by Amy Myers
‘I’m terrified.’
Enough backchat. ‘Planning any more arson attacks?’ I asked casually.
He pursed his lips. ‘Just here to safeguard my interests, Jack.’
‘One of which is the De Dion. Any others?’
‘My interest lies in those who can’t keep their avaricious paws away from it.’
He said this with such an agreeable smile that I thought it was a joke and that I could have been misjudging the snake. After all, I had no proof he had killed Alf, no proof he had killed Mick Smith (or arranged either of their deaths), nor any proof he had killed Victoria Drake. No proof either that he had set up the fire at Julian’s home. And yet he was always there with an avowed mission, true or false. Against whom? I didn’t know the answer. What was clear was that he still had some mission to fulfil and that the De Dion was involved.
One interested party strolled up to join us: the Mad Major, in colonial hat and hunting gear for some reason. He peered curiously at Meyton. ‘Good to see you here,’ he said patronizingly. ‘What are you driving, or are you a sponsor? All in a good cause, eh?’
‘Tiger, no, and yes,’ Connor said briefly.
The Major was not deterred. ‘Nice little Sunbeam, eh? Had one myself once. Not too good in the snow.’
‘And you have a Bentley,’ Connor replied to the Major’s surprise. ‘Do look after your charges, both of you. We’re off to the Gobi Desert now, and I seem to remember a spot of trouble there in 1907. The Contal died, didn’t it?’
Perhaps I was getting paranoid but that seemed to convey a message. If so, who was target number one? I began to feel up against a Great Wall of China myself. That was the next high point of the 1907 rally, the entry point to the plains and deserts of Mongolia. Unfortunately Kent couldn’t provide a Great Wall, so we had to make do with the landmark of Saltwood Castle, the Martello tower and the Royal Military Canal in the way of protection. What lay ahead of us now was the network of lanes that would have confused Genghis Khan and given William the Conqueror cause to blink if they’d been there when he was choosing his landing place for invasion.
While the main rally route went through Romney and Walland Marshes, we in Charlie would be on the coast road, and then drive to ‘Udde’ (otherwise known as Lydd) where we would hope to rendezvous with as many of the rally cars as had not already lost their way. We would then give the De Dion another outing under her own steam (or rather her ten h.p. engine) driving along past Camber Sands and on to Rye. Even though we weren’t in the lanes, this was wonderful countryside with the sea on one side of us and only sheep on the other.
We stopped on the seafront ready to unload our precious burden, and without much traffic passing were able to eat sandwiches on the dunes without worrying about the De Dion being spirited away. It was the holiday season and there were plenty of holidaymakers about but the dunes gave us an illusion of privacy. The calling seagulls and the miles of flat sands made this an eerie experience though, and I was glad to be with my staunch team. Reasonably staunch, anyway, given Zoe’s recent defection. I remembered Meyton talking of the 1907 Contal whose driver Auguste Pons had to abandon it in the desert, along with his dreams of glory. Perhaps the tricar was still there. Who would know given that wild and remote place? Camber Sands was quite creepy enough for me but I had no intention of abandoning myself or the De Dion here.
‘Connor Meyton,’ Zoe said out of the blue, increasing my goose pimples. ‘He asked me if I’d seen Dean.’
‘What did you say?’ I asked warily.
‘The truth. That I hadn’t. He just smiled and said that if I did, I should give him his regards.’ She looked worried. ‘Jack, you haven’t seen Dean round here, have you?’
‘Not so far. But if not, what’s Meyton doing here?’
‘Enjoying the rally?’ Len muttered.
‘He hasn’t been following us, has he, Len?’
‘No. Shook him off way back.’
Not exactly cheery news and this did not bode well. With the wind blowing sand in our faces this was beginning to feel uncomfortably like a real desert.
Rye, our stopping place for the night, was temporarily ‘Urga’, a holy city in Mongolia devoted to Lamas (the priests not the animals) and to quiet contemplation. Somehow I did not think Rye, lovely though it is, was going to prove like that tonight. Our hotel was on its outskirts, and I hoped offered somewhat better accommodation than that offered to the original competitors.
