by Amy Myers
‘Sorry,’ I said firmly. ‘Conflict of interest.’ It struck me I might already have one if the Mad Major’s commission and Dave’s met face to face.
Patricia looked indignant. ‘We only want you to find out where it is.’
‘It’s no use, Mum,’ Nick said disgustedly. ‘You’re wasting your breath.’
And my time. I grabbed what was left of the situation. ‘Not entirely. As I told Mrs Drake, if her De Dion could be proved to be the actual 1907 car its value is going to shoot up. But she would need to prove its provenance. Your mother said she inherited it through her family, so could you tell me whether there’s any documentary evidence?’
‘I thought we made that clear already. We’ve only just found out about this car,’ Tom said angrily.
Patricia confirmed this. ‘I heard nothing about it as I was growing up. After my stepfather died a few years ago Mum did say something about restoring an old wreck he owned but we heard nothing more. We only moved to Lamberhurst three years ago so we weren’t seeing her on a daily basis. Nick’s the car addict in the family.’ She looked adoringly at her thickset bullish son. ‘He’s dotty about them. My mother only told us that this old car was a De Dion after she’d read the newspaper article. Then you came to see us. We’ve asked her to tell us more but she says she doesn’t know anything more.’
Asked her? More probably pestered her, I thought. ‘So first her line was that it belonged to your stepfather, but now that it was inherited through her family, which seems more likely.’
‘Or perhaps it actually belongs to my real father, Robert Fairhill,’ Patricia said gloomily. ‘He likes cars.’
‘Is it possible it was his?’ I asked.
‘I suppose so. I never met him. He was – well, a bit of a rascal, so my mother says. He lives in the States somewhere and she’s not in regular touch with him, only if he comes over here. If it belongs to him, that could be why she’s so funny about it.’
Possible, but it sounded like another false avenue to me. If it really did belong to him, why not tell us? It would be the perfect answer. Orton said the rumour had always been that it was in the south of England somewhere, as the current rumour also suggested. That tied in better with Victoria’s ownership than with a far-off former husband. Inherited from her mother who inherited from hers. She would not have to keep the car’s whereabouts and existence so secret if it belonged to someone else who clearly didn’t care a damn about it.
‘Has your mother given you any idea about where it’s been all these years?’ I asked.
Tom looked at me with great satisfaction. ‘You can hardly expect us to tell you, in view of the fact you’ve turned us down, Colby.’
I’d dug a pit and jumped inside it, I thought ruefully, as they left Frogs Hill in virtuous triumph. Then I consoled myself. I had one lead at least left. All roads – including Connor Meyton – seemed to meet at Alfred King.
It was too late to drive to Harford Lee by that time, but I dutifully rang the Mad Major instead. There was no answer, and I had no mobile number for him, and so with my conscience now clear I rang Helen. I thought her voice sounded a trifle frosty, but the phone can do weird things to voices, so I didn’t take much notice. She told me there was a trustees’ meeting that evening and I should come over right away to give a progress report to them all before the meeting began. It was to be held at Julian’s home, Cobba House.
‘Dinner after the meeting?’ I ventured. ‘I could hang around till it’s over.’
‘Thank you, no. Things to do – and I’m sure you’re busy,’ she added as a Parthian shot. I hadn’t realized there were any Parthians about, so it took me by surprise. I clearly had not imagined the frost.
All in all, I was not in a jolly mood as I drove over to Treasure Island, even though Helen lay at the end of it. A sort of Helen of Troy as a reward if I fought the Trojan Wars first. Worth it? Yes, even though I had an increasing feeling that with both my commissions I was playing a different game to everyone else on the board. What’s more, I was not even sure what the game was and there might well be invisible players in it. Then I remembered the cemetery of forgotten cars and cheered up. Pompeii and Herculaneum were surely worth fighting for and if the De Dion could play a part in the resurrection all the better.
