by Amy Myers
‘So where does this leave us, Helen?’ Julian continued.
‘At the moment,’ she said practically, ‘gasping for coffee. Let’s go to find dear Brenda, shall we? She might shed light on the situation. You know which house is hers, Jack?’
‘Right next door to this one. Let’s go.’
Patricia and Tom Morris had set up this meeting, so were they in Elmtree House with dear Stanley Hopchurch and Victoria, or had they too been consigned to Brenda’s care? My guess was the latter and that whatever was happening between Victoria and Stanley was very private indeed.
I was proved right when we reached Brenda’s door. She opened it, looking upset, to say the least. I wondered whether she had hatched up this scheme with Victoria or whether it was a surprise thrust upon her by Victoria this morning. Brenda clearly liked being ‘in’ on everything – who doesn’t? – but as she played no part in what we were meant to be discussing with Victoria, I plumped for the latter explanation.
‘Come in,’ she said, doing a good imitation of being bright and welcoming. I introduced Julian and Helen to her and she led us through to the living room where I saw Patricia and Tom occupying exactly the same chairs as they had the last time I was here, although there was no sign of Nick. I knew they lived on the far side of Lamberhurst village, and so, I reasoned, this disastrous non-meeting could have taken place in their home as it was nearby. The fact that it was here implied that they were as much in the dark as we were. Tom wouldn’t like that, I thought. He wasn’t the sort to be outwitted by mothers-in-law. Both he and Patricia looked somewhat sheepish, as well they might, when we told them what our reception had been.
Brenda had no sooner disappeared to fetch ‘refreshments’ as she put it than the doorbell rang again. It was no reprieve from Victoria, unfortunately. It was Nick, who charged in to join his parents. He too must have been refused entry by his granny.
‘What the hell is going on?’ he demanded.
‘It’s no use blaming us, darling,’ Patricia cried shrilly. ‘We were as surprised as you were. She only allowed Major Hopchurch in. She seems to know him.’
‘She bloody well knows us too,’ Nick pointed out viciously. ‘What’s her game?’
Julian entered the arena. ‘I gather you’re Mrs Drake’s daughter, Mrs Morris. Do you know Major Hopchurch too?’ His smooth tone suggested he thought cooperation was the best line.
‘No,’ Patricia said shortly.
‘Who is this Major chap?’ Nick asked simultaneously.
‘Helen’s and my co-trustee for the car museum and rally.’ Julian’s tone suggested this would not be for much longer if it had anything to do with him. ‘You three –’ he appealed to the Morrises – ‘must have some idea of what this is all about. Is there or is there not a De Dion Bouton around here or are we on a fool’s errand?’
Tom took exception to this. ‘Ask your Major. He seems to be the only one of us in favour with its owner.’
I wouldn’t put much money on that being the case, knowing the Major. Moreover the Morrises’ visit to me had suggested they had their own game to play.
‘Brenda –’ Patricia turned a distressed (but determined) face to her – ‘you must know what’s happening. My mother merely rang to tell me the meeting was taking place here, and now we find out it’s not. What do you know about this Major and Mother’s car?’
I felt sorry for Brenda as she immediately became the target of everyone’s wrath. Even mine, however upset she looked. After all, she seemed to be on more buddy terms with Victoria than Patricia herself, but she shrank away from confrontation.
‘Nothing,’ she said forlornly. ‘Victoria just telephoned me this morning to ask if I could hold the meeting here. I didn’t know she wasn’t coming herself.’
‘But what about this De Dion?’ Tom hurled at her.
‘Very little.’ Brenda regained her dignity. ‘Only what Victoria told us when you were last here. I presume the De Dion is in her garage.’
‘It isn’t,’ Nick threw at her. ‘I checked it.’
‘What one might call a spoke in our De Dion wheels,’ Helen said, perhaps intending to lighten the mood but unsuccessfully.
‘Do none of you have any thoughts on where the car might be?’ I asked, reckoning that Victoria Drake had forfeited any claim to any consideration.
