He halted mid-stride and gawped.
Flash House had begun its chequered life in the mid nineteenth century, constructed during the period when Gothic Revival architecture was in vogue. It had been the creation of a wealthy Regency industrialist, Sir Peregrine Gray, who had spent his vast fortune on the property and estate.
The Grays were an interesting family, the sort of family that upheld the great British tradition of stoic endeavour. Sir Peregrine’s brother was killed at the battle of Waterloo when he fell from his horse and drowned in a puddle on the sodden battlefield. This act of national immolation set the trend for future generations.
The Gray family lost many ‘heirs and spares’ in the Crimea, the Zulu and Boer wars. Perhaps their finest hour came during the Great War when the loss of three sons and various cousins effectively plunged the Gray line into terminal decline. Few families had given so much and been so proud to achieve so little.
By the nineteen thirties, there were few left to admire the heroic family efforts and the grand mansion was in a similar state of decay. The current incumbent was William Gray; a man Sir Peregrine would have had few qualms designating an irresolute waster. Pre-war, William preferred to spend his time in the south of France, gambling, drinking, and meeting the needs of his alternate gender affiliations. Notwithstanding the dangers to life and limb associated with London, it was there that he preferred to squander the family inheritance as opposed to living as a country squire in the solitude of Flash.
This left the running of the house in the hands of William’s younger brother, Eddie. The youngest Gray sibling was of an altogether different disposition. He was currently away completing his training as a navigator in RAF Bomber Command, so entrusting the management of Flash House to his wife, Violet. Mrs Gray, the employer of Carey Gladwin, was presently visiting her sick mother, so leaving the house in a state of temporary stasis.
Thaddeus Hunloke approached the house and stood amongst the barren raised flowerbeds on the ornamental terrace. He silently wondered what state of repair the formal gardens would be in had it not been for the enforced industry of the POW’s at Flash Camp. It was now after three o’clock and the light was already beginning to fade beneath the overcast sky. The raucous crows, settling down for the oncoming night, offered their dolorous opinion to the world.
His view was of the southern aspect of the house. This was the facade that benefited most from the attentions of the famous misogynistic architect, Sir Gervais Montclair. Perhaps his finest piece of work was the little seen Flash Chapel, inspired by his visit to Saint Chapelle in Paris and which was one of the few pieces of work that did not pander to his prejudices. Contrarily mannish in appearance, Flash House certainly reflected Sir Gervais’ blinkered take on the world.
Some works of Victorian Gothic might appear understated, a few arched windows and decorative pinnacles here and there. There was nothing understated about Flash House. It seemingly materialized from the very ground upon which it stood, chiselled block by block from the surrounding land, a fortress of dark and unyielding millstone grit faced with limestone hewn from the estate’s very own quarry where the chapel now reposed.
The Victorians may have lacked Herr Hitler’s ambition for a thousand year Reich and yet they built with a conviction that invoked longevity. The structured planting of the estate implied a confidence and commitment to the future that war-torn Britain had lost. The full majesty of the mature parkland would not be seen in their Victorian lifetime but by their children and grandchildren.
Flash House lacked any trace of subtlety. It was a bold, uninhibited statement of Victorian intent to impose itself upon the world. The house boasted the obligatory Gothic embellishments of pointed arched windows with ornately carved oculus and cusp, providing the support for the leaded glass. Hunloke glanced up at the spiky pinnacles with prickly crockets and ornate finials flourishing above the mock battlements. Rising circular turrets with slated and tiled roofs peppered the upper stories, lending the building a soaring quality of vertical endeavour. And of course, there were the mocking gargoyles that imbued the house with a bestial mien.
To the uninitiated, the house represented a perverted synthesis of pious worship and unyielding fortress.
It was a truism that Thaddeus Hunloke was seldom lost for words but Flash House had managed the task by simply existing. The house teased his inquisitive nature and yet promulgated an air of wary caution. He felt as though he was being invited to stroke the mane of a caged lion, that the invitation was delightfully compelling but inherently wrought with danger.