Cobba House was a surprise, even though I was disappointed not to catch a glimpse of the Iso Rivolta I had coveted, only of a four-by-four Range Rover. For an obviously comfortably off man, he lived modestly. It had been his family home, I imagined, from the number of photographs and sporting awards I passed on my way through it, not all of them featuring cars. I was ushered outside to a terrace with steps down to a lush green, a scene so 1920s that I expected someone to bound up crying, ‘Anyone for tennis?’
No one did. Instead, three pairs of accusing eyes stared at me. The Major’s, Julian’s and Helen’s. She looked gorgeous and summery in plain cream trousers and jacket which set off that auburn hair magnificently. While I was appreciating the view, she began the assault. I wasn’t even offered a drink, although glasses and bottles adorned the table in front of us.
‘Your girlfriend tells us you’ve seen the De Dion and know where it’s kept, Jack. We’d like to know why we weren’t told.’
In the face of disaster, tell the truth. ‘Because I haven’t seen it and don’t know where it’s kept, but I do know who the owner is. I’ve come here to tell you. Secondly—’
‘That’s not what your girlfriend claims,’ she interrupted.
‘Secondly,’ I continued doggedly – but then did a double take. ‘What girlfriend? I don’t currently have one.’ Louise’s image popped up before me and was dismissed.
‘We’ve met her,’ Helen almost snarled. ‘Blondish, sharp-featured—’
‘Pen?’ I exploded. ‘Pen Roxton is a journalist. She is not and never has been my girlfriend.’
‘She says she is.’
‘She’s a journalist,’ I said wearily. ‘Of course she would. She wants a passport to you.’
Helen looked less certain. ‘When she came to see Treasure Island yesterday, she said you gave her the story about the De Dion.’
‘Not guilty. The only thing I gave her was hell when I read it. I’ve known Pen for years and as a girlfriend never. She’s a career lady through and through. Actually,’ I explained, ‘that story might not be all bad for us, and I’ve agreed to give her severely limited help. It might bring the De Dion to light.’
‘Or drive it underground,’ Julian said nastily. ‘If someone snaps it up, it will be down to you, Colby.’
‘Not me. The owner.’
Then it was the Major’s turn to give me a bad time. ‘That’s it,’ he roared. ‘I want to meet her.’
I noted that. ‘At the right time, I agree, but—’
‘That’s now,’ he interrupted again, banging the table. ‘We’re paying your wages.’
‘And I’m doing the job.’
That stopped him in his tracks, and I saw I’d won a reprieve.
Then Julian took over. ‘What’s your next step, Jack? If this De Dion is the real thing I don’t intend to lose my chance of getting it. The rally is only three months away now, and if we stand any chance of getting that car we need to advertise the fact in plenty of time. Helen’s done a great job on the organizational side, but the charity appeal needs to be integrated with it. We can’t wait much longer to know if the De Dion is going to part of it.’
‘What’s the support from the car clubs like so far?’ I asked.
‘Not bad. We’ve volunteers aplenty, beforehand and for the three days of the event. We’re holding the finale of the rally here, rather than in Canterbury as originally planned, so that we can give everyone a tour of Treasure Island. So we all – especially you, Jack – need to get our skates on. How’s the situation looking?’
‘Bad, at present. The owner’s a Mrs Victoria Drake and so far she’s refused point-blank to cooperate.’
‘Why?’ the Major yelled.
&
nbsp; ‘Not known. There’s a suggestion mooted that she might relent if the De Dion was actually driven in the rally and by her grandson Nick.’
‘Did she say that?’ Julian’s eyes lit up.
‘No. Unfortunately that’s only her daughter’s idea.’
‘Still, it’s not a bad idea,’ the Major said, surprising me.
‘One reason Mrs Drake is holding back may be that she can’t prove the De Dion is one of the original two competitors.’
‘Did she say that?’ the Mad Major barked out. He was on the edge of his seat, and in what my mother would have called a ‘paddy’.
‘No. She gave no reasons for her decision.’
‘Then let her explain it to us face to face.’
I tried logic. ‘If she won’t tell her own daughter and grandson, she isn’t likely to tell us, is she?’
