by TP Fielden
‘Go on doing that and you’ll be out of a job. You’ve got to help me think of something – and quick!’
Things suddenly went silent and when Terry looked up, there was Bobby Bunton standing over Terry with a thunderous look on his face. ‘What the fuffin’ fuff are you doing here?’ he demanded.
Eagleton, a cool hand in times of crisis, looked up with a relaxed smile on his face. ‘You know, Mr Bunton, those pictures I took last week of you and Miss Janetti turned out so well I thought I’d drop some prints off. Might look nice in a frame on your desk.’
Bunton eyed him sideways. ‘OK,’ he said suspiciously. ‘Thank you. Where are they?’
‘Back in the car,’ lied Terry with a smile. ‘Just wanted to make sure you were here first.’
‘Well, give them to Baggs. I’m going off for lunch.’
‘I will, sir. And…’
‘Yes?’
‘Miss Janetti, sir. The editor asked if she would do a separate interview, talking about her life as a dancer. A few more nice photos. Wouldn’t take up too much of her time, make a nice Women’s Page feature.’
‘Fix it up with Baggs,’ said Bunton, still uneasy. ‘Were you listening in just now? To our private chat?’
‘Me? Certainly not!’ said Terry. ‘That would be rude, wouldn’t it? My editor Mr Rhys doesn’t like his staff being rude to people.’ The vein of sarcasm in his tone was barely evident.
‘Very well, then,’ said Bunton and strode off.
Terry was in no hurry to leave. He wandered out of the management block into the sunshine and took a deep breath. Everywhere there were smartly blazered staff marching in earnest with fixed smiles on their faces. Given the stiff south-westerly wind which was blowing up, their apparent joy seemed misplaced – but obviously they’d all taken their happy pill with breakfast.
In robust denial of the elements the holidaymakers milled about the sports field, tennis courts and bowling greens dressed as if a tropical heatwave was only just around the corner. Their faces, however, puckered at each new gust of wind, and the ladies hugged their cardigans tighter. None looked as though their spirits would be raised by a visit from an archbishop.
Terry was wandering towards the funfair with no apparent purpose in mind when he felt the back of his jacket being tugged, hard. He turned to see the pink-cheeked Baggs.
‘What’re you doin’?’ said the under-manager, his tone not friendly.
‘Just taking a look around,’ said Terry, ‘it’s a free country.’
‘Not exactly. You have to have a pass. Otherwise we’d have every Tom, Dick and Harry from Temple Regis poking their noses in. People save all year to have their holiday here, you know, it’s not a free show.
‘You come with me,’ said Baggs, and holding on to Terry’s coat pulled him towards a low chalet with a sign hanging outside. It said ‘The Sherwood Forest’.
‘In ’ere,’ ordered Baggs. Terry obliged.
‘Usual,’ said Baggs to the barman. ‘And whatever ’e’s ’avin’.’
‘Now,’ he said, ‘what was you doin’ earwiggin’ my conversation with Mr Bunton? I saw you listenin’ in.’
‘Not me,’ said Terry.
‘Yes you was. I was watchin’ you in the mirror.’
‘I was waiting to give Mr Bunton the prints of him and Fluffles.’
‘Oh, yes? Where are they, then?’
‘In the car. I told him.’
Baggs leaned forward. His breath revealed this was not the first glass of usual he’d swallowed this morning.
‘Listen. This is a very tricky time for Mr Bunton, what with this murder on his property and the Archbishop due any time. Business is good down here in Devon, but it can turn on a sixpence with just the wrong word in the Press. As it is, we’re waiting for the Fleet Street mob to turn up and make a nuisance of theirselves, so we don’t need any more grief from the likes of you.’
Terry just smiled. Baggs saw he was failing to make his point.
‘Look,’ he said aggressively. ‘You’ve had your fun ‘ere. You’ve got all the pictures you need. Mr Bunton has been very generous with his time, and now I want you to scarper, get it?’
‘You’re asking me to leave?’ said Terry.
‘Moochin’ round ’ere, snoopin’.’ A fresh glass of the usual had been put before the under-manager, though nothing for Terry. ‘I want you to ‘oppit, otherwise something nasty might occur.’
