If the news did indeed rupture Hunloke’s ego, he masked his feelings admirably. Had Rod Bidder not visited Flash House and told him of the demise of his corrupt nemesis at Scotland Yard then the information may well have damaged his self-confidence. Everyone needed someone reliable in his corner; a grateful Hunloke had Superintendent Rodney Bidder.
“Are you aware if Carey Gladwin and Mills know each other?” asked Hunloke.
“The intelligence community is not as big as you think, Thaddeus. The paths of many agents cross. It’s a very nepotistic world. Anyway, you’ll have to excuse me, I must go, some of us have a war to fight. I hope you consider your journey has been worthwhile. I believe there is beef on the menu for lunch, I heartily recommend it.”
Turbutt finished his now cold coffee and stood with difficulty from the armchair. “Good day to you, Captain Thaddeus Hunloke. Oh, as one member to another, here’s my card. If you wish to speak again, call one of these numbers. I may see you this evening for dinner when we might continue our tête-à-tête, if you wish. You can enlighten me as to your suspicions.” Turbutt peered inscrutably at the seated detective and shook his head. “Never had you down as a member. This war really does throw up some surprises...”
Chapter 33 - Messages in the Post.
Friday 8th December 1944.
Thaddeus Hunloke did not expect the quickening of his pulse when he stepped off the train at Chesterfield Midland Railway Station.
London had not provided the tonic he had expected. He had forgotten how tired the city was, both its population and infrastructure. The V2 attacks gnawed at the people’s already frayed nerves. The visit to the graves of his wife and son did little to restore his equilibrium. In the great metropolis, he felt small and insignificant.
Chesterfield might not have been the prettiest town in the kingdom but it looked good enough in the shallow, late afternoon sunshine. Even the Crooked Spire had lost its air of malignancy. It now simply appeared quirky and interesting, not unlike the hostess of Flash House. The air may perhaps have been polluted by local heavy industry but not to the extent of the capital. It could have been his imagination, but the air smelt significantly more wholesome than in London. The sight of the Humber Snipe waiting in the car park quickened his step.
He wrenched open the rear passenger door and tossed his carpetbag and hat onto the back seat before taking his place in the front.
“Welcome back, Artie, I’ve missed you,” declared Poppy sitting behind the wheel. To top off her duffle coat, she wore a headscarf and sunglasses.
“My good looks and effortless charm?”
“Hardly... No, the good Chief Constable Bidder is a lousy card player and has no taste in music.”
“He’s a superintendant. Prefers Vera Lynne, does he?” Hunloke reached across into the back seat and briefly rummaged in the carpetbag and reappeared clutching two slim parcels. “Bought you a present. Well, two really. One proper one and a sort of one...”
She stared from behind her dark glasses into his pale blue eyes. She did not see the extensive scarring on his cheek. Maybe it was simply a result of the dark lenses but she had never realised before how pale his long eyelashes were and how beautifully expressive his eyes appeared. She too had felt a quickening of her pulse, an eagerness for their reunion.
She accepted the two proffered packages. “A present? For me? Why, what have you done?”
“What have I done? Nothing, why?”
“I’ve read that men only buy presents, other than for birthdays and Christmas, when they have done something wrong.”
“Or when they like someone and wish to express their thanks.”
Poppy remained very still. “You’re saying you like me?”
“Of course I like you; I thought that was obvious.”
“Nanny said men only like girls for one thing. And that one thing leads to babies...” Poppy spoke with feigned naivety, yet unwittingly opened up a window upon the privileged life she had once led before marrying Edward Gray. He knew she had spent one, possibly two terms at Oxford. Aside from that, her life had been stately homes, privilege, and little else.
“You mean a nanny as in nanny, not granny?”
“Of course I mean nanny; all ladies have a nanny. Mummy hated children. They should be ‘seen and not heard’ is one of her favourite sayings.”
He ignored her reply. “Go on... Open the properly wrapped one...”
