by T E Kinsey
‘Trustworthy, do you think?’
‘After all these years I’m not certain that anyone is entirely trustworthy, pet.’
‘And if the police are already working on it, what value would we add? Especially if we get in the way and cause trouble for Inspector Sunderland.’
‘Well, now, you see, that’s the very thing that’s edging me towards sticking my nose in.’
‘Causing trouble for the inspector?’ I said.
‘No, the value that we might add. The inspector says that he’s being closely scrutinized from above. Mr Bramley–’
‘Brookfield, my lady.’
‘That’s what I said. Mr Brookfield spoke of corruption and dirty doings among the great and the not-so-good–’
‘“Dirty doings”, my lady?’
‘Quite so. Skulduggery and ne’r-do-wellism of the blackest stripe. And doesn’t that make you wonder if the inspector is going to be allowed to investigate things entirely freely? If the chaps at the top are up to no good, they’re not going to let the chaps at the bottom bring them to book, now are they?’
‘You make a compelling case, my lady,’ I said. ‘But we’ve already upset our only source of information.’
‘Mr…?’
‘Mr Brookfield, my lady.’
‘Oh, he’ll be back. He’s a journalist – they’re tenacious chaps. Even if he just gets in touch to try to pick a fight, he won’t let this lie and he needs allies with “connections”.’
‘Like you?’
‘Like us, pet, yes. You didn’t believe all that flannel about our detective skills? He wants help from someone a little higher up the social ladder than he’s able to reach on his own. And from his fishing I’d say he strongly suspects that we might have connections beyond the local smart set. We’ll hear from him before the week’s out.’
‘And what will we say?’ I asked.
‘We’ll say… oh, here we are.’
We had arrived at the milliner’s shop. With a display of achingly fashionable hats in the window, and a gold-painted sign reading “Brighting’s” which somehow managed to be at once bold and discreet, it was clear that this was no ordinary hat shop. The bell tinkled as Lady Hardcastle opened the door and we walked in.
‘Good afternoon, madam,’ said the tiny woman behind the counter. ‘How may we help you?’
‘Good afternoon to you,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘My friend Lady Farley-Stroud recommended you. She said you might be interested in making a hat to unusual specifications.’
‘Ah, yes, Lady Farley-Stroud. A charming lady. How is she?’
‘Passing well, I think,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘I’ve not seen her for a couple of weeks, but she was in fine form when last we met.’
‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ said the milliner with an ingratiating smile. ‘Now, when you say “unusual specifications”, madam, exactly how unusual do you have in mind.’
With some enthusiasm, Lady Hardcastle outlined her harebrained scheme for the “holster hat”, and produced the Derringer from her handbag to illustrate the size of the weapon that would have to be concealed. The milliner, who had introduced herself as Mrs Brighting, seemed amused and intrigued by the plan in equal measure and chipped in with several expert suggestions of her own, and before long they had roughed out a design for the new hat.
I sat on a stool in the corner and tried not to tut or sigh.
With the trams still not running, we took a cab back to the motorcar in Clifton and were home in plenty of time for me to prepare a light supper. The conversation turned to corruption and scandal and once again we were reminiscing about our escape from China.
The journey down the Irrawaddy and into Rangoon was not without incident, but such stories as I might tell would be more suited to a travelogue, or even a treatise on natural history. There was beautiful scenery, charming people, exotic (and occasionally terrifying) wildlife, and almost no danger at all.
Similarly, Rangoon, with colonial and Burmese buildings jostling for space and a populace jostling for trade, was intriguing, thrilling and beguiling but never properly threatening. We secured a berth on a ship bound for Calcutta and it wasn’t too long before we were in contact with trustworthy representatives of the Foreign Office.
We had been missing, presumed dead, for nearly three years and our arrival at the government offices in the spring of 1901 caused something of a stir. Our debriefing by senior Foreign Office officials took several weeks but once they were satisfied with our accounts of the events of the past three years and had asked us seemingly endless questions about the submarine, the surveillance of which had precipitated our rapid departure, we were free to go. Or, rather, we were free to rejoin the active roster.
