He reached for his cigarettes and tossed one towards Poppy. That she accepted it revealed that she was not quite as calm and unflappable as the character she portrayed. He watched her scarlet lips grip the white cigarette as she lit it with a match from his dressing table. She assumed her affected smoking pose of hand held high and the cigarette pointing over her right shoulder.
“This was a mistake,” declared Hunloke emitting a huge plume of smoke when he spoke.
“What, me being alone in your bedroom? Bit late for that, Artie.”
“No, inviting Carey and Mills here for lunch. I’m sorry; I got kind of carried away...”
“Poppycock! It was a splendid idea. I just hope they aren’t too upset when they realise there’s nothing to eat.”
“Eating is going to be the least of their worries.” His comment was no more than a muted whisper. “I’ve invited a murderer into our midst. Can’t you think of anything else to say other than you hope they’re not bloody upset about having nothing to eat?”
Poppy adopted her earnest face, a look he associated with their late night trysts. “And what exactly would you prefer me to say? That I’m frightened? Worried sick?”
“Are you...?”
She smiled her impish grin that might have heralded a giggle. This time it didn’t. “I am an Eason. It would be unseemly to appear perturbed.”
Hunloke grinned ruefully, extinguished his demolished cigarette that threatened to burn his fingers, and stepped across the floor without a sign of his limp. When he took the half-smoked cigarette from her fingers, he was startled by the trembling of her hand.
He kissed her and held her tightly in his arms; he felt her whole body tremulous to his touch. He gently nestled her head against his chest, consciously avoiding any disturbance to her carefully coiffured hair.
“Were you like this at the farmhouse?” he asked tenderly.
“No, far worse....” Her words sounded modestly flippant, muffled against his jacket.
“You should have said something. I should never have put you in such danger. I’m so sorry, I never thought...”
“You’re the only man I know who has ever trusted me in such a situation. I couldn’t let you down, Artie...” She looked up and they kissed again, this time unhurriedly.
Hunloke imagined how Poppy might be treated by her husband and family. She fostered an image of scatty disregard, perhaps engendered by her lowly position in the family pecking order. Thaddeus Hunloke knew Lady Violet Eason was made of tougher sinew than most of the soldiers with whom he had ever served.
“Not disturbing anything am I...?”
Neither Hunloke nor Poppy heard the enquiring knock. Their lips parted and they looked as one at the face of Rodney Bidder, peering guiltily around the door. “It’s almost midday. The guests will be arriving shortly; I thought it time you were summoned to your duties as hosts.”
Poppy pushed gently away from Hunloke, reluctant to end the embrace. She dabbed the tears away from her eyes and patted her hair. “I’ll just go and check the war paint. Can’t let the side down...”
Bidder stepped back to allow Poppy to hurry from the room. Leaning against the doorframe for support, he stared accusingly at Hunloke.
“What...?” demanded Hunloke indignantly.
“You sure you aren’t giving her one?”
“What...? Can’t a bloke offer a supportive hug?” insisted Hunloke innocently.
“Sure, sure... ‘I fear the man doth protest too much’! I’ve seen you consoling before and it never involved doing what you were just doing... Come on, Don Juan; give us a hand down the staircase. It took me an hour to climb up them, like scaling the bloody Matterhorn!”
It came as no surprise to Hunloke that Artie Shaw was playing on the gramophone in the drawing room. At least it wasn’t ‘Begin the Beguine’.
Hunloke had travelled to Derby the previous day to collect Christine Baldwin. He hoped the telegram he had sent her on Friday would allow her sufficient time to talk herself into attending Sunday lunch at Flash House. He wasn’t convinced she’d come but when he turned up at her parent’s house, she was in uniform with her small suitcase. She told her disinterested parents that the inspector was taking her back to her ATS camp.
Christine had borrowed a dress from the Flash wardrobe. It was perhaps of a style more suited to the twenties yet the smart frock and jacket suited her better than the utilitarian uniform she had become used to wearing. Hunloke assumed Poppy had helped her with her make-up, for she looked much softer than usual. Like Poppy, she chose to wear a vibrant red lipstick as was very much in vogue.
