented not that many days before, when coincidences begin to accumulate, the hand of design is clearly at work.

  “You want me to wait, guv?” asked Tebbs.

  “No, that won’t be necessary, Andy. I’m sure someone would like their car back.”

  “Where’re you stayin’? We could ‘ave a beer later, talk about old times...” Andrew Tebbs sounded genuinely enthusiastic about the idea.

  “Sorry, Andy, not this time. I’ll probably catch a later train back up north. We’ll have that drink when I’ve finished the case.” He squeezed the painfully thin thigh of the underweight detective reassuringly, eliciting a grudging smile of acknowledgment. Few people would have realised Andrew Tebbs had taken a bullet in the head during his time in Norway. Then again, it wouldn’t take long for them to notice his peculiarities, which included extreme loquaciousness and an insatiable libido. Nonetheless, Hunloke considered war wounds had yielded far worse consequences to endure.

  The Edgar was an exclusive private members club, more commonly referred to as a ‘gentlemen’s club’, the latter alluding to the strict exclusion of female members. A sign of the times was the lack of the top hat adorned doorman and so Hunloke’s entrance went unchallenged.

  Standing in the spacious reception area at the foot of the marble staircase, he looked around the sterile environs with its neo-classical embellishments. Greek columns supported the high ceiling and the stairway climbed away before branching left and right to ascend genteelly to the first floor gallery.

  At the top of the first flight of stairs where it split at ninety degrees, stood an imposing marble bust sitting between the rolls of honour of distinguished former members, names of both the familiar and obscure who had all played their part in the interests of the British Empire and self-advancement. Styled in the guise of a Roman Emperor, the bust was in fact a facsimile of
the misogynistic architect, Sir Gervais Montclair.

  From behind the inconspicuous desk in the corner of the lobby strode an usher, who by dress and demeanour alone, would not have looked out of place in a funeral parlour. He stealthily approached Hunloke like an assassin.

  “I’m sorry, sir. This is a private establishment, I really must ask you to leave.”

  Hunloke, still clutching his carpetbag, swivelled slowly to confront the impeccable mannered grey-haired usher. “It’s alright, George, I’m a member.”

  George peered up into the unmistakable countenance of Thaddeus Hunloke. It was his job to remember the face of each member. After all, there was something rather unseemly about asking for proof of membership.

  “Ah, Captain Hunloke, so sorry, sir, the old eyes aren’t what they were... I didn’t recognise your posterior, if I may be so crude.”

  “Not a problem, George... Would it be possible to have a room for the night?” Hunloke was safe calling the usher George. All the staff at the Edgar were known as ‘George’.

  “Of course, sir. Would you like me to take your bag?”

  “No, I’ll keep it for a while, thank you.”

  “I’ll see that one of the boys informs you of which room you have been allocated.”

  “Thank you, George.” Hunloke smiled at the thought of the ‘boy’ who might attend him. There wasn’t a single member of staff he knew of below the age of fifty.

  Hunloke mounted the stairs to the first floor, taking the right hand route at the bust of the imperious Sir Gervais. Passing through a set of double doors, the world abruptly changed. Gone were the trappings of neo-classicalism, he now stood in the comforting embrace of Edwardian England. The cold impersonality of marble and stone was replaced by wooden panelling and thick carpet. It felt akin to stepping in from the snow and having someone wrap a warm blanket around his shoulders.

  The reading room was just that. High-backed leather chairs, aged comfortably by contented backsides, peppered the carpeted floor in clusters, allowing circumspect and muted conversations between members, goaded by articles written in the broadsheet newspapers that littered the accompanying tables.

  Hunloke peered about him, consciously avoiding staring, which was the height of ‘bad form’ at the Edgar. He had been told that the man he was looking for was a creature of habit. It was eleven o’clock and he hoped that the man would adhere to his normal routine and visit the club for his morning coffee before returning to more pressing matters.

  Perhaps half a dozen members were in the room, their presence indicated by the rising clouds of smoke, reminding him of the Indian smoke signals so popular in the Western movies at the cinema.

  The man he was looking for sat in a smoke-free chair. He wasn’t reading, his eyes were shut in silent contemplation and he cradled his coffee cup and saucer on his lap. The balding freckled head was a dead giveaway.

  Hunloke trod silently towards the chair to the right of his target and the moment he remained stationary he was swooped upon by an agile white-coated steward. The man was no more than five feet four and tiny alongside Hunloke’s comparatively towering frame.

  “May I take your coat, sir?” asked the steward.

  “Thank you, George.” Hunloke unfastened the raincoat lent to him by Poppy Gray and handed it over. “And a pot of tea wouldn’t go amiss.”

  “Of course, Mr...”

  “Hunloke, Captain, MC.”

  “Of course, Captain Hunloke.” George scuttled away to complete his errand.

  “What the devil are you doing here?” Lieutenant Colonel Clarence Arbuthnot Turbutt, known to his friends as Bill, stared up with his piercing eyes at Thaddeus Hunloke. The inspector thought the man looked far more relaxed than the last time they had met in the library at Flash, when Turbutt had relieved him of command of Flash Camp.

  “Come to have a quiet word with you. May I...?” requested Hunloke.