Poppy smiled generously and removed her sunglasses, a grin of genuine anticipation lighting up her face. “I love presents!” She peeled back a narrow cardboard lid to reveal a white satin scarf embellished with a French designer label. “Oh Artie, it’s lovely! Where on earth did you get it? It’s not stolen is it?”
“I’m a policeman; it’s hardly likely to be stolen, is it!” His reply could have been qualified to include the fact that he knew several officers who were known to be light fingered. “I bought it from a shop who owed me a favour. Pre-war stock.”
“It must have been very expensive! You really shouldn’t have.”
“Just my way of showing my thanks for your generous hospitality.” He noticed Poppy blush. “No, I didn’t mean that. I mean for putting up with me and for what you did the other day at the school...”
Poppy smiled and leant across. He followed her scarlet lips and closed his eyes before they touched his. Her lips lingered delightfully for several seconds before vanishing. They had never kissed outside the confines of Flash and it came as a blissful moment of revelation for the policeman as to how wonderful life could be.
“Thank you,” she smiled, “what’s in the other package?”
“Best open that one later...,” he declared with a lop-sided smile and laughter.
The Snipe eased its way through the town where the market was winding down for the day. They quickly reached the open countryside and Hunloke felt himself relaxing as the Derbyshire Dales, with its apparently random lines of dry stone walls, revealed itself. Ewes patrolled the fields, having already been covered, now carrying the young they would give birth to in a matter of two or three month. He wondered why the notion seemed so pertinent.
Poppy took the formal east gate entrance to the estate and he caught his first glimpse of the house through a gap in the avenue of lime trees. The house stood backlit against the setting sun, stark and defiant in the pastoral landscape. For the first time, he found himself empathising with Poppy’s sentiments. For all her prickly and over embellished exterior, Flash had a soul that was worth protecting.
“An envelope arrived for you yesterday,” stated Poppy, breaking the spell of enchantment.
“For me? Who’s sending me a package?”
“I’ve a feeling it’s the one you were hoping for, the one Brian arranged to be sent.”
Hunloke reproached himself. Brian was not yet in the ground; his funeral, which he had agreed to attend with Christine, was next Thursday. How could Brian slip so quickly from his consciousness? It was an egocentric trait of which he was only all too familiar. The only death that continued to haunt him these days were the occasional pangs of grief inspired by his son, the lost heir to the Hunloke estate. His rueful laugh garnered a stolen glance from Poppy. What exactly was the Hunloke estate? The only thing he currently owned was his name.
Hunloke found Rod Bidder in the chair in the morning room, the same spot he had left him in on the day he visited Christine Baldwin. Hunloke was of the impression that Bidder had not moved for the entire duration of his visit to London.
“Thank God you’re back!” exclaimed Bidder.
“You missed me as well then,” grinned Hunloke. He delved into his overcoat pocket and pulled out a classic straight pipe and a pouch of tobacco. “Here, don’t ever say I don’t think of you. Might keep you out of mischief whilst you’re laid up.”
“Thanks, Thad. Don’t tell anyone, but I’m not quite the cripple I’m pretending to be, it just keeps that woman out of my hair. She keeps suggesting ‘little jobs’ I could be getti
ng on with.”
“By ‘that woman’, I assume you mean Mrs Gray?” Hunloke took his regular spot at the end of the sofa.
“How the hell do you put up with her? She’s barking! If she’s a typical aristo, I commend the French for doing away with theirs!”
“Trying to keep you amused, is she?”
“The sooner we get away from here the better!”
Hunloke smiled in agreement despite not sharing his superior’s sentiment. Flash House had wormed her way into his affections and at that precise moment felt loathe to leave her.
“So what’s in the brown envelope?” Bidder was referring to the envelope lying on the sofa next to Hunloke, an envelope the inspector had opened and read in the library before appearing before his boss.
“We’ll get to that in a minute,” stated Hunloke quietly.
“So how was London?” enquired Bidder.
“Much the same as when I left it. I met Andy Tebbs. He’s working vice.”