‘Meaning?’
‘You know what I mean.’
Terry did, but he didn’t care. He was enjoying this. ‘What about the Archbishop?’ he teased. ‘You’ll be wanting me to take a picture of him when he turns up, won’t you?’
‘That’s different,’ said Baggs sulkily.
‘Ah, right! So what you’re saying is, you want the press to publicise all the nice things happening at Buntorama, but not mention anything nasty? Like the battle between your boss Bunton and the chap over the road at the Marine, old Radipole?’
Baggs went white. ‘Sling yer ’ook,’ he said, his face just inches away from Terry’s. ‘You don’t want to end up like that woman over in Knightsbridge, do you? On a slab?’
‘What?’
‘You ’eard,’ said Baggs.
EIGHT
Miss Dimont was in London lapping up the Chelsea sunshine. She’d just had lemonade and a bun in a coffee bar called Fantasie and was looking forward to a stroll up the King’s Road to gather strength for her lunch-date. Nothing like a little light shopping to ease the torment of meeting Madame D again! At least Arthur would be there to deflect the worst.
She looked in the window of Bazaar, a smart new clothes shop, humming the tune of ‘Freight Train’ which the skiffle group in Fantasie had played several times while she was there. She meandered through streets filled with the artists, eccentrics, bohemians and stranded gentry which made up the bulk of Chelsea’s populace, and again felt the thrill of the London life she had so long ago left behind.
It was 11 o’clock in the morning but it was as if this particular quarter of London had only just woken up. A few bedraggled souls made their way to breakfast in the Chelsea Potter pub while others wandered, as if in a daze, into Simeon’s bakery. For some reason cars and buses made only occasional, almost apologetic, appearances on the streets – Chelsea was a village with its own rhythm and rules.
She’d spent the previous evening at the Arts Club, that noisy, rackety den of inspiration which seemed to have grown wilder and noisier since her last visit. She’d attracted the attention of one long-haired painter who demanded her presence in his studio next day – ‘your profile – so noble, so bold, so… rafinée’ – and was still debating whether to take up the offer.
For now, though, it was time to adopt a more conventional demeanour and travel west, to a different kind of clubland. She hopped aboard a 22 bus and spent the journey looking out at a cityscape still marred by the exigencies of war, many streets still with holes where houses and shops once stood.
She alighted in Piccadilly and wandered down to the leafy garden square which housed Uncle Arthur’s gentleman’s club.
He stood on the steps in the sunlight, old now but still ramrod straight, his blue eyes twinkling and with a boyish smile on his face.
‘I say, guess what! She’s not coming! Hooray!’
A wave of emotions hit the reporter – disappointment, relief, irritation, hurt – but to Arthur she simply said, ‘Crikey!’ in a jovial sort of way and allowed herself to be wafted by a club servant into the Ladies’ Dining Room. The sunlight from the vast window overlooking the square illuminated the white table cloths and sparkling silver, and all was still.
‘Dashed nuisance, of course,’ Arthur was saying as they sat, ‘because we’ll only have to face up to it another time. But lovely to have you all to myself, Huguette. By the way, you’re looking wonderful.’
‘That’s jolly nice of you, Arthur – two compliments within the space of twelve hours. Perhaps I should move back to London
.’
‘Were you with those artist friends of yours?’
‘One of them wants to paint my portrait.’
‘You be careful. You know where that sort of thing can lead.’
Miss Dimont did know. The thought did not perturb her at all.
As the club waiters hovered with menus and drinks and bread and murmurs, the talk was of Arthur’s family and Judy’s mother.
‘She telephoned last night. Said she was taking the boat to Belgium this afternoon – something to do with the family estate, a bit complicated.’
‘She does that,’ said Judy irascibly. ‘Makes appointments, breaks them at the last minute. She likes to keep people waiting. Shows you who’s boss.’
‘You don’t need to tell me. She was always boss when we were growing up, even though I’m a year older. I must have told you about…’
Arthur fell into reminiscence, as old men do, about his family upbringing and about how Grace had fallen for a man in a shop. ‘She was seventeen, hadn’t even come out yet, was bowled over by him. Followed him down the street then raced ahead and dropped her handkerchief so he had to pick it up. I mean, have you ever heard anything so comical!’
