by Elin Gregory
#
Inside it was cool and dark and smelled of fading pot pourri and drains. A uniformed porter stepped aside with a respectful nod then hurried outside to collect the rest of their baggage. Ma stood at the desk speaking to the clerk who was explaining that his best rooms were all gone, much to his sorrow; however, should she care to lay out the cash, there was just one superb top floor suite available.
"We'll take it," she said. "And I assume someone will be able to bring up tea?"
She appeared to be so calm and cool, as though nobody had taken a pot shot at her car or forced her down into the footwell, but the hand she laid on Miles's arm was trembling. Miles heart swelled with affection as he accompanied her and the porter to the lift.
There were four floors, each equally shabby genteel, but the rooms when they reached them looked comfortable enough.
"Some of our aides stayed here when we had that problem with the roof," Ma said once the porter had stacked Miles’s small dressing case on top of Ma’s and Diana’s suitcases, had been tipped and the door had closed behind him. "Comfortable and quiet, and the manager seems a decent fellow."
She looked at her reflection in the mirror on the front of the wardrobe and grimaced. "I look a fright," she said. "We may as well make ourselves comfortable. Carey will send the troops soon."
Miles had busied himself with checking the doors and windows and sticking the most robust of the chairs under the door knob. "There's a cast iron bath, Ma," he said. "If anyone starts shooting I suggest you get in it."
Ma removed her hat and unbuttoned her coat. "Is there room for two?" she asked. "Because I'm not comfortable with the idea of you facing armed men, either."
Miles sighed and went to put his arms around her. "I know I'm not ... Pa or George or - or Smethwick," - he had almost said Briers - "but I can assure you that I know which end of a gun the bullets come out of. I am perfectly capable of looking after you."
"I don't doubt that." Ma gave him a squeeze. "Now, make yourself comfortable while we wait for the tea. For a start, take your hat and coat off. That's the least the porter will be expecting."
Miles raised his eyebrows as he complied. "What on earth did you say to them before I came in?"
Ma went a little pink then turned to adjust her hair. "I may have implied that we were hiding from a lover jealous that I had a new petit ami. I've always wanted to be a femme fatale."
"Oh, Ma!" Miles threw his hat on the wash stand and unbuttoned his coat. He had met a real femme fatale and had no particular desire to repeat the experience. "You are the giddy limit!"
"I know." She grinned at him. "But I was improvising. And it was the first thing that came to mind. All you have to do is sit down and look louche."
"I can probably manage that." Miles peered around the edge of the curtain, straining a little to see the street outside the hotel. "Just for information, because I'm sure, as you said, Miss Carey will be back as soon as she's seen poor Royston to safety, how far are we from the embassy?"
"Too far."
"And the railway station?"
"No more than five minutes," Ma said. "Why's that, darling?"
"Just an idea," Miles murmured. He watched a familiar and battered car cruise slowly past the hotel then glanced at Diana’s suitcase. "With any luck we won't need one but it's always good to have a back-up plan."
CHAPTER THREE
Briers
Thursday 10th September, 1931
The sun was out and Briers had an almond pastry in one hand and his briefcase in the other. Last night had been a lot of fun for a Wednesday - coffee, kirsch and streusel with the most delightful set of chaps, none of whom could play rummy worth a damn but were uniformly good sports about losing their lei and bani as long as he kept the drink coming. One had been a good sport in other ways too, and had exchanged some interesting information about recent nervous dispatches from the Austrian embassy, gleaned in the course of his work at the telegraph office, in return for an introduction to a very curvaceous music hall dancer. So a successful evening, on the whole, and Briers was feeling justifiably pleased with himself.
In fact there was only one cloud on his horizon, and that was that lack of sex was becoming a bit of a trial. Of course, Miles was an absolute Trojan and had made it clear that while they were apart he had no problems with Briers finding his amusements where he could. In return Briers had made it clear that if Miles had a good offer he should grab it. But Miles had looked shocked at the suggestion, and Briers had heard on the grapevine that, other than being seen out on the town with the occasional typist or actress, Miles had no names connected with his at all. This shouldn't have made any difference to Briers, but somehow it did. Unwittingly, Miles had made it a matter of honour that Briers restrict his activities to those required by the service - and those were very few and far between. Briers didn't begrudge his enforced celibacy, but was counting the days to January and his next batch of home leave.