Limping around to the eastern side of the house with its gravelled forecourt, he discovered an engraved stone entrance porch over a weathered door. The entire house was asymmetrical in design. The facings of what had once been white limestone had dulled with age and exposure. The house epitomised his opinion of war torn Britain.
He hovered indecisively beneath the porch. With a sense of absurd reluctance, he twisted the looped door handle and pushed. He wasn’t surprised to discover the door unlocked, for Flash House did not encourage casual perusal.
Before him lay the narrow entrance cloister, the floor decorated with a mosaic of fine encaustic tiles. A vaulted stone ceiling arched with cathedral splendour overhead. At the end of the cloister, he stuttered through an imposing archway into the main hall.
Substantial and imposing were the words that came to mind, the air infused with a piquancy of age and decline. Green in all its hues was the dominant colour of the space. A stone staircase, guarded by intricately painted ironwork, rose along three of the walls leading to the first floor gallery, the latter supported by columns of emerald Connemara marble.
Dotted about the hall stood exquisite white marble Hellenistic statutes, their various states of nudity affording the room a cold clinical artistry with a hint of the erotic that sat uncomfortably with Victorian and modernist tastes. Even the richly decorated stone fireplace invoked the warmth of a Nordic glacier. The broad rising staircase, lined with dynastic portraits of the Grays, stood subtly illuminated by the desultory light filtering down through the oak-framed clerestory windows, placed some thirty feet above the hall floor.
Hunloke sniffed the air, detecting the strong odour of musty dampness that bordered on decay. The structural interior of the house initially appeared as a diluted version of the exterior. Yet the once lavish decor intimated the hand of a woman, whether by design or chance, remained unclear. He was assailed by the image of a fine Victorian lady in an expensive crinoline dress wearing hobnailed boots. He felt as if the house was watching him, assessing him, judging him. It was a ridiculous notion but incredibly powerful all the same.
His eyes were finally drawn to the curious repetitive wall carvings that encircled the hall just below ceiling level. The effigies depicted a man’s face encircled and entwined with vine leaves.
He shivered and physically jumped when a soft female voice spoke from on high.
“They’re quite something aren’t they? I believe they depict the Green Man or Bacchus. I find them a bit creepy. Someone obviously had a thing for them...” The statement was supplemented by a nervous giggle.
Hunloke’s hand instinctively reached for his service revolver, his hand vacillating above the canvas holster flap. Craning his neck, he spied the head and shoulders of a young blonde haired woman peering self-consciously over the rail from the first floor gallery.
“Who are you...?” He considered his question crude but it served the purpose.
“Well, to be fair, I could ask you the same?” Again, the disarming giggle followed her question. She spoke with a refined, fluid voice. The accent may have been polished but it lacked the jarring clipped tones adopted by the wives of many of the senior officers with whom he had unfortunately come into contact. Here was an assured voice at ease with itself, having nothing to prove to the world.
“Hunloke... From the camp...” He wished his answer had been adroitly composed; Lieutenant Conway would never ha
ve sounded so crass.
“I’m pleased to meet you, Hunloke from the Camp. I’m Poppy. Welcome to Flash House.”
“You're not supposed to be here,” asserted Captain Hunloke hesitantly.
“Why not? It is my home.”
“I wasn’t aware of any Poppy living here...” His contorted neck was already beginning to ache.
“Ah, yes, I see your confusion, major. I've always been known as Poppy, my official appellation, if you will, is Violet. I am Mrs Edward Gray.”
“I’m a captain, not a major...”
“Really? I can’t tell the difference. You all look the same to me, like sheep... Sorry, was that rude of me?”
Hunloke finally reasserted some degree of control after the shock of the unplanned meeting. “Perhaps it would be easier if you came down here or I joined you up there, Mrs Gray?”
“Join me up here, major? What sort of suggestion is that?” She laughed in a flirtatious fashion.
“Captain, I’m a captain...”
“In that case, Hunloke from the Camp, I think I’d better join you. I’m sure we could both do with a nice cup of tea...”