It was probably less comical when he took her to the hotel, thought Miss Dimont, but despite the fifteen-year age gap they surprised everyone by announcing their engagement within days, and by the time she was eighteen years old Grace Dimont was in Belgium, the wife of a successful diamond trader and with a baby on the way.
‘A glass of champagne, madam?’
Invigorated by its bubbles it was Judy’s turn to reminisce. ‘You know, Arthur, I was only six when we came to England but I remember our old house so well. Full of ghosts, of course, but magical.’
‘My dear, it was a positive castle – a palace! Servants galore. Your father was a hugely successful man.’
‘I remember the house better than I remember him. He only came home at weekends, and then the place would be filled with friends and business people. He was lovely, wonderful, to Maman but she always warned me, business comes first. I rarely saw him.’
‘He expected Grace to be the chatelaine,’ said Arthur, ‘but she was still only in her early twenties. She’d always been bossy but I think all that responsibility – the acres, the staff – well, you can understand how she turned out, in a way.’
Judy sipped at her champagne. They’d chosen a later hour to meet, and the dining room was already emptying, causing her attention to shift from the people at other tables to the ancient portraits on the walls. ‘Maman couldn’t quite get over coming back to England. All the money locked up in Belgium, Papa in the army, then in the prison camp.’
They went slowly upstairs to the Waterloo Room for their coffee. Arthur moved quite slowly these days but his forward movement went unremarked in an establishment where nobody seemed to be under seventy-five.
‘Still, you got a good schooling. And he taught you the diamond trade.’
‘The war finished him, as you know, Arthur. By the time I was eighteen he was like an old man. He didn’t want to go back to Antwerp – and so I became him, in a strange sort of way.’
‘You were brilliant,’ said Arthur proudly. You could see he loved his niece more than his own children.
‘Well, that was then. This is now. I’ve been waiting till lunch was over but I wanted to know what you thought of this,’ said Judy.
Arthur smiled benevolently. ‘The old game, eh?’ he chuckled, adopting a knowledgeable demeanour. ‘Well go on, try me!’
Judy poured the coffee and told him the story of Patsy Rouchos. The murder, few clues, false name, no apparent motive…
‘And then this absolute – well, I suppose you’d call it a turf war – between Bobby Bunton and Hugh Radipole, the owner of the Marine Hotel. You know, what I often think is…’
‘Wait a minute!’ snapped Arthur. He’d been looking out of the window down on to the garden square. Between the leaves of the great plane trees you could see lovers walking hand-in-hand around a statue of one of England’s kings on a horse. He looked regal enough but a bit on the heavy side to be galloping into battle. Poor horse, thought Judy.
‘Hugh Radipole, you say? Used to be in the motor trade?’
‘I have no idea, Arthur.’
‘If it is him the man’s a rascal. Frightful fellow! Sold me a Lagonda, absolute death-trap. Refused to take it back – the man’s a criminal, mark my words, Huguette, a criminal!’
‘Criminal enough to murder a girl in a chalet in a holiday camp?’
‘I’d believe anything of him!’ expostulated Arthur, and before she could stop him set off on a tirade about the iniquities of the motor trade, filled as it was with people claiming to have gone to schools whose tie, shockingly, they dared to wear in public.
‘They’re all the same,’ said Arthur, shaking his head in disbelief, ‘chaps who chat to you about the cricket score and Donald Bradman’s century and all that. I mean to say…’
Judy smiled. Arthur had a bee in his bonnet about cars and about Lagondas in particular. ‘He must have done very well out of the war, uncle. He came down to Temple Regis with pots of money, rebuilt the old Marine Hotel into a deluxe establishment, all steel and glass and chrome and modern art, and counts his well-heeled guests as his friends. Though they might not always feel the same about him.’
‘A stinker. I bet he did it,’ said Arthur, but Judy could see that his contempt for people who wore a phony tie was on a par with murder. It was pointless asking further advice, though she hadn’t known about Radipole’s days in the motor trade.