Julian stared at me like King Midas seeing his hoard of gold vanishing before his eyes. ‘If this De Dion of hers is the real McCoy I’m going for it. What are the chances as to her being able to prove its identity?’
‘I’ve never been a betting man,’ I said wearily. ‘You must know as well as I do that both the De Dions that took part in the original race have vanished, perhaps because they were scrapped or passed on to owners who left no record of what jewels they had possessed. The last mention of either of them as far as I can trace is that one of them was shown at the London Olympia Motor Show in 1907. It was mentioned in The Times report and also in the show catalogue on the De Dion Company London office’s advertisement. It’s possible that the other De Dion might have been exhibited at the Paris Motor Show the same year, because it was held at virtually the same time as Olympia. But this is only my speculation.’
The Mad Major was glaring at me impatiently as though any fool should know that Victoria Drake’s car was the real one, but how could it possibly be identifiable without good provenance? Julian was looking equally annoyed with me and Helen looked warily contrite – if such a complex expression would be correctly interpreted. It might have been wishful thinking on my part.
As was the De Dion’s on Julian’s. ‘We’ve got to move now, Jack,’ he urged.
‘Ring the woman up right now, Julian,’ the Major demanded. ‘What’s the number, Colby?’
I could see this plan going down like a ton of bricks with Victoria Drake. ‘Not a good idea,’ I said firmly. ‘I’ve met the lady and I can guarantee that you won’t see the De Dion for love or money if you follow that approach. Leave it to me. I’ll ring her daughter, Patricia Morris, in the hope that she can arrange for us all to go over, and I’ll dangle the carrot of Nick Morris driving it. Then you can put your own case.’
They looked at each other. The Major was still for immediate (if disastrous) action, but Julian and Helen decided in my favour. I rang Patricia right away, wondering what I would do if she refused. She did at first, but a hurried conversation with her hand over the mouthpiece, presumably to converse with Tom or Nick, settled the matter. They would approach Victoria, provided we guaranteed Nick’s role as driver.
‘Why don’t we just go over there and see the woman?’ the Major muttered.
‘Because she might be out,’ I explained patiently. ‘And three strangers and a man she’s already turned down arriving unannounced are not going to be conducive to diplomatic negotiation.’
‘He’s right, Stanley,’ Julian agreed, though I could see it was with reluctance.
Helen came out to the car with me to see me off – I hoped not just because she wanted to be sure I was off the premises. ‘I’m sorry, Jack,’ she said. ‘I really thought you and that journalist had something going between you.’
‘Not much of a compliment to me.’
She giggled. ‘I thought she might have a gentler side.’
‘Don’t bank on it. What you can bank on is that she and I don’t have anything between us but history and most of it bad.’
‘Anyone else around in your life?’ she asked, taking our relationship a quantum leap forward.
‘Not now. And you?’
‘Not now. One divorce. A couple of false starts.’
‘Me too in all respects. Par for the course, I suppose.’
‘A rocky one.’ She hesitated. ‘Can I take up the dinner offer?’
‘Tonight?’
She grinned. ‘I really have got something on. Julian’s cooking for the three of us after the meeting.’
We fixed on Thursday evening. ‘It will be more relaxed,’ she said.
Only two days to wait.
The day was certainly coming up roses now, late though it was and despite the fact that I had a nagging feeling I was missing a trick somewhere. Furthermore, with all the emphasis on the De Dion I seemed to be getting too far away from Alf’s death. The next morning, however, the roses continued. I had a call from Patricia to say that Victoria was willing – or rather, had agreed – to meet the trustees (and even me) on the Thursday morning if that was acceptable. A few phone calls and the deal was done. One drawback, however. Not to my surprise, Patricia made it clear that she and Tom would be present – and so would grandson Nick. It seemed to me that where money was concerned the Morrises had their engines racing. Not that I could blame them for that. I know what money pressures are like, and Tom, being redundant at his age, must be facing an uncertain future.