Poppy Gray descended the stairs unhurriedly. She was dressed in a man’s tweed jacket that was far too large for her, worn over a thick roll neck Aran sweater. The tartan skirt, thick stockings, and stout shoes gave the impression that she had just returned from a shooting trip in the Highlands. She appeared much younger than Hunloke imagined a ‘Poppy’ should look. To his mind, ‘Poppy’ implied some sort of aging dowager. She was in fact nineteen years old and stood some five feet four inches or so tall in the sensible shoes. That she was pretty in what he considered an unapproachable and unobtainable sort of way narked him. Her confident, skittish demeanour broadcast her class distinction from the son of an East End docker.
“There, that’s better, now we can finally see each other properly. Does that hurt...?” Hunloke flinched when she pointed towards the scar knotting the left side of his face.
He ignored her question. “Why are you here? I thought you were visiting your parents?” he enquired with false bravado.
“You know what thought did, major.”
“No, I don’t, Mrs Gray. What did thought do?”
“I don’t know... Why are you asking me...? Are you always so grumpy?”
Hunloke had endured enough of Poppy Gray. “Is there somewhere safe you can go? There are five escaped POW’s on the loose. You shouldn’t be here. I've been authorised to requisition your house.”
Poppy Gray’s hazel eyes sparkled vivaciously. He scanned for the word to describe the impression she created in his mind. The best word he found, which he really couldn’t define, was ‘fey’. Another word that came to mind was ‘irritating’.
“There are always Germans roaming around the house,” declared Poppy brightly. “They treat the place as their own. They never harm anyone. Besides, you’re never alone at Flash. And for what purpose do you intend to use my house, for some sort of military jamboree?”
Hunloke found her light-hearted disregard for the situation infuriating, not to mention her flippant manner of speech. “Do you have people who work in the house?” he asked.
“You mean staff? We have old Trotter the butler and his wife who cooks. Trotter only ‘butles’ when William is here. They live in one of the tithed cottages. Mrs Paxman housekeeps occasionally. Other than that, it’s just the ghosts and me.”
“Ghosts?”
“You can’t expect Flash not to have ghosts. That would never do, would it?” Poppy suppressed a giggle. Nevertheless, a smile played over her blemish-free features, a smile that piqued Hunloke as much as her carefree speech and attractive features.
“I can’t let you stay here. I have orders for me and my team to move in.”
“Team...? And exactly how many are in your team, major?”
“My lieutenant and corporal.”
“Only two? Why, you didn’t need to go bandying around nasty words like ‘requisition’, Hunloke from the Camp. I’d have invited three of you in quite happily; give a little life to the place. I hope they don’t have dirty boots...” She eyed his footwear suspiciously. His boots were still muddied from his visit to Flash Farm.
“They wear shoes, Mrs Gray. I’m the only one who wears boots... I really think you should leave as soon as possible.”
“And what do you plan to do about it, major? Throw me out of my home?” challenged Poppy with a smile.
“Do you have a phone, Mrs Gray?” he asked resignedly.
“Of course... There is a phone just there.” She pointed to a table where the telephone lay next to a Roman bust. “Just remember to put your tuppence in the tin... If you require me, I’ll be in the kitchen along the way. Just follow your big nose.”
Hunloke shook his head despairingly whilst he watched Poppy Gray shimmy away down a dark corridor. He rang the camp and spoke to Major Mills, who appeared unconcerned that Poppy Gray was in residence or that she refused to leave the house.
“She has two roughty-toughty officers to look after her. Well, one at least. She’ll be as safe there as anywhere,” was Mills’ dismissive final comment. Hunloke was not unduly concerned apart from the nuisance aspect of her presence. He had instructions from a senior officer to commandeer the house. That was all a soldier needed.
He traced the path taken by Poppy Gray along the corridor that ran past the formal dining room on his right. After apparently pointless kinks in the passageway, he found the spacious kitchen, designed to prepare meals for a full house and staff. Its capaciousness remained a bookmark to a bygone age. To his left he glimpsed the inner open courtyard and ahead of him stood the door to the old servants’ hall, which now served as the refectory, now used to take meals instead of employing the ornate dining room.
