by John Gardner
‘What happened about, what’s his name, Francis St John Elph?’
Willoughby Sands looked away, turning, glancing out of the window. ‘We checked on him now and again. Like you fellows we keep things open. Phil retired and his son, Richard — Dick — took over. Phil must’ve taken him through everything. So Dick carried on where his father left off. Same network in place, I should think.’
‘She see him again, Paula?’
‘No. No, she didn’t. Not to our knowledge. Dick topped it up every few months: checked where he was, with his regiment or at home. Gave up his commission, went up to Wiltshire. Father had the house and estate, run down going to buggery. Worked there, ran it. Have to admit he got the place on its feet again. Came back into his regiment in ’39, they took him back, in his forties by then. Killed in France during the retreat to the Channel. Well, he was missing presumed killed. Didn’t turn up in the German lists of prisoners.’
‘Case closed then?’ Tommy stood again, raised eyebrows, his questioning look.
‘Absolutely.’
‘And Paula?’
‘Changed. Kept her head below the parapet; dedicated herself to Thetis. Max got on with his career. Worked like a dervish: twenty-eight hours a day, that sort of thing.’ Sir Willoughby looked at his shoes, then up at Tommy again. ‘As I said, got to remember how young Max was. Still sewing his oats probably. Paula was maybe his first real love. Can you recall the Sturm und Drang of that, Tom? First true love? Ropey kind of time, eh?’
Tommy half nodded and swiftly changed the subject. A shade too swiftly for Suzie’s liking. ‘Will, tell me, what happened to Phillip, Fillipo, Max’s elder brother? He still alive?’
‘Oh yes, he’s still alive, and he’s still living in the place where he gets looked after, treated like a king. Secure and loving. Most of the nuns’re saints.’
‘And it’s where?’
‘Nursing home run by a most understanding order of nuns, just outside Thun. Damned great Gothic building. Creepy actually.’ The nuns were a nursing order — Sisters of the Order of Compassion, ‘Schwestern des Ordens des Mitleides,’ Willoughby Sands told them in faultless Hoch Deutsch. ‘Mother houses were in Basle and Paris. Just outside Thun, called Alpenruhe, Peace of the Mountains, which shows that the Swiss do have a sense of humour.’
‘You would know this, would you? Personally?’
‘For a few years it was my job to visit and check up on Phillip. Make sure of his state of mind.’
‘And he’s been there all his life?’
‘Apart from the first three, four years, yes. It was clear early on that he was never going to be a social animal. Great shame, he’s a nice fellow to look at, but…’
Tommy glared, then asked what was actually wrong with Phillip.
‘Better let the family explain. Not for me to go into.’
Tommy looked pensive, Suzie watching him, then he sighed. ‘Ah, Thun. Once said a final goodbye to a girl on Thun railway station,’ Tommy mused and Suzie thought, Oh, really? Never told me about that.
You could never tell with girls, held the past against their men. Always wanted to know what the competition had been, way back before they’d even met. Was she better than me? And he’d say, ‘No, heart. Different.’ And it would be maddening.
Tommy nodded and looked solemn and said that was all for now.
Brian drove them to the Home Office where they met Weavie, who introduced them to her boss. In turn her boss showed them the now famous letter that hadn’t come from King Edward VII himself of course, but had been written by an equerry — dated 20th April 1902.
Sir,
His Majesty has instructed me to ask you if you would kindly receive the Ascoli family, from Italy, and enrol them as British citizens without any formal let or hindrance. Issue them with passports etc. Be good enough to inform me when this has been done. The details of the said Ascoli family are on a separate sheet enclosed.
His Majesty also commends to you the wonderful ice cream made by the Ascoli family.
I am, sir, your obedient servant—
‘I told you he must have liked the ice cream,’ Suzie said with a straight face.
They lunched at the Ritz. Brian found himself a nearby pub that did good sandwiches. After that they set off on the return journey to Long Taddmarten.
‘There are puzzles, motives and more puzzles,’ Tommy said, stretching himself out in the back of the Wolseley, where he promptly went to sleep.
Tommy could do that, go to sleep on a clothes-line: anywhere, anytime. ‘Coppers can do it,’ he would say. ‘Comes from being regular and hoarding sleep. You hoard up the sleep while you’re working, stockpile it, then draw on it as soon as you stop.’ Load of rubbish of course, absolute load of old bunny, but he did have the knack, go to sleep anywhere.
