by TP Fielden
‘What do you mean, what’s going on? Police are following up their investigations.’
‘We both know what that means, Inspector. It means, I think, that so far you’ve made no progress.’
‘You can think what you like. I’ve stated the official position.’
‘The unofficial position?’
‘The Coroner’s on holiday. Not back till next Wednesday. Nothing’ll happen till then.’
Wonders will never cease, thought Miss Dimont witheringly, as she wandered away. Only the coppers at Temple Regis could make a tea break last nearly two weeks.
FIFTEEN
Valentine was waiting on the terrace when she came out.
‘Get hold of the memsahib?’
‘With ease,’ came the cheery reply. ‘Very interesting stuff. Apparently she …’
‘Tell me later. We’re not welcome here and, in any case, I’ve got some thinking to do.’
‘Where to, Captain?’
‘My cottage. We can talk there.’
They were walking back across the terrace when suddenly around the side of the house appeared the unmistakable bulk of Rudyard Rhys. He started guiltily at the sight of his two reporters.
‘What the devil are you doing here?’ he snarled.
‘I might say the same to you,’ replied Miss Dimont coolly, stepping up to him. ‘And while there’s a bit of asking going on, would you mind telling me why you said that Topham had called to tell you about Larsson’s death, when in fact it was you who telephoned him?’
‘None of your business.’
‘I’m sorry Mr Rhys, I think it is. You can’t go around misleading your editorial staff.’
‘I didn’t tell you to come here – get off! Skedaddle! I’ll manage this story if you don’t mind.’
Valentine sidled smartly away to the car park and started inspecting the tyres on his bubble car. The boy was a born diplomat.
‘Look, Richard,’ said Miss Dimont – she rarely used his first name, but when she did she addressed him with the one from Royal Navy days. ‘This is mighty odd. I never see you anywhere outside the office these days, yet here you are sticking your nose into the biggest story the Express has had in many a moon. You aren’t a reporter, you’re an editor. Your job isn’t here, it’s in the office, putting the paper to bed.’ Away from the newsroom, Miss Dimont did not feel obliged to treat him with the deference his position commanded when the pair were in front of others.
‘I just find it extraordinary,’ she went on, ‘that on press day you find time to come up here to wander round and find a dead body. What were you doing up here? What’s going on?’
Rhys had gone deathly pale. ‘It really is none of your business,’ he said flatly, and turned on his heel to walk away. But his steps were leaden.
‘Listen to me, Richard, you could be in serious trouble – I just have the feeling this is not an accident, and nor is it a suicide. I think it could be the other thing – and so, by the way, does Topham.’
The inspector had said nothing of the kind, but Rudyard Rhys didn’t know that. ‘You discovering the body puts you in a very difficult position. You surely understand that?’
Rhys’s big feet crunched on up the drive. He seemed to be trying to escape but was making little headway. ‘Can’t say anything,’ he said. ‘All I can tell you is this. I had a call from Ben Larsson this morning, and after the main pages in the paper had been passed, I came up here to talk to him.’
‘On press day? What about?’
‘None of your business.’
‘I saw the Polaroids of Larsson taken by the police. What do you think – accident? Suicide? Murder? He had a lot of enemies, one way and the other.’
‘He’d just made one more,’ said Rhys bitterly.
‘What do you mean by that?’
The editor turned to face his chief reporter. ‘Miss Dimont,’ he said slowly, ‘there was a time, long ago, when I had to answer to you and to Miss Hedley. A lot of water has flowed under the bridge since then, and now you are my employee, not the other way round.
‘Stop asking these questions and listen to me – I forbid you to continue investigating this story. All information which goes into the newspaper from now on regarding Ben Larsson’s death will come through me, and I will get Betty to write it up. I don’t want you near it.
‘And,’ he added angrily, nodding in the direction of the bubble car, ‘what’s that young man doing up here? He’s supposed to be reading the final proofs.’