“I know... It was me who swung it for him.”
“Like you swung it for me to have this posting?”
Bidder fumbled with the pipe, sucking on the stem to assess its smoking potential. “I thought I’d told you before that I did, it had nothing to do with Mills.”
“I didn’t appreciate it before I came here, but I guess you’ve always watched my back.”
“The thing you have never got into your thick head, Thad, is that life isn’t always the meritocracy you’d like it to be. You rose from the ranks to become an officer. Admittedly, that took ability on your part, but it was the recommendation of your seniors who got you there. You joined the police service and seemed to forget the same rules apply. You can’t go putting senior officers’ noses out of joint, even if they are bent, without some pay back. Yes, I got you the secondment here, thought you might like dressing up in uniform for a few weeks. You were festering away; I had to get to you first before the booze did. Didn’t think you’d quite create the chaos you did.”
Hunloke’s answer surprised Bidder. “Thank you...”
Bidder peered quizzically at his subordinate. “For better or worse, I don’t think it did you any harm by the looks of things. So did you find out what you wanted back home?”
“I spoke to Bill Turbutt.”
“You mean Lieutenant Colonel Turbutt?”
“No, I mean Bill Turbutt. I met him at the Edgar.”
“So you finally succumb to using the old boy network. And there was me saying it was an abomination to your way of thinking...,” grinned Bidder.
“I asked him who sent me here and he confirmed he did, no doubt at your behest.”
“As we have already established...”
“But so too did Major Henry Mills,” continued Hunloke. “Why would he wish to claim responsibility for my assignment?”
“I’m assuming by the tone of your voice that you have your own idea.”
“I do. He obviously knew of my past. A ranker who made the heady rank of captain before being ditched. Poppy told me something. She said I need the approval of my superiors, that I reminded her of a footman who had made butler and couldn’t quite believe his luck.”
“She has a point.... You and Mrs Gray... You aren’t giving her one?” enquired Bidder mischievously.
“Of course not! Poppy finds amusement with the lower classes, she doesn’t associate with them. Anyway, I think she may have a point. I was flattered by Mills. He massaged my ego and I’m told there’s a lot to massage. I didn’t question the validity of his argument. Brian, bless him, had no idea who assigned me. He just went along with things as he always did. I think Mills thought he might befriend the washed up inspector, gratefully restored to captain. He probably thought me unlikely to get to the bottom of what was going on and could be misdirected if necessary. And so we come to this...”
Hunloke picked up the envelope and removed the contents. “I asked Brian to check up on Constance Gray.”
“Who the heck is Constance Gray?”
“She’s Poppy’s aunt, well, her husband’s aunt to be exact. Brian was troubled by dreams of Connie and I had an odd experience with Tommy. He was Connie’s husband who died during the last bash with the Hun.”
“‘Odd experience’? What’s that suppose to mean?”
“It means what I said. Do you mean to say you haven’t had any odd experiences since being here?”
“No...,” replied Bidder cagily.
“Not everyone does according to Poppy. Be that as it may, my experience isn’t important other than the fact it occurred. Constance Gray gave birth to a child in December 1918. There was clearly some doubt as to the child’s father because the family forced Connie to put the child up for adoption. Normally any bastard child might be absorbed into the family or given to one of the estate families.”
“So what happened to the child? Was it a boy or a girl?”
“That Poppy couldn’t say. Connie was packed off to give birth. Brian was a lousy soldier but he was brilliant on a paper trail. I don’t know how he did it but the envelope contains various documents, including a birth and death certificate.” Hunloke paused as he re-read the two documents.
“Are you trying to create some dramatic tension, inspector? ‘Cos if you are, it’s wasted on me,” insisted Bidder whilst offering yet another match to the pipe bowl.
“No, just checking them one more time. Poppy said Connie was sent to London into the care the Sisters of Devotion, a High Anglican order. The Grays were of course High Anglican, Oxford Movement.”