When he woke he repeated his last sentence. ‘Puzzles, motives and more puzzles.’
‘What’re you on about now, sweetheart?’ She could talk like that in front of Brian, but had to watch herself when anyone else was around. It was like what her old granny used to call ‘language’. When she first joined the Met, Suzie got used to using ‘shit’ and ‘bugger’ all the time. Went home to stay with Mummy and the Galloping Major after the course was over, at Hendon. First morning, goes down and there is a superlative breakfast waiting for her, her mum sitting there with the Galloping Major stuck behind his Daily Telegraph. Suzie rubs her hands, takes in the bacon, eggs, tomato, sausage, feels the wonderful scent in her nostrils and can almost taste the crisp toast and coffee. Rubs her hands together and says, ‘Whoa. Shit hot!’ And realizes she’s just made a terrible gaffe. Good little middle-class girls didn’t use gutter language. Shocked Mummy beyond measure. She told the story to Tommy who said, ‘When I was eight or nine, I heard one of the farm hands using the word that rhymes with “luck” so I used it. My ma asked my pa what it meant. Unusual.’
Now, in the car, ‘I’m on about puzzles, motives and more puzzles, heart. Puzzle number one — why were the Ascolis given the waiver to become British citizens? Number two — why would the Ascolis want to become British citizens? Then, what’s the truth about Paula and the Christine Betteridge murder?’
He turned, smiled what he called his terrible smile. ‘D’you think Paula still holds a grudge? D’you think she’s wild enough and mad enough to drive through the night, take a 12-bore shotgun, smoke out Max, his wife and his child? And what of Francis St John Elph missing presumed dead. Is he? Or is he alive, sneaked back to England, home and beauty, shrouded with the night, crept up on Knights Cottage, slipped inside, taking a twelve-bore to the family?’
‘And what about the Yanks —?’ Suzie began.
‘More options than an Agatha Christie.’ The terrible smile again.
‘…on that aerodrome, anyone who remembers Virginia Jennifer from the days in the State of Virginia —’
‘Commonwealth,’ Tommy corrected.
‘What?’
‘They call it the Commonwealth of Virginia. The Old Dominion.’
‘Oh. Well is there anybody at Long Taddmarten aerodrome who holds some kind of bitterness going back to the first twenty-one years of her life?’
Tommy was silent for a few seconds. Then — ‘Come to that, heart, is there anyone on that aerodrome who remembers the Ascoli family from Italy? Think of the Italians who’ve become American citizens, perhaps one of them could hold a murderous malevolence towards the family! Wants revenge on Max’s house and all who live in it. Think about that?’
‘Yes, Tommy, and think about some villain who comes romping into Long Taddmarten, asks around, finds out who the wealthy folk are; then goes to burgle the Ascolis, gets caught, grabs Max’s shotgun, sends them all sailing into eternity.’
‘Good point,’ Tommy closing his eyes and going back to sleep.
*
Later they’d call the St-Nazaire docks a ‘milk run’, but today, in the afternoon, going on four o’clock, little Tim Ruby died over St-Nazaire: the firs
t of Wild Angel’s crew to be killed.
They had dropped their bombs and Ricky LeClare was turning the ship back into formation, giving her some power to catch up and slide behind the lead airplanes, when the flack batteries got it just right, explosions all round them, mainly away to the right but one alongside — the crimson bloom, the dirty smoke and the crack — more of an explosion this time that pushed them off towards the port side.
Ricky knew they’d been hit, felt it like a big slap behind him, behind and almost above him with the ripping patter of shrapnel going in. Wild Angel bucked, swung just like it did on take-off, but he felt the response when he corrected, knew that none of the control surfaces had been hit. A minute later he knew that Tim Ruby had bought it. Willie Wilders in his radio op’s little bay was alerted by something, got up, staggered forward and saw Timmy’s legs hanging there in his harness and the blood everywhere, dripping. Most of the plexiglas in the upper turret covered in Ruby’s blood.