‘Job done. Listen, Richard, if we are to maintain our … I was going to say cordial relations, they aren’t that, but we seem to have a modus operandi – if we’re to go on as before, you’re going to have to trust me. You know very well I’m perfectly capable of uncovering whatever terrible secret it is you’re clasping to your chest.’
‘I doubt that.’
‘You also know you could be in serious trouble.’
‘I doubt that too.’ He was feverishly digging in his pocket for his pipe.
‘Inspector Topham said something which suggests to me you were able to stop him questioning you. Some secret or other. Would that be to do with our war work?’
‘Mind your own business, Judy, and just go away. There’s nothing further to say, except that you will please bear in mind my orders to stay away from this case. What are you doing tomorrow?’
‘Wedding reports.’
‘That’s more like it. Stick to that for a bit. You know, you cause an awful lot of trouble, one way and the other, round the office when you start sticking your nose in.’
It was on the tip of the reporter’s tongue to offer a full-scale analysis of Rhys’s editorship of the Riviera Express – its skirting around controversy, its determination not to rock the boat, its lickspittle approach to certain members of the Bench and the Town Council, and its often tardy response to emergency stories – but what was the point? When she’d arrived as a reporter in Temple Regis, the newspaper had another editor. Only a year or two later did Rhys put his shaggy head around the door to declare that he, now, was master of ceremonies.
She could have quit then. Instead, she chose to soldier on as the servant of her one-time junior officer and if anyone was to blame for conversations like this one, it was her. That much Judy Dimont recognised and so, shrugging her shoulders, she walked over to where Valentine was polishing the windscreen of his Heinkel.
‘Take me home. I need a stiff whisky.’
Of late, Mulligatawny had seen less of his mistress than he would like. He made his position perfectly clear as Judy let herself into the small stone cottage which had been her home these past ten years, deliberately twining himself through her legs, causing her to trip. Then he redoubled his manoeuvre so that as she caught her balance, she was forced to trip again and land in ungainly fashion against the umbrella stand.
‘Oh, Mull!’ she exclaimed, tired and frustrated. The tortoiseshell cat looked at her with an uncompromising gaze and stood his ground, tail vertical.
‘Whisky, d’you say?’ asked Valentine, bringing up the rear.
‘Over there on the tray. I’ll feed the cat and then you can tell me again about Mrs Larsson. To be honest, the way you steer that infernal contraption made it hard to concentrate.’
‘Others have likened my driving style to Stirling Moss.’
‘Others have no sense. Water, half and half.’
They took their drinks into the garden and sat next to the wicker bower covered in honeysuckle and wild roses. The squalls from earlier in the day had passed, and the evening was hot. Bees from next door’s hive wafted inquiringly through the garden and the clear sharp call of a blackbird came from the beech tree.
‘Thank heavens,’ sighed Miss Dimont, as the whisky went to work dispelling the day’s frustrations. For a moment they shared a companionable silence.
‘I found the Army a bit of a trial,’ said Valentine, apropos of nothing in particular.
‘How so?’
‘I d
idn’t want to be an officer – there’ve been an awful lot of them in my family. Didn’t want the competition, wanted to do it differently.’
‘And?’
‘Not a bad experiment. I made some friends for life, I would say. And I kept away from those stinkers in the officers’ mess – I don’t know why, but the cavalry seems to attract a particular sort of swine – and I survived what turned out to be a pretty rough ride. But, come the end of each day—’ he sighed, looking into his whisky glass ‘—it would be beer, and gallons of it. Not really what I enjoy. This—’ he flashed a smile at Miss Dimont ‘—is what I like. Heaven, in fact.’ He stretched his long body and took another sip.
‘Come on, the day isn’t done yet. No more whisky till you tell me again what happened after you slipped away from the dreaded inspector.’
‘First thing, I bumped into their man Lamb. He was carrying a suitcase. I don’t know why that struck me as odd, but it did. Also, he’d taken off his manservant manners for the weekend – when I asked where Mrs Larsson was, he just shrugged and pushed off. Couldn’t be bothered to reply. You might even suppose he didn’t work there.’