The ATS corporal chatted quietly but nervously with Rod Bidder. Even though they had never met before, Christine was in safe hands with Bidder. With four daughters still living at home, he was at ease in her company and communicated a reassuring aura. The superintendant, wearing his blue three-piece suit, appeared homely fumbling with his pipe. Hunloke noticed Christine was wearing Brian Conway’s signet ring on her left ring finger. It was too large for her feminine hand and she constantly made anxious adjustments to prevent it slipping from her hand.
Poppy was on drinks duty and Hunloke watched her glancing nervously at her wristwatch whilst she fussed over the bottles of spirit liberated from the butler’s pantry where Trotter, by force of old habit, kept it under lock and key, despite there being no footmen on the prowl. Even so, Trotter had insisted on bringing out the three-bottle tantalus.
Sitting on the piano stool, Inspector Hunloke gave the impression he was about to give a recital. The only tune he could knock out was ‘chopsticks’, which he had mastered on the piano in the sergeants’ mess many years before. His revolver lay hidden beneath the lid of the piano stool, placed on top of an aptly named piece of sheet music entitled ‘End of the Road’.
It was difficult for Hunloke not to knock back the whisky in the tumbler in one fiery mouthful. He longed for the numbing effect of the spirit but knew it would be detrimental to the forth-coming encounter. He wiped his hands again against his trousers to remove the cloying stickiness from his palms. He hated waiting.
As the time approached one o’clock, he moved with measured strides towards the anteroom and felt Poppy’s eyes follow him across the floor. His limp was more pronounced than ever and his left hip ached, bordering on the excruciating. He wanted to be ready for the summons from the front door.
The hallway appeared larger than he had been used to seeing it, the drawing room had seldom been used during his time at Flash and the trip from the anteroom afforded an elongated view of the grand space. He was aware of the eyes of Sir Peregrine Gray peering down on him from his prominent position on the stairway. His portrait was by far the largest and held pride of place amongst the Gray clan. Thaddeus Hunloke halted beneath the high clerestory roof and returned the gaze of the patriarch of Flash House.
Minutes must have elapsed, the sounds of Artie Shaw faded and the two men from worlds apart, remained locked in an exchange of narrative that defied rational explanation. Their silent discourse only ended when Sir Peregrine Gray’s right eye articulated an exaggerated wink. Hunloke felt the trembling in his body vanish and the pain in his left hip subside to barely a perceptible niggle.
The cast-iron knocker rapped three times against the stout oak door. Hunloke smiled. The game was afoot.
“Hullo, Carey,” declared Thaddeus Hunloke, holder of the Military Cross.
Carey Gladwin stood beneath the long canopy outside the cloister, silhouetted by the low sun bathing the Flash Estate. “Good afternoon, Thaddeus.” Carey smiled and then turned her attention to the car parked on the forecourt. She waved at the driver, who acknowledged her gesture before performing a neat u-turn. They silently watched the car head up the drive towards the east gatehouse. “Mr Rogers gave me a lift; he is such a sweet man.”
Standing aside, Hunloke beckoned Carey into the cloister. “May I take your coat, Carey?” he asked.
Carey was wearing her familiar dark wooll
en coat and trilby-inspired hat. She carefully removed both and handed them over to her host, who hung them on the hooks attached to the wooden panelling on the cloister wall. She revealed a two-piece suit of navy blue, which he considered painted a picture of bureaucratic efficiency rather than frivolous intent. She retained her blue leather clutch bag, which she held in her left hand. The whole disrobing episode felt like a ridiculous set piece from a movie in the mind of the Eastender.
“You look lovely,” he declared with a smile. Indeed, he thought she really did, if her intent was to impress a company director. He leant forward and kissed her on her left cheek. “The others are in the drawing room...”
Carey’s heels clacked across the floor as she followed Hunloke towards the drawing room. She recognised that the house felt much warmer than was the norm and was not to know that Hunloke had spent a good hour stoking the voracious central heating boiler in the cellar and bleeding several of the ground floor radiators.
“Carey, may I introduce you to Chief Constable Rodney Bidder from Scotland Yard,” said Poppy when Carey arrived in the drawing room. Bidder stood up and approached Carey with his right hand extended. “Rodney, may I present Mrs Carey Gladwin.”