Five pieces of shrapnel had ripped, hot, through the turret, little pieces catching Tim Ruby in the cheeks, lacerating his head, then the big lump, size of a man’s hand, slashed in, razor sharp, went through the fleece-lined collar of his B-3 jacket, caught him in the neck, like a scythe, opened up his carotid artery, the hot life blood pumping out to the rhythm of his decreasing heartbeat, spraying everywhere.
Timmy Ruby felt the jab of pain, then began to black out, fighting for breath. Then he was floating, happy on that visit to DC with his ma and pa when he was six, seven maybe: warm day walking beside the Reflecting Pool and seeing Abe Lincoln sitting up there in stone. ‘Look at Honest Abe Lincoln, son,’ his father said, saying it close by him again now. Far away he heard music and there he was, dancing with Billie-Anne Davis at the High School Prom, only a couple of years ago. Billie-Anne hard against him as they swung around together, wonderful feeling her body close to his, hot, sweaty and lovely. Gonna stay with her for ever. ‘Billie-Anne, I love you, gonna stay with you for ever.’ Then, out on College Hill, in the long damp grass, ‘Billie-Anne, move your bottom a little and bend your knees. That’s it. Oh baby.’ Happy as he started to lose the picture, dropping into whatever else was there.
When they got back to Long Taddmarten, firing flares, bright red to let them know they had a serious casualty on board, they took the rest of the crew away from the ship. Bob Pentecost, cramped and easing himself out of the ball turret, saw the upper turret and threw up, retching on the grass while the medical orderlies shepherded the others away, getting them in a couple of command cars that had been sent out.
The squadron’s first casualty. Tim Ruby, not yet twenty years of age. Killed in action.
Chapter Eight
Brian got them back to the Falcon Inn, Long Taddmarten, at chucking-out time: Yanks happy with their lot being shepherded from the bars, several of them supported by other Yanks; some with local girls who looked ready for action; some throwing up against the wall, not used to the tepid English beer; some singing loudly. Inevitably there was a scrum around the bikes, neatly stacked against the side walls of the building, and there were those who had arrived on bicycles and now made the sensible decision to weave their way back to the aerodrome on foot.
Captain Ricky LeClare had left half-an-hour earlier with Juliet Axton, tall, dark and rounded. He’d met her when she was serving dinner for Max and Jenny Ascoli, taken a long look at her while she was putting the plate of veal cutlets, cauliflower and pommes duchesse in front of him, knowing in the look that it could happen any time.
Ricky and Juliet were now heading steadily to the woods known locally as the spinney and to Ricky as a woods, well-known courting place. Ricky’s intention, to shag Juliet’s brains out, not difficult.
Inside the Falcon Tommy had worked some magic, said nothing to Suzie but greeted the landlord’s wife, ‘Got here all right then, Mrs Staleways?’
‘Oh, yes sir, indeed they did, all ready for you just like the gentleman told me.’
Tommy said they’d have them in his room, collecting Molly Abelard on the way. ‘Need you to give me your report, Molly. The boys and girls happy?’
‘What have you done?’ Suzie having the sense not to call him Tom or darling in front of Molly.
‘The food is so dreadful.’ Molly getting it even before Suzie had made the connection with what Dandy Tom had been up to.
‘The boys and girls happy, Molly?’ Tommy repeating the question.
‘Not particularly. Been cementing Anglo-American relations tonight though; some of them’re a bit whistled.’
Up in Tommy’s room Mrs Staleways and her plump daughter, Beryl, still smelling of rodent, arrived together bearing plates. Piles of beautifully prepared sandwiches — little triangles — and soup plates brimming.
‘Got Dover, my pa’s man, to drive over with some comestibles,’ Tommy announced. ‘Nothing special, the family leek and potato soup recipe, and some chicken breast sandwiches, touch of French mustard. The soup’s rather special.’
‘This one’s yours, sir,’ Ma Staleways placing a plate in front of Tommy, a pile of sandwiches bearing a small blue flag on a cocktail stick stuck in the topmost sandwich.
‘What’s different about yours?’ Suzie asked, suspicious.
Tommy smiled, Mrs S. and daughter were leaving, almost backing out of the room, bowing now they had been informed, by Dover, that he was an aristocrat, son of an earl. ‘Mine have a little drop of salad cream on them.’ Tommy’s terrible smile again, more a grin this time.
‘Salad cream?’ Suzie’s face all wrinkled in disgust. ‘Salad cream? That’s what my mum used to call imitation mayonnaise.’