‘So then what happened?’ Mulligatawny, somewhat mollified by the excellent fish supper he’d just consumed, wandered down the lawn to where they were sitting and jumped into Miss Dimont’s lap.
‘I went into this extraordinary room, full of scientific instruments and blown egg shells and pebbles and oddities, the sort of things you might pick up at a jumble sale … and there she was. Seemed pretty calm, which is more than can be said for the stepson – Gus something.’
‘Wetherby.’
‘Wetherby, yes. Reminded me of someone I was at school with, nasty piece of work. Very, very agitated, I’d say, not able to concentrate on anything. He was pretty rude – “what are you doing here”, sort of thing, which of course he was perfectly entitled to ask. But,’ said Valentine, smiling, ‘I just took a leaf out of your book – “Thought I’d pop in and see how things are.” He pushed off pretty soon and I had her to myself.’
‘She talked?’
‘In a manner of speaking. This business of the editor is a bit rum, though.’
‘How, exactly?’
‘Well, she told me she came back from shopping in Temple about eleven o’clock to find her husband and the editor having a row. She wasn’t quite sure what it was about, but Lamb was nearby just in case there was trouble and so she went out to talk to the gardener.
‘When she got back half an hour later, Mr Rhys was racing around the terrace saying he was looking for her because her husband was dead. She went into Larsson’s study and there he was – apparently electrocuted by his own device. What is this Rejuvenator, by the way? I’ve never heard of it.’
Trouble with the young, thought Miss Dimont, they’ve never heard of anything. ‘Tell you later.’
‘So then, according to Mrs Larsson, the editor called the police and they turned up pretty quickly. He talked to Inspector Whatsisname, and was allowed to push off – then the inspector and those seriously nasty men who hang around him went to work on Mrs L., Gus, and Uncle Tom Cobley and all.’
‘Did she hear anything of what was said between Mr Rhys and the inspector?’
‘Something to do with a tailcoat – rather odd, don’t you think, to be talking about funerals when the body’s only just been found?’
‘A tailcoat? Are you sure?’
‘That’s what she said.’
‘Decidedly odd. Anything else?’
‘She seemed remarkably calm. The stepson was like a cat on a hot tin roof but, though she was obviously shocked, she was completely in control.’
‘Hmm. More whisky, please. Let’s think about this.’
Valentine kicked off his shoes, trailed back across the lawn, and returned with the whisky decanter on a silver tray. Mulligatawny, disapproving, turned his back.
‘Stay for supper.’
‘I thought you and Miss Hedley were gracing the Chateau Waterford tomorrow night?’
‘Maybe. But I’m going to get Auriol over here tonight so we can talk this thing through. If you drink too much,’ eyeing the decanter, ‘there’s always a spare bed.’
‘Lovely. Can I help?’
‘It’s going to be an omelette. You can make yourself useful opening the wine. Just wait here while I telephone Auriol. You can talk to Mulligatawny.’ The cat did not like the sound of this, hopped off her lap and flashed away.
The eggs had been broken into a bowl, the wine uncorked, the table outside laid with an old oilcloth, and the candles unearthed and trimmed by the time Auriol arrived. She brought with her a cake from her kitchen and an acute and analytical brain.
‘How is Madame Dimont, my dear? What news of the invading demoness?’
‘Mother? Mercifully still in Ellezelles. But threatening another visit.’
‘Comme d’habitude. Have you replied to her last letter?’
‘I really should, shouldn’t I?’
‘An apple a day keeps the doctor away. Ditto letters and mamans.’
‘I’ll do it this weekend.’
‘Somehow, my dear, I doubt it …’
Judy responded by beating the private fury over her mother into the eggs, so that when the omelette was served it was light as a feather.
‘Delicious,’ said Valentine, pouring the wine.
‘Come on,’ said Auriol impatiently, ‘you’d better tell me what’s going on.’