“Of course they were...,” scowled Bidder facetiously.
“They allowed Brian access to the records, Lord knows how, and he found Connie’s records. She gave birth to a boy on December 19th, 1918. The boy’s name is recorded as Henry Charles Denby, Connie’s maiden name. The boy’s father is stated as Charles Delaney Beevor.”
“As in our Major Beevor?”
“I would say so. He was here during the period in question as a houseguest of Tommy Gray.”
“Some houseguest, sleeping with his mate’s wife....” Hunloke uncomfortably offered no comment to Bidder’s remark concerning fidelity. “And what happened to the kid?”
“Adopted by a family by the name of Mills. I rang Turbutt after my first chat with him, when he had planted an idea in my head.”
“Is that Bill Turbutt or Lieutenant Colonel Turbutt?”
“It was Bill who provided the information.”
“Inspector Hunloke, we’ll make a devious copper of you yet,” smiled Bidder. “Go on, I can tell by your barely constrained smile that you’re itching to tell me the next bit.”
“I asked Turbutt what Carey Gladwin’s maiden name was. She’s the woman...”
“I know who she is; I’ve read your notes more than once. You’re going to say her maiden name was Mills.”
“You’ve read the script...,” grinned Hunloke, his face slewed by his broad smile.
“I’m a super, not a green detective constable. So what do you intend to do next?”
“I’ve already done it. I had a word with Poppy and she’s agreed to put on Sunday lunch.”
“And?”
“I’ve invited a few guests along, including Carey Gladwin and her brother.”
“And they accepted the invitation?”
“Sure. I don’t think Carey has twigged that we’ve discovered her connection with Mills. Maybe her SOE confession was simply to distract us?”
“How did you get hold of Mills, to invite him, I mean?”
“I traced the number Mills gave me to get in touch with him. It’s the number of a Liverpool shipping agent. I left a message with them asking Mills to contact ‘Bill at the club’ whilst I was at the Edgar. Sure as eggs, Mills rang to speak to Bill. Turbutt invited Mills to Sunday lunch here at Flash, not that Bill Turbutt will be here.”
“And he agreed?”
“Oh, I think Bill Turbutt is one of the few men Mills is answerable to, it was Mills who briefed Turbut
t about my failures at the camp. I’m not sure how these bloody juju men operate, but it appeared to do the trick...”
Chapter 34 – Sunday Roasting.
Sunday 10th December 1944.
Poppy supervised Hunloke’s attempts to dress with a critical eye. For her part, she wore a fashionable evening dress of mauve taffeta along with her pearl necklace and matching earrings. With her hair raised high off her neck she looked every inch the Lady Violet Gray.
He was not sure he liked the guise. The heeled shoes added only an inch or two to the nineteen year old’s height. However, it lifted her short stature, giving her an even greater air of imperious intimidation.
“I’m impressed you know how to tie a bowtie, Artie.” Poppy was watching him tie the neckwear in the dress mirror, reflecting his full-length body back towards her inquisitive gaze.
“I’ve been to more mess dinners than you’ve had hot dinners,” he replied with a calm his body could not emulate. It might not be visible to the spectating Poppy but his hands were trembling.
“I doubt that very much, Hunloke from the Camp. I’ve been eating hot meals for as long as I can remember. I wasn’t raised on bowls of cold gruel like you were during your days of East End penury.”
“So how come I’m six foot one and you are three foot nothing?”
“I am five feet three and three quarters. Don’t you think I look taller in heels?”
“You still look like a midget...”
“I was going to say you look very handsome, but I won’t now.” Her sulky countenance failed to convince the inspector when he eyed her reflection in the mirror.
Hunloke took a step backwards and surveyed the finished goods. He wore his new high-waisted suit trousers with the addition of a borrowed dinner shirt. The black bowtie sat high against his neck over the stiff winged collar and the similarly borrowed white dinner jacket that completed the picture of decorum.
Dancing with Artie (Thaddeus Hunloke Book 1) Page 36