There was a general shaking of heads. Julian sighed. ‘Are we all agreed that we want to know more about her De Dion, and if it claims to be one of the original 1907 rally cars, whether there is documentation. Also can Mrs Drake be persuaded to allow the car to be shown at the rally?’
A general nodding of heads this time.
‘Driven at the rally,’ Nick amended.
‘It’s only fair that such an important car should be seen and admired,’ Patricia said piously. ‘It’s doing no good locked up in storage.’
Julian was clearly pent-up with frustration. I could see his problem. The De Dion might not only need registration and perhaps more restoration to get it ready for the rally but also its presence had to be prearranged for maximum publicity. The cash raised for Treasure Island would be multiplied if the event were thus catapulted into a different class. On the other hand, too much publicity might drive its price up to a point where it would ruin him financially even if Victoria agreed to sell it to him. His best chance lay in persuading her to sell it to him before the rally – but looking at the Morrises, it was obvious that the chances of that would be nil. Collectors have single-track minds, however, and Julian might not see it that way. Thanks to the Mad Major, his chances of buying it now would seem to be rapidly evaporating. As, it occurred to me, were the chances of my getting paid for my work. That was a side issue at the moment, but it would become painfully central shortly.
‘Shall I ring Victoria?’ Brenda asked, not very enthusiastically ‘She might be ready to see you all now.’
‘I’ll ring.’ Patricia strode purposefully to the telephone, but I had little hope that she would be successful. ‘Voicemail,’ she announced in tones of doom. ‘I’m going round there to put an end to this pantomime.’
It was indeed a pantomime, and one in which I felt wolves might be running around in sheep’s clothing. Someone in this room must know what was going on, but for the life of me I couldn’t decide who, although I noticed that Patricia made no signs of leaving us.
‘Look behind you,’ Helen cried out of the blue, in true pantomime style. She was the only one of us to be facing the window which gave a view of the road.
The urgency in her voice made us all swing round and I was just in time to see a familiar car flash past – with two passengers, not one. Victoria and Stanley were on their way out in his Bentley, on which we were relying to transport us back to Frogs Hill and Harford Lee.
We gave it well over an hour to see if they would return. We adjourned to Brenda’s garden, while she fussed over us, pressing more coffee and biscuits upon us and lamenting that she didn’t understand what was happening. Join the club, I thought. All speculation about what Stanley’s role might be ground to a halt for want of answers until eventually, with no Bentley in sight, I said wearily:
‘Taxi anyone?’
I offered Julian and Helen a belated lunch at the local inn in Piper’s Green if they wanted to break their journey. Neither accepted. Helen with regret as it was a working day and Julian without it. He was a man with a mission, a man who made it clear that whatever Stanley’s game was, it was he and not Julian who would be responsible for paying my fees. I decided I would not be joining Julian’s fan club. Collectors are usually the most affable of people, but occasionally something goes wrong and then they are capable – although fortunately they don’t often pursue it – of becoming single-minded dictators to whom the whole world has to make way while they storm their path to the desired object, be it classic car, woman or the Third Reich.
Helen managed to indicate privately, however – and much to my pleasure – that she would be meeting me that evening for our
date. The taxi dropped me at the pub before it continued to Harford Lee and after a quick sandwich I walked back to Frogs Hill which helped clear my mind. It’s a couple of miles (not as the crow flies) because of the winding lanes and it’s possible out there on the slopes of the Greensand Ridge to feel so far away from the cares of the world that problems float away and turn into wispy clouds which frisk in the blue sky and sunshine as though there wasn’t a care left in the world, not even mine.
Today it didn’t quite manage that, even though I fixed my thoughts on the evening ahead of me. The reason was a new niggle that I was not in control of the Stanley situation. I’d been outmanoeuvred by the Mad Major but hadn’t a clue why. That had to change, not only for my sake but for Doris’s. Until I proved that Alf’s death was nothing other than an accident and that the De Dion Bouton was not connected to it, I was going to assume it was and that Doris had to see justice done.
My back straightened, my pace quickened and my brow lightened. I merely needed a plan of attack. Stanley would be the first line to tackle, and the second would be Dean Warren.