‘Yes, and I bet she pronounced it My-on-aize.’
‘It’s dreadful stuff, Tommy.’
‘I prefer it.’ And that was that. When Tommy preferred something to the real thing you couldn’t do anything about it; liked gravy only made with Oxo, a dash of Bovril perhaps, nothing else would do for him.
They silently sampled the soup.
‘Gosh this is good, Chief,’ from Molly.
‘We had some of this at Christmas, didn’t we, sir?’ Suzie showing off.
‘Yes, the day Billy Mulligan came down.’ Nya nya-nya nya nya. ‘Family secret this: made by angels for heroes.’ Pushing his plate away and reaching for the neat crustless sandwiches.
At this point Molly produced the folders. She was an incredibly tidy and neat person, would make a good wife for Brian one day, but not just yet. Tommy said if they married they’d be immediately separated and moved out of the Reserve Squad: sent to different corners of the area ruled over by the Met (said the same about himself and Suzie. Who knew? she thought). Now, Molly showed her neatness by producing the folders: stout, thick card filing folders, different colours; she was noted for them, sign of her organizational skills.
The blue one contained the autopsy reports from the mortuary in King’s Lynn. Tommy flicked through them and asked, ‘No surprises?’
‘No surprises, Chief. Tiny pinch of chloral in Max Ascoli’s bloodstream but he has a small prescription for sleeping tablets in the medicine cabinet in his bathroom.’
He slid the folder over to Suzie, who glanced through the reports, seeing one had died because the 12-bore shot had smashed the jaw and ripped out the soft tissue around the throat, lacerating the windpipe. She reckoned that was little Paul but she did not dig too deeply. Her eyes straying down the other pages took in the shattered cheekbones, the shot giving ocular trauma, cracking the skull in one case and doing Lord knew how much damage to the mouth and teeth.
The second folder was Molly’s general report. Tommy glanced down this, then asked Molly to tell him the highlights, ‘In your own words, not in the jargon.’
Molly said they had been through the house from top to bottom sending some samples — mainly odd spots of blood found in strange places — off for forensic testing. Pete Prime had done the fingerprints and there were a lot that couldn’t be matched to the Ascolis.
Denni
s Free had gone along with Laura to Roundhill House, down the road, and interviewed Colonel and Mrs Matthews.
‘Anything new there?’
‘No, Chief. The colonel ran over the dog barking again, settled in his mind now that he had been woken by it much earlier, around four he thought.’ Which would be accurate because the doctor gave the time of death somewhere between four and five, around there: three at the earliest, five the latest. Apart from that the colonel and his lady had been visitors twice, invited for dinner at Knights Cottage with other local worthies: vicar and his wife, Mr Dorn who travelled to King’s Lynn every day, big solicitor and councillor; wife was a bit of a drip, Mrs Matthews remarked. Molly said that Colonel Matthews’s main contribution was that he considered PC 478 Titcombe a good man, ‘Good ex-serviceman, make a capital detective.’ Molly doing the voice. Tommy snorted. Mrs Matthews appeared to be obsessed by Jenny Ascoli’s clothes: ‘Had some very expensive things, Worth and Schiaparelli; also extraordinary jewels, diamond brooches and the like.’
‘It was from her that Dennis got the name of the Ascolis’ daily, Mrs Axton and her daughter Juliet. Mrs Matthews had tried to poach them and failed. So I went and had a word with the Axtons, Chief. Got some useful gen.’
Tommy looked at her sideways, didn’t really know what to make of Molly using Raff slang, ‘gen’. She would come into the Reserve Squad office, fourth floor of the Yard, saying all hearty, ‘What’s the gen, chaps?’ Infuriated people.
Tommy reached for another sandwich and took a healthy bite, closing his eyes as the flavours mingled, lighting up his taste buds, looked happy as if he had taken nectar into his mouth. Three long chews, ‘What kind of gen, Molly?’ as though the word gen was something he had to explore.
‘As well as doing the daily work, Mrs Axton would take Juliet to help in the evenings when they had a dinner party: do the veg, take things in and out of the oven, Juliet would serve at table, nice slender girl, all the usual, at Jenny Ascoli’s beck and call.’
Tommy nodded and took another mouthful of his sandwich: all perfectly natural.
