Makin clearly didn’t believe in beating about the bush. ‘He’s gone stark raving mad,’ he said. ‘Stole top-secret documents from his work and then did a bunk. I’ve been given the job of finding him before he does any more harm.’ He paused a moment, ordering his thoughts. ‘Scotland Yard thinks he bears a grudge against you, Mr Elesmere-Elliott, and is headed this way to do you mischief. I’m here to warn you, and to make arrangements for your protection.’
Denis took a long breath. ‘I’ve known Malcolm Bryant for twenty years, Inspector,’ he said. ‘We might not always see eye to eye, but I don’t believe that he would do me any harm. I’m quite sure there’s no need for police protection.’
‘I’m afraid there is,’ Makin insisted. ‘He is quite mad. He has already brushed through one attempt to apprehend him, and he was seen driving like a madman down the Brixton road. I’ve got a car coming up from Bournemouth that will stay here with you tonight, and tomorrow we’ll organise something a little more permanent.’
Denis shook his head. ‘I appreciate your concern, Inspector, but I really don’t want police protection. I think it would be rather an over-reaction, don’t you?’
Makin bridled. ‘I don’t think anything of the sort,’ he said with a thin smile. ‘In fact, I think you’re not taking this business seriously enough. But it’s not my call anyway. I’m under orders to provide you with a police guard until further notice, and that’s what I’m going to do.’
Denis was getting angry. I could see that in the thrust of the jaw, the thin line of his lips. ‘Use your common sense, Makin,’ he snapped. ‘Bryant’s gone off half-cocked, but so can we all at times. If we start treating him as public enemy number one all we’ll be doing is to drive him into a corner. With a bit of give and take, I’m quite sure we can calm this whole business down without anyone getting hurt.’ He hoisted himself to his feet and gestured towards the doorway. ‘Now, if you really don’t mind . . .’
But Makin had also risen to his feet, and he laid a restraining hand on Denis’s arm. ‘I think you should know exactly how things are,’ he said. ‘I’ll be blunt. Malcolm Bryant is considered by our people to be a homicidal maniac. He’s completely out of control, he’s headed this way, and we’re almost certain he has a gun. Our instructions are to stop him getting to you, and to shoot to kill if he offers any kind of violence.’
Denis was seriously angry now. ‘I have never heard anything so damned silly in all my life,’ he said. ‘Shoot to kill? Are you people mad? There are laws in this country, Inspector, aimed at making sure that nobody is sentenced to death without a fair trial.’
Makin’s official smile, which had grown thinner by the moment, disappeared completely. ‘I know the laws of England, sir,’ he said stiffly. ‘But I also know that if my people are dealing with a raving lunatic, I don’t want them caught unprepared. You don’t trifle with a mad dog.’
‘A mad dog?’ Denis began, but I beat him to it. ‘Malcolm had a very bad nervous breakdown when he was out in Malaya,’ I said quickly. ‘They had to send him home because he was a danger to himself and to others. If my husband doesn’t appreciate your offer of protection, Inspector, I certainly do. I would very much like your people to stay.’
I shall never forget the look that Denis shot me. It was the look of a man betrayed and it sent an arrow into my heart. But I had been standing there listening to him talking like an idiot and I was absolutely determined to get the protection that had been offered. It was easy for Denis to be judicious, and balanced, and humane. He was a man, comfortable in his man’s strength, but I had to think as a woman and a mother and I was horrified at the thought of a psychotic Malcolm Bryant stalking my family.
Makin turned to Denis. ‘I have a duty to keep the peace,’ he said firmly. ‘I am going to have a car stationed here tonight. We’ll talk about longer term arrangements tomorrow.’
After he and Sergeant Little had gone I took both of his hands in mine. ‘I’m sorry I had to say what I said, darling. Will you forgive me?’
Denis didn’t answer. He stood there looking at me for a moment, and then he shrugged and disengaged his hands from mine. ‘I believe that Malcolm is a loyal Englishman, and if he’s skulking around the countryside with stolen papers it’s because he’s been pushed too hard. He needs help, not to be hunted down like a rabid dog. But of course if you’re frightened that he’ll take a pot-shot at you from the rhododendrons, you have a perfect right to ask for protection. I certainly won’t stand in your way.’