As far as any foreign powers were concerned, it was Lady Hardcastle’s husband, Sir Roderick, who had been the spy. He had been a rising star in the Foreign Office, and espionage followed him wherever he went. It had also stopped the moment he had been killed. No one except his killer had known that it was his wife and her maid who were up to no good, and he hadn’t had time to tell anyone before Lady Hardcastle had shot him.
And so we returned to a life of apparent idleness and privilege among the British community in Calcutta. That is to say that Lady Hardcastle returned to a life of apparent idleness, while I returned to a life of catering to her every whim. The privilege, though, was very real for us both – our lives were as comfortable as can be. There were lunches and dinners to enjoy, bridge games to play, polo matches to watch, parties to host and to attend. And all the while we were collecting information on visiting foreign traders, politicians, and the wealthy and curious from around the world.
One of Lady Hardcastle’s regular bridge partners was an old friend, Major George Dawlish. They had known each other since they were children and his presence was almost certainly what made us stay in India much longer than we had originally planned. His regiment went on regular postings to assorted outposts but whenever he was in Calcutta, we put him up at the house that Lady Hardcastle had rented. He joined us on many adventures during the two years we were in India, including the unmasking of a South American merchant as a saboteur in what became known as The Poisoned Banana Tree Affair, foiling the attempted assassination of a minor member of the Russian royal family, and a run-in with an Austro-Hungarian spy who styled himself Der Mungo (the Mongoose) who almost succeeded in stealing sensitive military documents but who left empty handed in more ways than one – not only did he fail to steal the papers, but he returned home with two fewer fingers than he had come to India with.
By far the most disturbing affair, though, involved a shadowy organization known as Autumn Wind, and it was to them that our conversation now turned.
‘So what do you think, pet? Do you see any similarities between events in Bristol over the past couple of months and life in Calcutta during the time of the Autumn Wind?’ asked Lady Hardcastle, swirling the cognac in her glass and gazing into the softly flickering flame of the lamp on the table.
I thought for a moment. It had been in early 1903, shortly before we finally returned to England, that a seemingly unconnected series of scandals, sabotage and, eventually, murder had been linked and laid at the door of a secret society comprising businessmen, bankers and politicians which had, as we were later told, been lurking in the shadows of English society since the seventeenth century.
It had begun when the prominent owner of a tea plantation was publicly accused of having improper relations with his houseboy. His reputation was destroyed and his business backers abandoned him, leaving him no option but to sell his plantation and return to England in shame.
Next came a violent attack on a party of bearers bringing a large shipment of tea down from a hill station to the port at Calcutta. Ten men were killed and the entire shipment stolen, with just one badly wounded survivor left behind to tell the tale.
In the following weeks, another tea trader was accused of embezzlement, yet another of cheating at cards. Mea
nwhile there were two further robberies, and a clipper was sabotaged at anchor in the harbour. It was becoming clear that these events were linked but the local police were at something of a loss. It was when the wife of another plantation owner was kidnapped and murdered that our masters in England made contact with us through the Viceroy’s office and shared their own knowledge of the people they believed to be involved.
Autumn Wind was a society founded in 1666, shortly after the Great Fire of London, to protect the interests of London merchants. They enjoyed a brief period of popularity among the trading classes, but slowly their public profile diminished until by the mid-eighteenth century it was believed that the society must surely have been disbanded. But rumours continued to circulate at every level of society that “they” were up to something. Unexplained shady business dealings, political shenanigans, and public scandals were often blamed on “the Wind”, but most thought it a myth. Most people, apparently, except those in a tiny room hidden away in Whitehall who had been keeping a close eye on the activities of suspected Autumn Wind members and who in 1903 felt obliged to share some of their knowledge with Lady Hardcastle and me. Like most societies, secret or otherwise, which dealt in power and influence, Autumn Wind was a strictly all-male affair and so our involvement could be safely ruled out even before the exhaustive background checks they had carried out upon us.