Bidder lightly took Carey’s hand and grinned. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs Gladwin. Actually, I’m a superintendant.”
“Please call me Carey.” Carey twisted her head to the right to lessen the visual impact of her damaged eye.
“The others you know,” continued Poppy, “we’re just awaiting two more guests.”
“So what’s the special occasion, Poppy?” asked Carey when the hostess handed her a tumbler of whisky.
“Nothing special, Carey, I thought it would be nice to have a meal together before Thaddeus and Rodney return to London.” Hunloke cringed at Poppy’s use of the word ‘nice’. Carey turned to Hunloke, now leaning beside the fireplace, smoking with Christine. “You’re leaving, Thaddeus?”
“Yes... We’ll be away by Tuesday. We’re attending Brian’s funeral on Thursday.”
“So you’ve solved the murder of Major Beevor?”
“Almost...” Hunloke let the statement hang in the air.
“I see...,” said Carey quietly.
Hunloke tossed his cigarette butt into the roaring fire. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll wait in the hall. I don’t want to miss our final guests.”
“Who are you expecting?” asked Carey.
“I think we’ll leave that as a surprise,” grinned Hunloke with asymmetric familiarity.
Carey shrugged and followed Poppy’s invitation to take a seat by the fireplace. She placed her handbag on the table at the side of the chair and sat down, crossing her legs whilst unbuttoning her jacket. The room was the warmest she had ever known it and it crossed her mind that perhaps her state of mental tension contributed to her physical discomfort. Sitting opposite her on the sofa was Rod Bidder and Christine. Carey thought the ATS driver looked gaunter than she remembered despite her make-up, no doubt a result of the death of Brian Conway.
“Thaddeus tells me you’re from Sheffield, Carey,” announced Bidder. He looked at Carey in a manner of a schoolmaster whilst sucking on the stem of his pipe.
“Yes, Rodney,” was Carey’s simple reply.
“Only been there once, on the way up north to Leeds for an investigation in thirty-six. ‘The Headingly Strangler’, that’s what the press called him. Do you remember the case?”
“No, Rodney. I can’t say that I do,” Carey’s smile was polite but reserved.
Bidder shrugged. “You have family in Sheffield?”
“Distant, my immediate family were killed during the Blitz.”
“But you survived.”
“Yes, I was lucky to be staying with my aunt. Do you have family, Rodney?”
“Yes, married twenty-six years. Five daughters.”
“My, I almost feel sorry for you.” Carey grinned modestly. To retain control of the conversation she next addressed Poppy whilst the hostess was recharging Bidder’s glass. “Is Edward home for Christmas, Poppy?”
Poppy took a breath before answering. “No, he isn’t due leave until after Christmas. He should be home for the New Year celebrations. Apparently they are pushing them hard to complete the course at OTU.”
“OTU?” asked Carey.
“Operational Training Unit. He should be ready for front line ops soon.”
“You must be very proud of him.”
“I’d prefer to be proud of him living with me at Flash...”
“So where do you intend spending Christmas?”
“I’ve been invited to Daddy’s place. I doubt I’ll go though.”
“I’d have thought Christmas at Brocklingby...”
To Poppy’s relief, Carey’s idle chatter died the moment she recognised the voice drifting in from the anteroom. It was familiar enough to carry above the voice of Billy Holiday singing 'No Regrets' on the pre-war Artie Shaw seventy-eight revolving on the gramophone.
Henry Mills walked into the drawing room, peering high into the vaulted ceiling. “I say, this place really is a wonder, Thaddeus! A little jewel, I’m so glad I yielded to Colonel Turbutt’s invitation!”
Poppy strode across to intercept Mills just inside the double doorway. “It was actually my invitation, Mr Mills,” insisted Poppy.
“Well, hello! You must be the irrepressible Mrs Gray!” Mills, dressed in an expensive grey double-breasted suit, stood and gazed admiringly down on Poppy Gray. “My, if I’d have known what I’d been missing, I’d have come sooner.”
“You couldn’t have come any sooner, Mr Mills. You hadn’t been invited,” replied Poppy sonorously.