A pleasant daydream about what he planned to do on his holiday saw him the rest of the way to his place of work, through the front office where the legitimate business was conducted and halfway up the stairs to the eyrie where the hawks and kites of His Majesty's Service plied their grubby trade, but his rosy glow disappeared in a flash when he heard a yell and saw Bassett leaning over the bannisters.
"There you are! The Old Man wants you. Some kind of crisis in Bucharest. The Ambassador's lady has been kidnapped, or some such."
"Kidnapped?" Briers had fond memories of Emily Siward's hospitality from a couple of Christmasses ago and knew that Miles thought the world of his mother. He took the rest of the stairs up to the landing two at a time. "How the hell did they allow that to happen?"
"Car attacked on the way to the aerodrome. Here, give me those," Bassett took the pastry and briefcase. "She was coming back to London for medical reasons. Had her secretary and son with her as escorts."
"Her son!" Heart hammering in his chest, Briers hared along the landing and banged on the Old Man's door as he opened it. "Sir?"
"Ah, good." The Old Man, who wasn't actually that old and had inherited the title from his predecessor, pushed an envelope across the table towards Briers. "Ready money and all the laissez passers we've got to hand that we think you might need. Got your gun? Good. I'm waiting to hear back from our man at the embassy then you'll need to pack appropriately. Sit down for the moment."
Briers sat as directed and slid the envelope into his pocket. "So Lady Siward and her son have been kidnapped by persons unknown? Which son, do we know?"
"The younger one, the cipher clerk, unfortunately; if it had been George Siward they'd never have got near her! They were on their way to the aerodrome. Car rammed them from the side and the chauffeur was shot, so her secretary stashed both Siwards in a backstreet hotel and drew the attackers away. They were attacked again, had to run for it. Took a while till the secretary was able to gather some troops."
"And let me guess?" Briers heart sank. "When they got to the hotel the Siwards had gone?"
"Yes, Lady Siward had. Unfortunately there was a dead man on the floor."
"The son?" Briers asked and his hands closed tight on the arms of the chair at the Old Man's nod. He listened, barely able to hear over the roaring in his ears as his heart beat faster and faster.
"We presume so from the clothing - shot in the back of the head, poor chap. Now, here's where it gets a bit sticky; I had a telegram from Naylor in London, and it seems the medical thing was a ploy. Actually Lady Siward may have got hold of some information she shouldn't have, and was on her way home for a debrief. If we want to know what she knows I'm sure other people do too - but that means that for the moment at least she should be safe. Naylor is furious, and asked if you were available to go to Bucharest."
Briers had to swallow hard before he could reply. "Of course." He eased his grip on the chair as best he could and took a deep breath. It occurred to him that he was angry - angry with Naylor for putting Miles in that posi
tion - and angry with Miles, too. Had he tried one of his stupidly gallant and self-sacrificial ploys? Had he stepped forward to protect his adored mother and paid the price? Or had it been less dramatic than that - a simple disposal of an unnecessary burden? Either way, how dare he ... No, he mustn't think of that or the anger would die and the icy desolation forming at his core might become noticeable. And that would not be good. He picked at a chip of varnish that was jabbing in under his thumbnail. "Any clue who I'm looking for?" he asked. "Wouldn't want to shoot the wrong person."
"To be honest, we have no idea. She was probably taken out via the staff door through the kitchen, though nobody seems to have heard anything. I can't imagine the lady would have gone quietly."
"No, she wouldn't." Briers couldn't help the snap in his voice. "I've met the woman, briefly, and I know she thought the world of her boys; she'd have been fighting every step of the way. Who have we got at the embassy?" The Old Man raised an eyebrow and Briers schooled his expression into what he hoped might appear to be business-like concern. "Someone with suitable experience, I hope. Bucharest is no place to be earning your first stripe."