‘There are one or two parallels, certainly, my lady,’ I said at length.
‘Indeed there are, pet, indeed there are. Scandals involving company officials, sabotage, and now murder. It would be easy to believe that someone has it in for the tram company, and equally easy to see a conspiracy involving Autumn Wind.’
‘Although, to be fair,’ I said, ‘it’s just as easy to see a series of coincidences.’
‘But you know how I mistrust coincidences.’
‘I also know that you’ve told me how very readily we see patterns where there are none,’ I said.
‘Sometimes I wish you wouldn’t pay so much attention to the things I say,’ she said with a smile as she sipped the last of her cognac.
‘I’m more than happy to ignore you, my lady. You do talk such tosh most of the time.’
‘That might be wise,’ she said, chuckling. ‘Now, what shall we do before bed? Cards or music?’
‘Cards, please,’ I said. ‘Shall I bring the brandy?’
‘Always,’ she said, and we went through to the drawing room.
The next morning I had cleared away the breakfast things and had started work on the pastry for one of my celebrated pies. We had visited our new acquaintance Mr Halfpenny in the woods a few days earlier to thank him once again for his help with the Carmichael murder, and he had offered us a quantity of venison. We had tried to refuse but he insisted that there was too much for him to eat and that selling it openly might “cause some problems”, so without asking any further questions we had relieved him of a few pounds of rather delicious meat, some of which was now simmering in the oven with onions, herbs and a few juniper berries. An unfamiliar and insistent ringing interrupted my patient pastry folding. It wasn’t the doorbell and, unless Lady Hardcastle had been tinkering again, I was sure it wasn’t one of the room bells.
‘Are you going to answer the telephone or not?’ shouted Lady Hardcastle from her study.
The new telephone. Of course.
I went through to the hall and picked up the earpiece from the wooden box mounted on the wall.
‘Hello? Chipping Bevington two-three,’ I said slowly and clearly into the mouthpiece.
‘Good morning,’ said a nearly-familiar male voice. ‘May I speak to Lady Hardcastle, please?’
‘Whom shall I say is calling?’ I asked.
‘It’s Christian Brookfield,’ he said. ‘We met yesterday.’
Although I was quite used to telephones by now, I was still a little unsure of the etiquette and decided that I should treat callers in the same way one would treat unannounced visitors to the house.
‘Just one moment, Mr Brookfield,’ I said. ‘I’ll see if she’s at home.’
I left the earpiece on the hall table below the telephone and went through to the study.
‘Mr Brookfield on the telephone for you, my lady,’ I said when she looked up from her writing.
‘See, pet? I told you he’d be back.’
‘I never doubted you for a moment, my lady,’ I said. ‘Well, only for a few moments, at any rate.’
‘Very wise, pet. I am only right half the time, after all.’
She beckoned for me to follow her as she walked out to the hall. She picked up the earpiece and moved closer to the hinged mouthpiece.
‘Mr Brooksworth?’ she said. ‘…I’m so sorry, Mr Brookfield. What did I say?… I do apologize. How may I help you?’
The rest of the conversation was carried by the journalist, with Lady Hardcastle offering only occasional agreement and a brief question or two. His voice was too distorted and squawky for me to be able to make out what he was saying so the only impression I was able to gain of his comments were the comically exaggerated expressions of Lady Hardcastle as she listened patiently to him. Eventually the call was over, pleasantries exchanged, and the earpiece hung back on the hook, severing the connection.
‘Well?’ I said, impatiently, when she seemed to be showing no sign of telling me what had transpired.
‘I’m so sorry, pet,’ she said. ‘Could you not hear?’
‘Not a word, my lady.’
‘Ah, we shall have to remember that. Well, it seems that Mr Brookfield has forgiven me my bourgeois apathy – his own rather colourful words – and asks that in my turn I forgive his intemperate outburst and that a state of mutual respect be restored.’