Not everyone on the rally was staying overnight, some preferring to return home, but forty or so, plus passengers, were present to grace the occasion. The afternoon was free for those who wanted to explore Rye. For those who preferred to admire the cars, there was a special team keeping an eye on them in the hotel car park. Rye is unique, a town perched on a hill, reeking of the past, part of which was its devotion to smuggling. Now it is so civilized I wondered what I was worrying about.
It continued civilized for a while. The Major and Julian were dinner jacketed, as were many of the other guests at the bar before dinner. Helen shimmered in a gold evening dress, and Brenda and the Morrises came to join us – albeit not together. It could have been any normal social gathering.
It didn’t take long, however, before I was proved wrong. I was enjoying talking to Helen, until Connor made his suave entrance, like something out of a James Bond film only not so friendly. He looked round, saw me, nodded, turned away and bought himself a drink. I relaxed – but too soon.
He came straight up to me. ‘Is that De Dion safe?’ he asked.
‘Of course,’ I said dismissively. Brenda looked somewhat surprised, but I realized that to her Meyton was a stranger. I introduced them all, watching to see if Nick in particular betrayed any signs of recognition, but he merely looked bored and Meyton inscrutable.
‘Hoping to keep it that way?’ he then asked Brenda chattily.
I was about to gallop to the rescue, but it wasn’t necessary. ‘I’m not sure how it concerns you,’ she informed him, ‘but I am indeed. I shall be taking it into my own care after the rally finishes. I plan to take it to France. It will, I am sure, be far safer there.’
From the looks on everyone’s faces, I could see this was as new to them as it was to me. The Major was first to recover, bristling with fury. ‘Ownership still under discussion, Mrs Carlyle.’
‘You have to prove ownership, Major,’ Brenda said kindly, as to a child. ‘I have the executor’s consent to do it, and I shall.’
This was one purposeful lady, I thought, although I simply could not believe that Benson & Hawkes would allow such a thing before probate was granted on the bequest and with the ownership issue not settled.
Nor could Nick Morris. ‘Make sure you bequeath it to Mum when you pop off,’ he said sweetly.
‘I shall leave it where I choose. To my husband probably.’
‘He died ten years ago.’ Nick thought this very funny.
‘I am to remarry,’ Brenda informed him, pink in the face, ‘and if I don’t—’
‘She’ll flog it,’ Tom interrupted.
Patricia burst into tears. ‘That’s all you want it for, isn’t it, Brenda? All this stuff about Mummy wanting it to go to France. Nonsense. You’ve already lined up a buyer, haven’t you?’
‘I shall not sell it,’ Brenda shouted, goaded.
Connor nodded approvingly. ‘A wise choice,’ he said quietly. ‘It won’t be worth what you think. Either Mr King or Mrs Drake did explain to you that it couldn’t be the original rally car, didn’t they?’
FOURTEEN
I didn’t take Connor seriously – at first. Then it dawned on me that he was taking himself very seriously. At the very least he was announcing he was a major player in this chess game. I noticed that he had materialized just after Dave had left for home, as though Connor was pointing out that I had no direct power in my police work. He had carefully timed this bombshell. Although the authenticity of the De Dion was not strictly relevant for me, it most certainly was for Juli
an, the Major, Brenda and the Morrises, and their faces reflected the shock Meyton’s declaration had given them, especially as it had been so confidently delivered.
Brenda gathered her wits first. ‘How on earth would you know – and who are you?’
A mistake to treat Meyton with scorn. He would be fully prepared.
He ignored the latter question. ‘I base it on Mr King’s records of his restoration of the car. There was a note that from the car’s condition he could not agree that this was one of the two 1907 De Dion participants. Dean Warren would confirm to you that it is in Mr King’s handwriting.’
‘Where are these records?’ I enquired politely.
‘In my possession.’
There was no use in pointing out that they belonged to Doris. In any case Brenda spoke before I could. ‘They are irrelevant – whoever you are. Benson & Hawkes and Major Hopchurch’s solicitors have ample proof that Mr King was not correct.’
The Major galloped to her support. ‘She’s right, sir. I don’t know what business it is of yours, but we can do without your damnfool interference.’