The Old Man nodded. "John Smethwick. He's been in the game for close to twenty years. "
"I know of him," Briers nodded. "A sound man."
"Yes, so he is going to come back to us with more information when he can. The other one is Carey, Lady Siward's secretary, the one who was actually there when they were attacked. Here's what we have so far." The Old Man pushed the sheet of notes across to Briers who picked it up and began to read. "I take it you can be ready to go at short notice?"
"Of course. I always have a bag packed," Briers muttered, squinting a little to try and make out the cramped writing. He knew the hotel named, had stayed there once - a family business with no known links to any radical or anarchist organisations. Briers would have bet that the staff there would have taken good care of their charges. But it had been two hours between the secretary, Carey, driving away and Smethwick and the embassy heavies getting there.
A lot could happen in two hours. Including a dear life being snuffed out...
Briers wrenched his mind away from that and focussed on his itinerary on arriving in Bucharest, who best to approach and what kind of pressure to apply. Never mind King and Country - Briers thought of Miles's smile and the sweetness of his kisses when last they parted and rage roared through him again - this was personal. Someone would pay for it, and soon.
#
The ting of the phone made him jump and he watched with impatience as the Old Man answered.
"I see. Yes, put him through." He gave his name and listened again, lips thinning then said, "Thank you. I'm sending you one of my men to help out. Please answer his questions as fully as you can." He moved the base of the phone across so Briers could reach it. "Smethwick," he said.
Briers leaned forward to take the handset. "Allerdale here," he said. "What have you got?"
The voice was crackly from their safety measures on top of the poor connections that plagued the area, but Briers could hear the regret as Smethwick said, "Sorry about young Siward, I understand you worked together a couple of times."
"Yes, we did," Briers said. "Thank you. Now what do I need to know?"
"Carey, Lady Siward's secretary, dropped them off at the hotel; she checked and saw them taking cover as she drove away. The chauffeur fell unconscious about then so she couldn't return fire and had to make a run for it. It took a couple of hours for her to win free and get back to raise the alarm."
"So I heard," Briers snapped. "And presumably you've been turning Bucharest over like a buggy mattress since then, but what happened at the hotel? Assuming someone thought to ask?"
There was a short silence as, Briers thought, Smethwick chose his response, or marshalled his facts or, heck, maybe controlled his temper. Which was fair enough because Briers was having to control his.
"I didn’t get back until close to three o’clock - I had driven the ambassador up to Brasov - and by then the trail was cold." Smethwick's voice was grim so temper it was then. "As far as we've been able to make out, about twenty minutes after Carey left with the car, a well-dressed man approached the desk asking if his mother and brother had arrived yet. The lady had spun a tale about a jealous lover so the receptionist said no. After that the receptionist spent some time dealing with guests checking in and out. That, inevitably, meant he wasn't at the desk the whole time. Someone could have slipped past and gone up to the top floor, but he's certain he'd have noticed if anyone had dragged a protesting Englishwoman through the lobby. And if he didn't, the porters would have done. One or the other was in the lobby all the time."
"Nobody heard any shots fired?"
"No, but the suite was on the top floor and the walls are thick. They could have used a suppressor."
Briers bit his lips together for a moment then asked the question he felt he had to ask. "And you're sure the body is that of Miles Siward?"
"I - I don't see how it could be anyone else. Stature's right, blond hair, dressed in Saville Row tweeds; we haven't been able to do a formal identification because His Excellency is still in Brasov, but it looks like the lad. His bag was there and had been ransacked. As I said, I'm sorry. I'll get confirmation as soon as I can get hold of Sir Clive."
"I really don’t envy you that job. Who left the hotel? Anyone who could have been Lady Siward? If she had a gun at her back and had been promised that her boy would live, she may have left under her own steam."
"That's a possibility. But there wasn't anyone. There was a large family with several children - we found them and they were all right. Two business men travelling separately - no idea where they went but - "
"Unlikely," Briers agreed. "Anyone else?"