That wasn’t fair and I grabbed Denis’s hands again. ‘That was a rotten thing to say,’ I said hotly. ‘I’m not frightened of Malcolm for my own sake but for yours. I don’t think he intends to harm me or the children, but I know he hates you, and that if he gets the chance he’ll kill you.’
‘I dare say,’ was all Denis said, and I was so angry I could have burst.
It was rare for us to argue, but we were in the middle of a first-class row now. We sat opposite each other over dinner with our backs straight and our eyes everywhere but on each other. ‘More gravy?’ Denis asked, holding the sauceboat towards me with exaggerated indifference, and I took it coolly without a word. ‘Tea?’ I asked neutrally with the teapot raised, and Denis pretended he hadn’t heard and pushed his cup out of the way. The children noticed, of course, and had the sense to keep their heads down, but Win babbled on completely unaware. ‘Isn’t it so nice of the police to keep a car here just to protect us? I’d have been terribly concerned at the thought of a madman lurking in the vicinity if they hadn’t stayed ...’
Later that night I looked out and saw the police car looking very cold and lonely parked beside St Mary’s, and went out to it with a thermos of fresh coffee and half a cake. The two young constables were the nicest of men. They insisted on getting out of their car while they talked to me, and I saw them shivering despite their heavy coats and the fur caps pulled down over their ears.
‘Wouldn’t you like to come inside?’ I asked. ‘At least it would be warm, and surely you could keep your lookout just as well?’
The elder of the two grinned. ‘We’d love to come inside, Madam. But it would be more than our jobs are worth. Inspector Makin made that crystal clear. He’s quite frightened of your husband, is Inspector Makin.’
The police did come inside later that night. It had begun to sleet, and Denis had relented and arranged for the unused butler’s pantry to be converted into their duty room. They were absolutely no trouble, keeping discreetly out of our way, and coming and going through the kitchen.
Denis and I kept up our silly row all night, sleeping as far apart as we could manage in the double bed. The next morning I took my cup of tea downstairs and shared it with Mrs Frampton as she made an early breakfast for the policemen. It was the first time since we’d been at the Manor that Denis and I had not shared waking up and seeing the new day through our window, and chatting inconsequentially about inconsequential things. The thought saddened me, and I sat at Mrs Frampton’s table with my chin on my hands, frowning down into my cooling teacup. Denis had been abrupt and unreasonable, I realised, because he had felt guilty. Because it had been he who had driven Malcolm to the edge of madness – or beyond – by escaping time and time again from the consequences of what Malcolm must have been convinced was the worst kind of treachery.
And guilt can make the most reasonable of us unreasonable, the most perceptive of us blind.
I went back to our bedroom determined to make up. ‘I understand how you feel about Malcolm,’ I said as soon as I came into the room. ‘You feel responsible. You think he’s out there on the run because of you. Well, that’s not correct, is it? I’m the one who got Stewart Menzies to cancel Malcolm’s charges against us. If anyone is responsible for Malcolm’s state of mind it’s me.’
Denis was up and dressed and pulling on his shoes, and he looked at me with a closed, set face. ‘Don’t flatter yourself, Norma. Malcolm’s out there going through hell because MI6 have put a blowtorch to
him. Don’t forget, I know the drill in these cases all too well. They would want to discredit him, to cheapen anything he may say, and they know exactly how to do it.’
‘Malcolm is unstable,’ I said. ‘I’ve seen him at his worst. Reality means nothing to him once he gets an idea into his head.’
‘There is an old saying: “All the world is queer, old friend, accepting thee and me. And even thee’s a little queer.” If Malcolm does go overboard occasionally, so do we all at times. But what they’re doing to him is evil. Exploiting a weakness for their own ends. They’ll make the poor blighter doubt his own sanity in time.’
I dropped on my knees in front of Denis. ‘He is unbalanced,’ I said earnestly. ‘Not just a little bit off key, but seriously unbalanced. It’s hatred, or jealousy, or a combination of the two that’s made him dangerous. He hates you, my dear. So much that one day I’m sure he’ll try and kill you. That’s why I hope they catch him quickly. While he’s alive and free, you are in mortal danger.’