For once the Morrises, even Tom, looked out of their depth. The show had moved on so far and fast that all Nick could manage was: ‘Of course it’s the real car. Been in our family since the year dot.’
Then Brenda weighed in again. ‘I should point out that if this story were to be spread the laws of defamation come into play.’
Connor was unmoved. ‘A car cannot be defamed.’
‘Its owners can,’ she whipped back. ‘We know it to be genuine and malicious statements do harm to reputations.’
‘Truth is the ultimate defence,’ he murmured.
I could see the Major at explosion point, so it was time I took over. I had to deal with the snake without its head shooting back to bite me. ‘Did Alfred King specify what exactly he thought wrong with the car’s condition? Or are you saving that for the press?’
‘Certainly I’ll tell you, Jack.’
I cursed myself. He’d been waiting for this opportunity to show how chummy he and I were. It’s called splitting the opposition.
‘Firstly,’ he continued, ‘there was no sign that a reserve tank had been carried – as the 1907 rally car had. Secondly, the French registration plate is missing. The car in question had been registered at some point from the evidence on the car, but Mr King could find no proof of what number that was. Odd, don’t you think, if one wanted to claim that this was the genuine article?’
‘Not so odd,’ I whipped back at him. ‘The car was taken to England, no doubt with a plan to register it here, and there was little thought for its future value. The French plate was removed, but for whatever reason it never did get registered here. Alternatively, the plate could have fallen off if the car remained off-road. Everything degenerates without care.’
‘That is true,’ Connor said sagely. ‘Unfortunately there is more. Alf was a keen enthusiast about the Peking to Paris rally, and Mrs Drake must have brought him her documentation to study. Mr King refers to a report to the De Dion Company written by a Dunkirk garage mechanic stating that the car could not be repaired after severe damage at the docks; also a letter from De Dion authorizing the wreck’s disposal. He also mentions a subsequent bill of sale to Miss Florence Manning from a car agency in Dunkirk.’
‘What about it?’ growled the Major.
‘The car that Mr King examined, so he noted, showed no signs of the extensive damage the original car had suffered at the Dunkirk docks. The chassis in particular did not seem to have suffered greatly.’
A silence even from me. This had the ring of truth and I could have kicked myself for not looking more carefully at the Major’s documentation. I had concentrated on those dratted bills of sale, of which one at least was undoubtedly faked.
‘Are we supposed to take your word for this – based solely on the jottings of an elderly man?’ Brenda said haughtily.
‘Not at all. You’re at liberty to refute it as I am to spread the story.’
Storm clouds ahead. ‘Documents exaggerating damage,’ I intervened, ‘do not necessarily mean that the car isn’t what it’s claimed to be, merely that its origin has been concealed.’
‘Jack, clutch at your beanstalk if you wish.’ Connor beamed. ‘But at the top you will find a giant called Reality.’
‘You surely won’t give the story to the press now?’ Brenda’s bravado vanished. ‘Without proof?’
‘I haven’t yet decided,’ Connor said. ‘I do feel for the sake of truth that the press should be warned that the provenance of the De Dion you are so enthusiastically vaunting is not yet established.’
That unified everyone else present. Julian looked as though he was going to be sick, Helen was comforting him, Brenda seemed close to tears, the Major was comforting Patricia and Nick and Tom were rallying to lead the next round.
‘If you do,’ Tom yelled, ‘my solicitor will be on to you with a writ!’
‘He’s conning us, Dad. Trying to get us to pay him off,’ Nick contributed.
Connor cocked his head to one side as he considered his reply or pretended to. In fact he obviously knew all too well what he was going to say. ‘I thought at the end of the rally might be a suitable time to speak to the press – at that museum of yours, Mr Carter. There’ll be plenty of media people around then.’ A pause. ‘And perhaps others who are currently missing from this scene might appear.’
Missing? He didn’t mean Dave; this was a hit against Dean Warren. I was even more glad that Zoe had chosen to go into town with Len for an Indian supper.
‘Do you think this is true, Jack?’ Helen asked despondently after King Connor had made his exit. The gold of her dress shimmered but in this pantomime the demon king seemed to be making all the running, not the princess who deserved it. She had remained very silent during the fracas with Connor, and I was afraid that on top of all the organizational work Helen had to deal with, this would be too much for her. True, she showed few signs of it. She looked magnificent. If only we had been on our own and not caught in the middle of this spider’s web, what an evening we might have had.