‘So you were right: he wants something,’ I said.
‘So it would appear. He says he’s going to interview Oswald Craine, the husband of the lady with whom the late Mr Morry was conducting his affair. He has arranged the interview on some some pretext or other – seeking information about the coffee business or some such – and wishes us to accompany him to see if we can determine whether he might be involved in the murder.’
‘And how does he propose to explain our presence?’ I said.
‘He has concocted some nonsense about my being a dilettante who fancies herself a journalist and who is keen to see how the “professionals” do it.’
‘He’s quite the accomplished fibber, isn’t he.’
‘The cynic in me suggests that it’s a professional requirement in the world of journalism,’ she said. ‘But it’s no worse than the sort of fib we’ve concocted for ourselves on many an occasion in the past, so it seems hypocritical to condemn it.’
‘And what about me?’ I said. ‘How do I fit in to this little scenario?’
‘Oh, I should think a dilettante socialite would never go anywhere without her maid, even to interviews. You’ll blend in splendidly.’
‘I do love to be a stage prop,’ I said, glumly.
‘But such a charming and attractive one, pet. You can melt into the background and keep your eyes and ears open as usual. You do it so well.’
I harrumphed and returned to my pastry which was now slightly too warm and would need some remedial attention.
To my surprise, the meeting with Mr Oswald Craine took place in the very coffee house we had visited the day before. I had expected an oak-panelled boardroom in a grand building in the middle of the city, but we were directed instead to the scene of our first meeting with the young journalist.
Mr Brookfield made the introductions (which naturally did not include me) and the three of them sat together at a table at the back of the shop where they would not be interrupted or overheard by the other customers. I sat at a small table next to them and pretended to busy myself with a book while actually listening carefully to their conversation.
Mr Brookfield kept very much to his cover and asked a tediously long series of sycophantic questions about the coffee business, all intended to giv
e Mr Craine ample opportunity to tell the newspaper’s readers what a marvellous fellow he was. If Lady Hardcastle genuinely had been there to learn the tricks of the journalistic trade she would have come away none the wiser and I would have made significant progress with my new book. As it was, I was obliged to pay attention and I was grateful for the coffee which was helping keep me awake.
Mr Craine was a bore and a boor. He was uncommonly well informed about the cultivation, harvesting, shipping, roasting, distribution and preparation of coffee and willing to share his knowledge without the faintest awareness of just how dull he was being. This wouldn’t have been so bad – enthusiasts can often be charming and fascinating once they warm to their subject – were it not also for his tendency towards the sort of opinionated oafishness that made it fortunate that Mrs Brighting hadn’t yet made the holster hat. His comments about the locals who grew his coffee in Africa and the Americas, his opinions on the poor and needy at home, and most especially his views on women and their role in society would surely have spelt his doom were there a pistol in Lady Hardcastle’s hat, and I was reasonably sure I saw her hand creep towards her bag more than once and wondered if the Derringer were still inside it.
Eventually, she reached breaking point.
‘Mr Craine,’ she said, sweetly. ‘Did you hear about the incident on the trams yesterday?’
‘I did indeed, my dear,’ he said, still as pompous as ever. ‘A tragedy. That poor fellow. Terrible way to go.’
‘Did you know the victim?’ she asked.
He frowned. ‘No, I don’t believe so. A city councillor, I was told.’
‘So you didn’t know Nathaniel Morry?’
‘No, I never had the pleasure. Tragic loss.’
‘Oh,’ she said, looking down at her notebook. ‘I must have been misinformed, I’m so sorry.’ She looked up again. ‘I was told he was tupping your wife.’
In the silence that followed I began to be concerned that Craine might be the one to draw a pistol. His face went an entertaining shade of purple – the first genuinely interesting thing he had done all morning – and his knuckles were white as he grasped the edge of the table. ‘This interview is over,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘Brookfield, get this bitch out of my shop. I shall be having words with your editor.’