I’m usually in my car when I approach Frogs Hill and so my arrival is heralded by the crunchy gravel. Today it wasn’t. My footsteps crunched but not loudly enough to disturb what was going on in the Pits. I stopped in disbelief, arrested by the racket. It was Len doing the shouting, but a Len I’d never known before, not the taciturn, easy-going mechanic who was a part of my life. Crusty he might be, but not out of control as he was now.
‘Eynsford?’ I heard. ‘Your job’s here, my girl. You can’t just stroll in and say you’ve been helping at that nancy-boy’s—’
There followed a cry of indignation, then a concentrated response from Zoe. I couldn’t distinguish the words but in any case it was disregarded. Then came another tirade from Len.
‘Leaving?’ he said in a relatively normal voice. Then an explosion: ‘Leaving? Who said you could leave? There’s that Porsche coming in, and a Delage after that. And you want to leave! What do you think you are? A fully-grown frog? A toad? You’re a tadpole, that’s what you are. You don’t know a thing yet. You were shaping up, true enough, but you think you know it all. Well, you don’t. You won’t know it all until you’re sixty. And then you can f— leave.’ There were other words too that I’d never heard from Len’s lips before.
I could make out Zoe’s next response. It was in the form of those well-known words: ‘He needs me more than you do.’
He being Dean, I presumed. She must be shaken to fall back on that line. I saw her as she marched out, two angry red spots for cheeks. She stopped when she saw me.
‘I’m going, Jack. Right now.’
Take care, I warned myself. ‘You can’t do that,’ I said mildly. ‘You signed a contract that says I’m due a month’s notice. You could at least fix the Porsche before you leave.’
A glare was all I got for my pain. ‘I’m going now. I’ll pay you a month’s wages.’
‘OK,’ I said, meaning it to sound as if it was no great thing.
She looked taken aback, hesitated, then marched in high dudgeon to her Fiesta, got in, slammed the door and started it up – or rather tried to. The second attempt didn’t work either. The third time it did, but it spoiled the dramatic exit. She drove off without a backward glance.
I groaned, and went straight into the Pits where Len was pretending to polish the bonnet of a Triumph. I noticed his hands were trembling. ‘Sorry, Jack,’ he mumbled. ‘Got to me. Alf and all that. Not helping.’
‘Len,’ I said. ‘I’d have done the same in your shoes and if I had your guts. She’s got to learn. She’s only a kid.’ I could imagine what Zoe would have said if she’d heard this. She’s in her mid-twenties. I had to get Len back on his emotional feet, however, both for his sake and for mine.
‘Yup.’ He cheered up a little. ‘What next, boss? Advertise?’
‘You’re joking.’
He nodded. There would be no replacing Zoe easily, if at all. ‘What then?’
‘Len,’ I said, ‘we’ve got to get her back and there’s only one way.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Rob Lane.’
Rob and I have never seen eye to eye. I see him as a time-waster, he sees me as a hysterical car buff who prefers not to have him lumbering around my priceless classics – and preferably not around Zoe either. But, due to his upper-class connections, he can on occasion prove useful, and on this occasion could be vital.
Before I could sort out that problem, however, news awaited me at the farmhouse. A missed call from one of my contacts. No message left, which was a good sign. It meant he had something important to tell me and didn’t want me ringing back at an awkward time.
So I rang him. He didn’t sound too pleased, but I knew this was a second line that he kept for such purposes. He operates in south London and he’d like to keep it that way, so low profiles are mandatory.
‘Toerag,’ he greeted me less than cordially, as he read my number.
‘Sorry, wrong number.’ I paused, ready to hang up if he didn’t respond.
‘OK. That car you’re thinking of buying . . .’
‘News of one?’
‘You’ll have to get your skates on. The bidding’s hotting up. International interest. Chris Mord is definitely in the picture.’
That was a no-brainer. Chris Mord would equal Connor Meyton. ‘In or only sniffing?’ I asked.
‘Has some kind of stake in it. Like a vampire. A laugh a minute is Mr Lord.’