He limped into the kitchen and found Poppy fussing over a teapot. A long pine table dominated the centre of the room; the open wall spaces lined with white ceramic tiles reminded him of a public convenience.
“Would you like to take tea here or in the morning room, major? The morning room is much cosier,” suggested Poppy.
“It’s Captain Hunloke, not major. Here is fine.” He pulled a chair from the table and shivered. His overcoat remained damp from its earlier soaking, leaching heat from his lean body.
“Milk?” she asked.
“Thank you.”
“Sugar?”
“You’ve got sugar?”
“Yes.”
“Two... Please...”
“You have a sweet tooth, major.”
“Only when I can get it, Mrs Gray.”
“You are referring to sugar, I take it, not making some smutty soldierly innuendo?”
“Mrs Gray...” Had he been capable of blushing he most certainly would have done so. Poppy offered her trademark giggle. He appreciated it was not a girlish giggle but the gesture of a confident woman, a woman not intimidated by the circumstance of an alien Army officer requisitioning her brother-in-law’s home.
“So who are the other two houseguests?” asked Poppy whilst handing over a mug of steaming brew.
“Lieutenant Brian Conway and Corporal Christine Baldwin.” Hunloke would not normally have used their Christian names but Poppy’s disarming use of the term ‘houseguest’ subconsciously swayed his choice of words.
“A woman...? How charming... We receive so few ladies these days. Is she pretty?”
“Pretty...? She isn’t supposed to be pretty, she’s a corporal.”
“Can’t a corporal be pretty?”
“Not in my book, no.”
“You are an old grouch, Hunloke from the Camp. Flash likes pretty people.”
“Then I should fit in really well...”
“Well, you do look rather gruesome, no offence, major. I suppose you may appeal to the house’s primeval penchant. Do you scare many children?” She smiled coquettishly.
“As many as I possibly can...” He scowled, prompting a brief explosive laugh from Poppy G
ray.
“It certainly won’t be dull having you here. Are you any good at lighting fires? And no, that wasn’t a euphemism.”
“Suppose so...”
“You sound sulky, Hunloke from the Camp. That really won’t do. Why don’t we light the fire in the drawing room? With four of us, it will be fun to use the drawing room this evening, be like the old days. Come on, spit-spot, I’ll show you the way.”
Chapter 12 - An Evening at Flash House.
Monday, 27th November 1944.
Hunloke stood basking in front of the carved marble fireplace. It was the first occasion other than disrobing for bed that he could remember dressing in shirtsleeve order since his arrival in Derbyshire. His battledress blouse and greatcoat lay over the backs of the two armchairs, drying in the sublime heat of the fire.
The logs crackled and the dancing flames backlit the fireplace, casting shimmering hues of radiant yellow upon the arched ceiling. The drawing room had last been renovated during the Edwardian period in the rich colours of the Italian Renaissance. In many ways it reminded him of the French bordello he had visited when rescuing his battalion commander during the months of the Phoney War in France.
He crossed to one of the picture windows draped with heavy curtains, depriving him of the view of the southern lawn. True to the perverse nature of the British climate, a fog had fallen following the day of rain. Peering through a makeshift gap in the curtains, he could barely make out the raised flowerbeds in the murky darkness of the languorous calm that had descended over the environs of the Gothic pile.
Brian Conway and Christine Baldwin had yet to show up despite the time being a little after seven. He wasn’t overly concerned; Conway had no doubt called in on the camp on his way back from the Red Lion. He would want to know the latest situation report concerning the absconding POW’s. His only anxiety regarding Conway’s absence was that he was down to his last ten cigarettes and his spare packets were in his suitcase. He grudgingly admitted that he missed the lieutenant, for he had lost his supply of cadged cigarettes. Resignedly, he returned to the warmth of the fire.
Dancing with Artie (Thaddeus Hunloke Book 1) Page 12