In the hotel restaurant the Morrises ostensibly settled themselves at a table of their own, no doubt plotting their next move. Brenda sat in solitary state, and at our table Helen and I had the honour of the company of Julian and the Major.
Before I could answer her question, the Major cleared his throat. ‘Think that fellow’s going to broadcast that story?’
‘It’s not looking good,’ I admitted, ‘but the evidence he thinks he has is hardly conclusive, save that Alf and Victoria seem to have believed it.’
‘Perhaps,’ Helen said gloomily, ‘he’s holding something back for the press.’
‘That, I’m afraid,’ I contributed, ‘is all too possible where Meyton is concerned.’
The Major went red. ‘Could be,’ he mumbled. ‘The fact is . . .’
I groaned. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve still been holding back on us.’
‘Stanley?’ Julian became glacial.
‘Not too much,’ the Major mumbled. ‘Fact is it didn’t reflect well on my grandfather – or,’ he added, glancing across at the Morrises, ‘on Victoria’s grandmother.’
‘Tell us the worst,’ I ordered him.
‘Patricia should hear it too.’ The Major looked as if he wished he’d never opened his mouth but a sip of brandy obviously strengthened him.
I sighed and went over to ask her to join us. With her came Tom and Nick, of course, but there was no help for it. They almost ran me down in their eagerness to move tables, and Brenda quickly followed suit.
‘The De Dion,’ the Major began unhappily. ‘It’s the real McCoy all right.’
The sighs of relief that greeted this announcement were quickly over.
‘But our forebears didn’t get hold of it very, shall we say—’
‘Legally?’ I finished for him.
‘Perhaps,’ the Major grunted. ‘Who knows now? What it loo
ks like to me is this: when the car was shipped back to the French company by their London branch after the Olympia Motor Show there was indeed an accident at Dunkirk docks, as that smooth-talking lounge lizard said. No fancy stuff then over handling cars. Craned on and off like any old merchandise, and they dropped the poor old thing. It was taken to a local garage and the damage assessed by the chief mechanic who signed the write-off report that the Lizard mentioned.’
‘But that was a bit of fancy work from your grandfather?’ I suggested.
‘Looks like it.’
‘Because it wasn’t a write-off?’ Nick asked.
‘Can’t have been. Pascal, my grandfather, was the son of Jean-Marie Merrault, the owner of the garage, and he saw his chance. Greased the mechanic’s palm with silver, and bought the so-called wreck at a knock-down price without the car even leaving Dunkirk. They were rip-roaring days for cars. Business was booming and the Count de Dion and Monsieur Bouton had more to do than worry about one of their clapped-out cars. No one guessed then that the rally was going to go down in history. It was just one more crazy motoring adventure.’
‘So,’ I summoned up from this and from my memories of what I had briefly seen at the Major’s house, ‘there was a fake report of the car’s condition for De Dion, presumably a letter from the company authorizing the sale, and two bills of sale, one for Florence and one for Pascal. All fake.’
‘Good Lord, no,’ the Major said indignantly. ‘The bill of sale was pukka. The car wasn’t such a wreck, that was all. But it was legal.’
‘If that’s how it could be described,’ I said, but he didn’t pick up the irony.
‘By Jove, yes.’
Patricia now entered the ring. ‘If it was legal why were there two bills of sale, one to your grandfather and one to my great-grandmother?’
‘Ah.’ A cough of embarrassment from the Major. ‘Looks odd, I know. I talked it over with Victoria when we met in Paris when we realized there were two sets of documents. Pascal thought he should lie low with the car for a while as he couldn’t go flashing around Paris in it without registering it with a different number. Florence was going back to England so he gave the car to her to keep in trust for him plus a bill of sale in her name to get it registered there and copies of the other documents. That’s why the French number plate would have gone. Just like Pascal, she couldn’t flash around in the car with that on, not with the London branch of the De Dion company around. So Pascal faked Florence’s bill of sale. His was genuine, though. See?’