It was time to go. Judy was catching the 4.30 from Paddington and Arthur was ready for a snooze.
The club library had the deepest, softest leather armchairs in the whole of London.
‘Just one thing, uncle. Can you remember – there was a to-do you were involved with, years ago – Auriol and I were talking about it the other day. Only after you’d gone did I remember that you’d once crossed swords with Johnny Ramensky.’
Arthur’s features softened. ‘Oh, yes!’ he said, brightening, ‘Gentleman Johnny! The best safecracker in the business! It took forever to run him to ground, he was a real pro, and actually a very likeable chap underneath all that Glaswegian bluster. I wonder whatever happened to him.’
‘He’s still around, not much older than me, actually. Had a very good war.’
‘Not surprised,’ said Arthur in lordly fashion, ‘criminal types always do.’
‘He taught Eric how to crack a safe. Just before he went off on that final job.’
‘Oh,’ said Arthur, ‘I say. Well, good luck to him.’
‘Walk me down the stairs, uncle, I want to ask you a
couple of things about him.’
The old man and his still youthful niece slowly descended the club’s grand staircase and walked out into the sunshine together.
Terry was waiting for Betty as she walked out of the hotel entrance.
‘Get what you wanted?’
‘She’s a dish,’ said Betty. ‘A real character. She asked if I’d like to hear her sing a song to me – a special performance.’
‘What!’ said Terry, ‘I wish I’d been there for that!’
‘You could have been – where did you disappear to?’
‘Tell you in a minute. What’d she sing for you?’
‘“And Her Tears Flowed Like Wine” – a real swinger, and I don’t even like that kind of music.’
‘My favourite,’ said Terry, bitterly. ‘I hope she’ll do it again tonight. Shall we take the pretty way back?’
They took the coast road out of Ruggleswick, a winding ribbon of highway, shut down during the war and rarely used now except by more adventurous locals, so close it was to the cliff edge. The grey weather over Nelson’s Bay had evaporated and now thin white clouds like silk veils were all that separated them from the huge blue sky above.
Betty flipped down the sun visor to check the state of her hair. ‘I ha
d a chat with the drummer afterwards,’ she said. ‘He’s very nice.’
And very married, thought Terry.
‘He was telling me about the murder over at Buntorama, seemed to know quite a lot about it.’
‘Forget that,’ said Terry, ‘tell me about Moomie. Isn’t she adorable? What did she have to say? I think I’m in love!’
Oh Terry, thought Betty, what a fool you are about women. ‘Just a singer,’ she said artlessly. ‘On the other hand, Sticks on the drums…’
Oh Betty, thought Terry, what a fool you are about men.
And so their journey continued, the blind leading the blind all the way back to St Dunstan’s.
Terry told Betty about his encounter with Bobby Bunton and his under-manager, but she was only half-listening.
From high above Betty could look down onto the broad sands of the estuary, cloud-shadows chasing dog-walkers across the beach as if trying to swallow them up. Out on the water she could see the strong purposeful chugging of the fishing boats, while nearer the shore the lone ferryman plied his solitary trade. Betty knew this man, had seen him in the Old Jawbones with his prematurely aged face and his lonely pint, had realised that although everyone in Temple Regis knew his face and had taken his ferry, he was so busy collecting the threepenny fare from everyone and steering and docking his boat he never had time to exchange more than a please-and-thank you. From above, he looked even lonelier – and for a moment Betty abandoned her thoughts of the drummer to make way for a pang for the ferryman.
‘But then,’ said Terry, ‘this was the strange thing, this man Baggs who seemed so straightforward when we met him the other night suddenly starts threatening me. Almost as if he was saying my life might be in danger if I carried on wandering around his blessed holiday camp.’
‘People are like that, though, aren’t they?’ said Betty, who was only half-listening. She was thinking about the intro to her story on Moomie and whether she should do a separate Women’s Page piece on how professional singers (of a certain size) can still look great on stage with the assistance of helpful corsetry, encouraging the readers to think likewise. Betty liked writing about clothes, which was strange when you thought about how wretched her personal choices always were.