A lengthy reappraisal of all there was to know about the death of Bengt Larsson took place, at the end of which Judy and Valentine turned expectantly to Auriol. She smiled secretly to herself, folded her napkin, looked into her lap and for a moment said nothing.
She could be irritating like that.
‘Tell me again about the funeral arrangements,’ she said to Valentine.
‘Nothing to say. Just that Pernilla Larsson overheard the editor telling Inspector Topham that people would be wearing tails – how would he know that? He’s not a member of the family. And anyway, why would Topham want to know? Police uniform, so far as I know, doesn’t stretch to tails.’
‘Operation Tailcoat,’ said Auriol, with just a shade of smugness. ‘Those candles, Valentine, please – the sun’s gone.’
The young man obligingly brought kindly light to the encircling gloom and sat down expectantly.
‘I have to explain this to Hugue, young man, but it involves things you should never hear. Shut your ears.’
‘About the War?’ said Valentine. ‘But that was over before I was born – almost. What can it matter now?’ He thought this cloak-and-dagger stuff overdramatic, over-secretive, and largely for the gratification of those who had once played a part in it.
‘Pay attention,’ said Auriol sharply. ‘During the War we had many victories and, I’d say, just as many failures. Official secrets generally stay in place because someone on our side has made a complete mess of things. Where Hugue and I worked in the Admiralty we saved lives, but some were lost. Sometimes, many were lost. Do you understand?’
Valentine nodded.
‘You’ve been in the Army. When someone blows himself up with a grenade because the idiot pulled the pin but forgot to let go, what do you tell his family?’
‘Ah,’ said Valentine.
‘Magnify that incident by a hundred, two hundred, and you’ll see why the Official Secrets Act was created. To protect the idiots who made mistakes, yes, but also to ease the burden on those who lost a loved one. How much worse to know that it needn’t have happened.’
‘I’d never considered it that way,’ said Valentine, blushing slightly.
‘You’re young.’ Auriol’s throwaway compliment was not altogether kind. ‘So,’ she continued, ‘what you hear stays here – it goes no further. Even Hugue doesn’t know it yet.’
‘So,’ said Judy, ‘go on.’
‘Operation Tailcoat. It was while you were dealing with that Belgium business. That went off all right, didn’t it?’
‘Only just.’
‘Tailcoat was Rusty Rhys’s idea. Have you heard of the British Free Corps, Valentine?’
‘Never.’
‘They were British servicemen who put on German uniforms and were ready to fight against their own country.’
‘I don’t believe it.’
‘True. Old Rusty’s job, like ours but with less clout, was to find traitors. He’d discovered this chap called Railton Freeman, son of a naval officer, who was an out-and-out Nazi long before the War started. Thought Hitler was the bee’s knees.
‘Of course, Freeman was made to fight for our side but pretty soon he was captured and ended up in a prisoner-of-war camp. Then some bright spark in Berlin thought up the idea of a regiment of British soldiers fighting their own country would be a wonderful propaganda weapon – a buck for the German troops but, more especially, completely demoralising for our boys – and they got Freeman to head it. He was turned into a golden boy, went to Berlin to meet Hitler, all that guff.’
Valentine looked aghast. ‘I can’t believe … people were prepared to fight against their own country?’
‘Dear boy,’ said Auriol, ‘you may have served in the Army but you don’t know much about human frailty, do you?’
Miss Dimont poured more wine. The light was ebbing but the blackbird was still singing. Deeper in the dusk another late celebrant joined in the conversation.
‘Believe me, this could have become a major propaganda coup for the Nazis and something radical had to be done. Rusty Rhys had done the homework and ordered one of our agents in Berlin to locate Freeman and eliminate him. He wasn’t hard to find, it just needed someone to do the job.’
‘In Berlin? In the middle of war?’
‘You’re too young. We used people from neutral countries – women and men – to walk around the streets of Berlin and Frankfurt and Hamburg. They were our eyes and ears, and we learned about Railton Freeman from them. But getting rid of someone requires a different sort of agent.