"There was a - well, let's call her a lady, with her maid, there as a - er - guest of one of the gentlemen. We thought perhaps they were the ones until we heard that the maid was humping luggage around complaining in a genteel way about having to go to Constanta. Apparently the house there has lousy plumbing. And while she was outside nagging the porter the - er - mistress was complimenting the desk clerk on how comfortable the hotel's mattresses were. The maid had ample time to run for it, so she's out and the mistress was far too young. Also both were Romanian."
"Speaking perfect idiomatic Romanian?" Briers took a deep breath as hope twinged like the sore tooth one couldn't help but bite on. "Was the mistress a blonde with terrific legs?"
"Er, yes, the porter remarked upon them. Is she known to you? What affiliation is she?"
"And the maid said they were on their way to Constanta? So, was there a car? Or ..."
"The porter called them a cab for the railway station. But, look here Allerdale, I really don't think - "
"No, I don't expect you do. Smethwick, I suspect I do know the blonde, and in fact she's a considerable person of interest and should not be approached under any circumstances. If I'm right, Lady Siward is safe in her company for the moment. If you find them, keep tabs but don't interfere. Now I need you to go and look at that body thoroughly. If the skull is intact, I'll bet you anything you like there's no scar an inch or two over his left ear."
"A scar?" Smethwick paused as though he was making a note. "You honestly think he's alive? That he killed the man, swapped clothes with him and escaped? That half-pint clerk?"
"I thought exactly that when I first met him. Size has nothing to do with it. That half-pint clerk took a gun butt to the head in 1928 and still came round fighting."
"I thought ... I didn't know that.”
"No reason why you should. Just take my word for it that he'll do whatever it takes."
"Well, I hope to God you're right. Breaking the news to his Excellency that his son is dead as well as his wife being missing would be one of the worst experiences of my life. What time shall I expect you?"
"I'll be on the next available train," Briers said. "Can you get me some anonymous transport?"
"Can't promise anyt
hing fancy, but it'll be at the station for you to collect. I'll have a man waiting for you with the keys. What name will you be travelling under?"
"Carolans," Briers said. "See you tonight."
He set the phone back in its cradle and blew out his cheeks. "Well damn me if I don't think that maybe it's not as bad as it first appeared."
"I thought ..." the Old Man said as he moved the phone back into position, "I thought that when you worked with young Siward he was in the cipher division and did some nifty intelligence gathering for you. And some amazing stroke of luck about overhearing something on the Tube."
"And he did - does." Briers grinned. "But you'd be very surprised to see what else he can do. I'll be on my way."
On his way out of the building Briers ran a gauntlet of excited speculation from his co-workers that he brushed off with a breezy "No time - got a train to catch!" But he did pause for Bassett who knew at least a little of what was at stake.
"Good luck," Bassett said, "I hope you get to them in time. I met Lady Siward once. Lovely woman."
"Yes she is, and her son is probably perfectly capable of looking after her on his own but - "
"Nobody's so tough they can't benefit from support." Bassett grinned. "Including you. Just give me a call and I'll be there."
"I know. Where's my brief case? Thanks. Damn! You ate my pastry!"
Bassett grinned again. "You can get lunch on expenses on the train."
#
It was quicker to walk to his digs than call a cab. Besides, Briers was so on edge he doubted he would have been able to put up with Bassett's well-meaning chatter while he waited. The news from Bucharest was bad, could be the worst ever, but there was a smidgen of hope too and he really needed to concentrate on that. He strode down the street, coat billowing and trying not to swipe passers-by with his brief case, his mind fully occupied with the scenario he was constructing where Miles, somehow, persuaded his mother to act as a downtrodden maid while he unleased the full force of lovely Millie's personality on the poor desk clerk. Briers had seen it happen before. Had seen his diffident little lover blossom like a hot-house orchid. It was a lovely thing to see and even better when, chock full of energy and mischief, Miles shed Millie and turned to Briers for loving. Briers wasn't a religious man, but if prayer would do the trick he'd pray. He prayed so hard that he even forgot a couple of times to keep an eye open for tails, but at the turning for his street paused to look back and gave the shabbily dressed man with the big moustache a cheerful wave. French, he thought, from the cut of his overcoat. Not exactly an enemy but not that friendly either. It paid to keep an eye on the opposition.