“Oh, I don’t recall Thaddeus ever being invited by a Gray.” He took and kissed the raised back of Poppy’s hand courteously.
“Allow me to introduce you to the others,” continued Poppy.
Bidder had raised himself from the sofa when he heard the approaching voices. Only Christine and Carey remained seated, the latter with her back to Mills, her head obscured by the high-backed chair. Christine stared at Carey, attempting to read her face. Carey’s stomach may have been turning summersaults but to a watching world, she looked as coolly composed as ever.
The introductions were made save for those involving Carey.
“... And your dinner partner will be Mrs Carey Gladwin,” declared Poppy.
Hunloke had sidled across to the piano whilst Poppy made the formal presentations. From across the room, he looked directly at Carey and Mills. The initial impression he gleaned from Carey revealed the same blank canvas Christine had observed. He flipped his gaze towards Mills. Like Carey, he was a trained agent, used to concealing his emotions.
When Carey rose and took Mills’ hands it was like witnessing the meeting of two strangers. Perhaps they indeed were. Hunloke wondered if he had misread the information at his disposal and made a wrong interpretation of the evidence? He felt his stomach drop and, not being the beneficiary of professional coaching, betrayed his disappointment on his face.
After greeting Henry Mills, Carey glimpsed across at Hunloke and read his disillusionment. The look was fleeting but sufficient for Hunloke to discern the faintest flicker of a gesture. Conceivably, it was a pursing of her full lips or the blink of her left eye. The look was indecipherable but nonetheless implied a hint of satisfaction, suggesting that she had convincingly pulled off her charade. Carey’s expression quelled Hunloke’s deflating spirits.
“Would you like a drink, Henry?” asked Poppy.
“G&T would be lovely, thank you,” replied Mills graciously.
“Lunch will be served in about half an hour,” announced Poppy. “Tell me, Henry, I understand you’re a general, shouldn’t you be wearing a uniform?”
Mills laughed. “I’m a major, Poppy. Can’t see me ever reaching the rank of general. I’m out of uniform at the moment.”
“Thaddeus tells me you’re a spy...” Poppy’s comment was offered with the ingenuousness of
a child.
Mills looked across questioningly at Hunloke, his smile receding by the faintest jot. “I didn’t think you were a blabber, Thaddeus. Had you down as far more circumspect.”
“So you are a spy?” continued Poppy. “Please take a seat, Henry, perhaps next to Carey. You really ought to get to know each other before we dine.”
Mills slowly lowered himself into the armchair as instructed. “It is true I work for intelligence, Poppy. It was I who found Thaddeus this appointment.”
“That’s not strictly true is it, Mr Mills,” interjected Rod Bidder. “As I understand it, it was Lieutenant Colonel Turbutt who assigned Thaddeus to CSDIC.”
“Ah, of course,” countered Mills, “You were Thaddeus’s colleague at Scotland Yard. Please call me Henry; we are after all amongst friends.”
“I still am his colleague,” asserted Bidder.
“Indeed so... I feel Thaddeus’ absence is a loss to the CSDIC, Mr Conway as well,” conceded Mills.
Christine Baldwin choked whilst sipping her sherry. Any mention of Brian’s name evoked involuntary bodily reactions.
“So why did you suggest it was you who found me the position?” asked Hunloke making his contribution. “Was it to secure my trust so you could perpetuate the myth of Operation Rabe, simply to gain kudos within the intelligence community?”
“You really have been a snitch, Hunloke.” Mills grin had now vanished.
“Was it you who helped Bonhof and Cathy Maxfield cross the sea to Ireland? You really shouldn’t have telephoned me from a Liverpool shipping agent,” said Hunloke.
“I’m beginning to think that Clarence Turbutt isn’t coming to lunch...,” suggested Mills. He took his first tentative sip of gin and tonic.
“No, he isn’t,” conceded Hunloke. “At first, I was amazed that anyone would go to the lengths you have gone to, to keep alive the myth of Rabe. It must really mean a lot to you and your reputation to have to embellish a defunct German plot. But the more I learn about the intelligence service, the more I realise it’s inhabited by a bunch of self-aggrandising shysters.”
Dancing with Artie (Thaddeus Hunloke Book 1) Page 37