The meeting looked promising, and the Major had insisted on making the visit in style. Having demanded to know where the lady lived, he informed us that he would bring Julian and Helen over in his Bentley and pick me up at Frogs Hill en route for Lamberhurst. That suited me, although I was puzzled that he was surpassing even Julian’s eagerness.
The speed at which the Mad Major drove made me realize how he might have got his nickname. I had joined Helen in the rear seat, and just to sense her so close greatly pleased me. I wanted to hug her, she looked so delicious. Business trip, I reminded myself, but nevertheless when the Major took a hairpin too fast and Helen was thrown against me despite the seat belt, she didn’t rush to right herself and the proximity and the fragrance of her hair were intoxicating. I began to ache with pleasure at the thought of our dinner later that day. A cunning plan popped into my head whereby on our return to Frogs Hill the Major could just leave her at the farmhouse and I would offer to drive her home later (or not as the occasion presented itself). I decided not to do anything so crass, however, and told the plan to get lost.
I was so full of thoughts about Helen that I nearly forgot to navigate the Major to Shoulder Mutton Green. I remembered just in time and the Major hunched over the wheel as though he was making for the finishing line at Brands Hatch. As he made a swift turn into the gateway of Victoria’s home, I began to say something but he had parked and leapt out of the car before I’d even undone my seat belt. Without waiting to see if Helen, Julian and I were with him or not (we were close behind) he simply marched straight up to the front door. This not only had an electric bell but a handbell dangling on a rope and it was the latter that the Major decided fitted his purpose. We heard its defiant clang echoing through the house as we stood behind him.
The door opened and there was Victoria. She didn’t so much as glance at the rest of us. Her eyes were fixed on the Mad Major. And then she delivered her punch line:
‘Good morning, Stanley.’
SIX
Good morning, Stanley?
Not only did Victoria Drake know the Major, but she wasn’t surprised to see him. I knew now what had caused the niggle in my mind. The Major had known the owner was a woman before I had mentioned her name.
Julian and Helen looked as flabbergasted as I must have done. We were left like first-class chumps standing on the doorstep of a woman in control of a situation we didn’t know existed. How, when and why did I let the matter reach this point without realizing that the Major himself was an unknown quantity?
Time for further reflection later. Right now – action.
Victoria had stepped to one side to allow the Major to e
nter since he was nearest to her. Helen made to follow him but Victoria had blocked her way before she could do so. Entry was barred.
‘Not you,’ she said to Helen, impassively. ‘Nor you—’ Victoria gave a cursory glance at Julian and me. ‘Go to Brenda’s house. She’s expecting you.’
And with that the door was shut in our faces.
A memory of the Pied Piper of Hamlyn story came crazily into my mind. The mountain door slammed shut before the poor village boy could limp through it, but everyone else was safely inside. Victoria was less generous. One had been allowed in, the rest shut out. Forget Pied Pipers, think today, I told myself, as we retreated to lick our wounds. We reached the gateway before Julian stopped, white with anger.
‘Just what is going on here? Have you any idea, Jack?’ There was an accusing note in his voice as if I’d deliberately set up this situation.
‘Not a clue. You, Helen?’ I was trying to make sense of it. Was it coincidence that Victoria hadn’t looked surprised to see him? Had she merely heard about him or did it mean the Mad Major had been in collusion with her all along? If so, why commission me to find the De Dion and its owner?
Helen shook her head, and I could see she was too shaken to speak. I was in little better shape than she was. I could feel myself trembling and it takes a lot for that to happen. It just goes to show that the unexpected is a powerful weapon, be it a sniper’s shot or a slammed door.
I needed to be clear where I stood – apart from at a gateway in severe need of paint. ‘Did either of you have the slightest idea that Major Hopchurch knew Victoria Drake?’ I asked.
‘No,’ Helen said. ‘Did you, Julian?’
‘I did not, and believe me I’m going to find out why. You told us the woman’s name on Tuesday, Jack. Has he jumped the gun and been over here already?’
‘He didn’t know her address.’
‘He could have discovered it. You did.’
I admitted that was true – indeed I hoped it was. If it wasn’t, then there were deeper, perhaps darker, implications.