Denis gave me credit for sincerity and pulled me up and sat me on to his lap. ‘You may be right and I might be wrong,’ he said reasonably. ‘But I do sincerely believe what I say, and I’m no longer prepared to compromise.’
I took his hands in mine and played with his fingers as I thought the matter through. ‘Why don’t we agree on a pact?’ I said finally. ‘You agree to let the police look after us while Malcolm is out there with his gun, and I agree that we will both help him like the blazes if or when he is arrested. Give him the best lawyers money can buy, and make sure that if he’s put on trial, the whole truth comes out. Including the cables business and Operation Maugham if that is necessary.’
Denis nodded thoughtfully. ‘I think that’s pretty reasonable.’
We sat there a while, getting used to being friends again, and then Denis rose and hauled me to my feet. ‘Now I think it’s time we got on with Christmas, don’t you?’
That day Win, the children and I set about decorating the house. We spent all morning making coloured paper chains, and all afternoon hanging them in the downstairs rooms. Mr Frampton had bought a Christmas tree and we spent the evening covering it with stars, and coloured globes, and streamers of tinsel, and then we crowned it with a glorious Victorian plaster angel that Win had inherited from her mother. It was late before we finished, and as a special treat for the children we all sat by the glowing fire and sipped hot chocolate while we listened to A Christmas Story on BBC Radio.
Close to midnight we invited the policemen in for a Christmas toast. The young constables had been replaced by plainclothes officers, older men with hard faces, but they softened after a drink or two and soon someone had started us off singing Christmas carols. Halfway through ‘Silent Night’ Win Heppenstall, who had perhaps sipped half a glass of brandy too much, burst into tears. But her tears didn’t spoil the magic of the moment because all the children hugged her and she hugged them back, laughing through her tears at her own frailty. ‘It’s happiness,’ she assured us all. ‘Tears of pure happiness.’
There was the sharp crack of a pistol shot, followed instantly by the tinkle of falling glass. For half a second we sat there in frozen silence, and then Denis was shouting at us to lie on the floor and our police guardians were stumbling through the room dragging guns from under their jackets.
I had the stupidest thought: Please God, don’t let any of us get hurt. It’s much too close to Christmas.
Nobody was hurt. One of the police officers stood between us and the windows while the other burst through the French doors and crouched down outside, his pistol raised in both hands. But the assailant had clearly gone, and the emergency was over almost before it had begun, with Denis wrapping me tightly in his arms and the children clamouring to go outside to see if they could see the gunman.
‘No you can’t!’ I shouted, suddenly badly rattled. ‘Go up to bed immediately, or we’ll cancel Christmas!’
‘You wouldn’t be shouting at me if I’d got shot, would you?’ Bobby asked, and I smiled and grabbed him and brought him into our embrace.
‘He got clean away, I’m afraid,’ one of the officers said. ‘I could see him sprinting across the field, but he was well out of effective range. I think he must have been running to a car parked up on the Wareham road.’
‘You did well,’ Denis said, but the man shook his head.
‘We let you down, sir. We should have been outside. It’s a mystery how the man managed to miss hitting anyone.’
Denis pointed to a strip of plaster hanging from the ceiling. ‘I don’t think he meant to hit anyone. He fired over our heads.’
Makin and Sergeant Little arrived half an hour later. The Inspector was furious, and inclined to snap at the poor officers who had defied his orders to stay outdoors. Denis cut him off in mid-tantrum: ‘There’s no harm done, Makin,’ he said crisply. ‘Bryant – if it was Bryant – meant no harm. He had a perfect target through the lighted widows but he fired at the ceiling instead. He’s a silly ass but he’s not a murderer.’
Makin shook his head. ‘Think what you like, sir. In my book he’s a homicidal maniac who needs to be put down before he kills somebody.’
More police cars arrived and parked higgledy-piggledy on our gravel driveway, and there were soon so many blue uniformed men in our lounge that I felt I was hosting an inpromptu police Christmas party. Everyone had a point of view, or an observation to make, and soon my head was spinning. Eventually, order came out of the chaos. Most of the cars left but four remained, parked on the moonlit lawns around the Manor like soldiers around a catafalque.