  Turbutt gestured magnanimously towards the chair to his right and Hunloke slipped into the enveloping seat. “How did you get in here?” Turbutt took a sip of lukewarm coffee.

  “I’m a member, a rare regimental perk of being an MC holder in the Buffs. The regiment pays for my membership. I’m sure they must get a discount.”

  “You hold the MC?” asked a genuinely surprised Turbutt.

  “Of course I do. I assumed you knew that.” By his reaction, Turbutt clearly did not.

  “Why haven’t I seen you here before?” pressed Turbutt.

  “Never really came here much before my wife died. The odd lunchtime drink now and then. When Elsa died and I was bombed out of my home, I stayed here for a while. Better than a grotty London hotel.”

  “I see...”

  “Thaddeus...,” assisted Hunloke.

  Turbutt gazed cautiously for an instant towards his uninvited guest. There was clearly a lot he did not know about Thaddeus Hunloke. Although conventional etiquette decreed only civilians with a substantive rank of major or above should be addressed by their former military rank, it was common practice in the Edgar for the stewards to use even a junior rank as a form of common courtesy. Members themselves referred to each other by Christian or nicknames.

  Hunloke lit a cigarette.

  As afforded by the positioning of the chairs, neither man faced each other but appeared to be directing their conversation at the oil painting by some unknown Victorian landscapist hanging on the distant wall. “I came here specifically to see you,” announced Hunloke.

  “I’m flattered,” answered Bill Turbutt.

  Further conversation was stymied by George’s reappearance bearing a tray. He laid out the teapot, along with the required accoutrements on the table beside Hunloke. “I’d like to know how you became aware of my presence at the camp in Derbyshire?” asked Hunloke in muted tones so as not to offend the other readers.

  “It’s my job to know such things.”

  “Yes, but there must be dozens if not hundreds of officers posted around the countryside. Why me in particular?”

  “It might surprise you that we don’t have that many escapees. That your camp had five naturally brought you to my attention.”

  “And who briefed you? I assume you didn’t go trolling through files for yourself?”

  “Is that really relevant? What exactly is your point of interest? The camp is no longer your responsibility. I was hoping that after the death of so many and the partial destruction of a school, the case was closed. There is still no sign of the escaped German and his concubine.”

  “You won’t find them. I assume they have had help from someone.”

  “You are implying that someone has assisted their escape?”

  “Naturally, but as you pointed out, that’s not my concern. The murder of Charles Beevor is however and the escaped POW and the murder are more than likely linked. Do you know Carey Gladwin?”

  “No, is she an American movie actress?” enquired Turbutt flippantly.

  “No, she is formerly of a branch of the military I am not familiar with, the Special Operations Executive.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “She told me. By either talent, luck, or a bit of both, she managed to free herself from the hands of the German Geheime Staatspolizei.”

  “No mean achievement... And how do you know Mrs Gladwin?”

  “She’s currently working for some people who are looking to purchase Flash House from William Gray. I believe she is there to assess the property. How do you know she was married?”

  “Lucky guess I suppose...”

  “I don’t think it was. Who was Charles Beevor, or what was Charles Beevor before he was posted to Flash Camp back in June?”

  Turbutt paused before answering. He rationalised that there was no harm in Hunloke knowing some of the details. “He was SOE. I understand he was Carey Gladwin’s controller.”

  “The truth at last... So is Carey Gladwin’s presence in Derbyshire a coincidence?”

  “Are you suggesting she went their spec
ifically to confront Beevor?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “I can tell you, captain. I have no idea, but I doubt it. Despite what you may think, the secret services do tend to behave as the name implies.”

  “No, I don’t suppose you do. I’ll ask you again, if I may... Who briefed you about the events at Flash?”

  “Under what authority do you ask the question? We are talking of classified material here, requiring security clearance you clearly do not have.”

  “I’m not asking you in any official capacity, Bill... Simply as a fellow member of the Edgar.”

  Turbutt made a subdued chortling sound. “Well, Thaddeus, I suppose as one member to another... Tell me, do you ever wonder how Winnie persuaded the Americans to adopt the ‘Germany first’ policy?”

  “No, can’t say that I have...”

  “In the early days, opinion in the USA was far more anti-Japan than Germany.”

  “So what are you saying?”

  “That we in the military may be asked to fight the politicians’ wars but we don’t really know why in most cases. We are never aware of all the influences at work that determine the actions of a country or the course of a war.”

  “What’s that got to do with anything? I imagine it’s always been like that. I doubt if many soldiers knew why they were fighting in the Crimea. What’s your point?”

  “None really, just trying to give you a flavour of my world, of my war.”

  “So who did brief you?”

  “Major Mills.”

  “Major Henry Mills of MI6, once of section D?”

  “The very same.”

  “Why did Mills select me to go there in the first place?”

  “He didn’t... I understand your selection was simply because no one knew what to do with you. Scotland Yard didn’t want you. The Army wasn’t fussed either way. Superintendant Bidder thought you’d do a decent job and pushed for you to be assigned the role.”

  “So it had nothing to do with Mills?”

  “He is an MI6 operative, not the Chief of Staff. Don’t take the news too badly; we’ve been fighting a war for five years. I’m not saying we’re scraping the bottom of the barrel, but we must be getting damned close. Your qualification for the secondment was your availability not ability.”