I wasn’t laughing. Judging by Bob Orton’s information, he might not be working alone. ‘Michael Smart too?’ I asked, keeping rigidly to his code.
A pause. ‘Really wouldn’t go there. Think babbling brooks, Jack.’
‘Thanks. I’ll do that.’ So I would if I could work out what he meant. Was I to babble? Was his source babbling? Was Connor Meyton babbling? Mick Smith? International? No way could I keep out of it, however. Even if the Major’s money had a question mark over it, I had to go on because of Dave’s commission. Anyway, I could handle Connor Meyton. Couldn’t I?
When Helen arrived for dinner I decided to play by the gentlemen’s rule book and arranged to meet her at the Dering Arms in Pluckley. It’s a handsome 1840s hunting lodge, set some way from the village centre and next to the railway station. I hadn’t the heart to spoil such an occasion with work but I reasoned that as we both had it on our minds, it didn’t make sense to ignore it. Even so on a summer’s evening with birds twittering away, not computers, and good food and drink before us, work talk was somewhat delayed.
Then it began. ‘Did Stanley turn up at Treasure Island?’ I asked her. ‘Did he ring you or Julian?’
‘Not to my knowledge. I saw no sign of him and if he came to see Julian he’s keeping very quiet about it. I don’t think he did though. Julian’s bent on a showdown tomorrow. He’s seriously outraged. He wants me there, so it’s official stuff.’
‘Can I officially know about this meeting?’ I meant, as she must have realized, did Julian know where she was this evening?
She smiled and the world was a happier place. ‘I keep work and private life apart.’
‘And I’m the latter? That’s a compliment.’
She put out a hand which I took in the spirit it was probably meant, a ‘we’ll see’ gesture.
‘I think you should be present tomorrow, Jack, if you can make it. There’s something going on and I don’t understand what it is. It must affect the rally, and if there’s the slightest chance this is tied up with Alf’s death you should be there. Stanley can’t back out of attending, but unless he has a reasonable explanation for this morning’s caper it could be we’ll be chucking him out as a trustee.’
‘Julian and the Major do realize I’m working for the police? That can sometimes put a barrier on plain speaking.’
‘They do, but there won’t be any barriers while I’m around. I need to know the truth, and your presence will be a plus.’
I hoped for h
er sake that was true, but we resumed more personal chat. Dusk was beginning to fall and the last of the commuters were scurrying or driving by from the railway station. It was a peaceful scene and a glorious evening.
‘That was a wonderful meal,’ she said at last.
Even more enjoyable for me was the walk we took afterwards along the lane and across the fields on the Greensand Way link route. I put my arm round her and it felt good.
‘I’d like to see Frogs Hill,’ she said. ‘I only glimpsed it this morning.’
‘Now?’ I tried not to sound too hopeful.
‘Yes, if you’re willing, but . . .’
‘Then you’ll drive home,’ I finished for her.
‘Thanks for making it easy for me, Jack.’
‘Another rain check?’
‘Yes. Shall I still come to Frogs Hill?’
‘I do a good line in coffee for the road.’
‘Done.’
I served her the coffee, I showed her round the farmhouse and as much as could be seen of the garden in the dark. She looked at the old books on my bookshelves and the chipped Staffordshire figures with which I’d grown up. She liked Frogs Hill and it liked her. She looked at home there and for a while Louise tiptoed out of my life.
‘Didn’t you mention something called the Glory Boot?’ she asked.
‘I’ll save that.’
‘For next time?’
I drove over to Harford Lee the next day trying hard to be optimistic. Very hard. After all, the Major had been concealing something from us all, and so could hardly be relied on to put us in the picture now. On the other hand, yesterday’s fiasco might not carry sinister implications. Something quite simple could have caused it, such as . . . I could think of nothing. At the very least we had been the victims of – in the words of the Sheriff in Cool Hand Luke – a failure to communicate.
I thought at first the Major was going to be a no-show. We were sitting in Julian’s Cobba House study fidgeting, none of us liking to voice fears that he might not arrive. I’d thought Julian might object to my presence, but he seemed to be regarding it as useful ammunition.