It was after two in the morning before we were finally alone in our bedroom, and I confronted Denis immediately. ‘You must take the man seriously after this,’ I said. ‘He really is a danger. One of us could easily have been killed tonight, even if Malcolm had only meant to frighten us.’
Denis took me by the shoulders and guided me to our window. Beyond the walled garden, the fields and woods were silver in the frosty moonlight. ‘He’s out there now, all alone. Hiding like a hunted animal and wondering how the devil it all came to this. Don’t you feel the least bit concerned for him?’
I pretended that I did, but the truth was that I shared Makin’s hope. That he’d be put down before he killed anybody.
The next day was Christmas Eve. In the morning Mr Frampton took me shopping in Blandford in a shooting brake we’d bought for the stud, while Denis went out to Monk’s Farm with a builder to get a price on our proposed stable block. The plan was to meet up at the farm for lunch, and I was as pleased as Punch at the prospect because our purchase had just gone through and it would be our first visit to the place as its owners. A police car followed each of us: it was a bit like Cameron Highlands and the Gurkhas all over again, except that English restraint meant that there was no pomp and circumstance, just quiet bobbies discreetly in the background.
The house at Monk’s Farm was genuinely Elizabethan, a lovely, half-timbered place with a thatched roof, mullion windows, and heavy oak rafters throughout. I got there about midday and pottered happily in the modernised kitchen, firing up the Aga, sorting out the cooking utensils, and preparing a meal of chops, mashed potato and grilled tomatoes. I laid a table for Denis and myself in the low-ceilinged dining room, and put out a further five places on the scrubbed pine table in the kitchen for Mr Frampton and the police. I felt domesticated and happy, and caught myself humming Percy Grainger’s ‘English Country Garden’, which was all the rage in 1949. The sun had broken through an overcast sky, lighting up the chalk downs beyond the small, neat garden, and the world looked and felt a lovely place.
I had completely forgotten Malcolm Bryant.
‘There is a letter here for you already,’ Mr Frampton said, coming down the hallway. ‘Postman must have pushed it under the front door.’ It wasn’t for me but for Denis, and I put it unthinkingly beside his plate on the dining table.
Denis joined us just as we were putting out the lunch, and he rubbed his
hands cheerfully together. ‘Rough country fare, I see, Mother Elliott,’ he said with a dreadful parody of a South Country accent. ‘Simple but nourishing.’ He winked at the police officers gathering in the kitchen and they laughed politely. And then we closed the door and were alone in our snug little dining room, lifting mugs of tea to the success of Richelieu Park.
‘I gave Bill Hammer the plans for the stable block,’ Denis said. ‘He needs to do some more working out, but the price range he mentioned seemed damned reasonable. Between three and four thousand. That’s for everything including plumbing and electrical work. He thinks the job will take about three months from go to whoa.’
‘We’ll have fun here, won’t we?’ I asked in the inane way one does, and Denis touched my hand.
‘We’ll have more than fun,’ he said. ‘We are about to establish England’s most successful thoroughbred stud farm. Horses will be foaled here who will rewrite the record books.’ I can see him in the chambers of my memory so very clearly, his blue eyes alight, happy laughter on his lips. And then he looked down at the envelope beside his plate, and picked it up, and slit it open with his thumbnail.
I could see immediately that it was serious by the little creases that appeared beside his eyes, and a tiny throb of concern started up in my breast.
‘What is it, darling?’ I asked. Denis folded the letter up and put it into his jacket pocket, and I thought for a moment he wasn’t going to tell me what it was all about. But then he sighed, and drew it out again, and passed it over.
Denis. I am absolutely desperate. I don’t know if you are a traitor or not, and have no way of finding out unless we talk. For God’s sake meet me. I have tried to phone you but they have stationed people at the Sturminster Marshall telephone exchange, and they refuse to put me through. Demand that they let me speak to you, Denis. For old time’s sake. I will phone you at six precisely every night. Malcolm.
‘It’s a trap,’ I said desperately. ‘Malcolm wants to get you alone so that he can kill you. Can’t you see that? We know he has a gun and that he’s prepared to use it.’
In the Mouth of the Tiger Page 97
