“Corporal...”
“Yes?” Christine answer was abrupt and condescending.
“‘Yes sir’. We’re still on duty, corporal.” Hunloke knew there was a fine line they trod between military formality and civil familiarity. Usually, the terms of address were applied automatically, without thinking, depending upon the circumstances. Their messing together, as it went in Army parlance, transcended the normal boundaries that segregated officers and other ranks. However, he was keen to maintain some degree of military discipline and was growing tired of the sour air exhibited by his two colleagues.
“What, ‘sir’?” Christine glared accusingly at her captain.
“A quick word in the library, if you please. Carey, could you keep the corporal’s plate, don’t throw it in the pig bin. Not just yet.”
Brian Conway looked suspiciously around the table in an attempt to garner any hint concerning Hunloke’s intentions. He drew a blank from an amused looking Poppy and Carey appeared aloofly detached. The cleaner had barely spoken a word until the captain’s return when, in the mind of Conway, she had put on a show of contrived civility. Now she had fallen back into a state of bored indifference, which seemed to escape Captain Hunloke’s attention. Only Mrs Gray seemed similarly aware of Carey Gladwin’s remoteness. He gave her the benefit of the doubt by assuming her partial deafness explained her seeming ambivalence to what was taking place around her and perhaps a sense of discomfiture at being asked to dine with her employer.
Carey had lit the library fire and the room was warm without being stuffy. Hunloke’s ersatz office at Flash House remained as it had when they left it that morning but he felt disinclined to sit behind the desk, instead he pointed towards the armchair by the fire. Hesitantly, Christine lowered herself into the embracing upholstery and sat back against the backrest. She regretted the move, she felt like a child sitting in an adult’s chair when her feet failed to touch the carpeted floor.
Hunloke took the opposite chair. “I’m going to request that you are relieved of your driving duties,” he stated without preamble. She did not look at him. Her blue eyes fixated upon the burning logs in the fireplace. Without her ATS cap, she looked the young twenty year old she was, her eyes revealing a rare sense of vulnerability. She replied only with a curt nod of her head. “I thought you might have asked why?” he continued.
The youngster shrugged. “I know you don’t like me...” Her voice sounded distant and impassive. “Perhaps it’s for the best...”
It wasn’t the answer he expected. He knew she had been quiet and introspective, presumably succumbing to the reality of her situation. Even so, he assumed there might be more fight in her belly along with the developing foetus. “It has nothing to do with liking you,” he said in a more moderate tone.
“What has it to do with then?” He was relieved that she had at least found her voice.
“This assignment is not suitable for ATS personnel.”
“Because I’m a woman?”
“In part, yes...”
“What part of it is unsuitable?” she asked, stressing the final word.
“I shouldn’t have involved you with the investigation.”
“You didn’t. Brian did.” Again, she referred to Conway by his Christian name, not his military rank.
“He shouldn’t have. It was wrong.”
“I didn’t mind...”
“I think you’d be better suited driving some red tagged staff officer around.”
She nodded resignedly. “Sorry I let you down... sir.” Perhaps it was the use of ‘sir’ that stung his flinty heart and prompted his contradictory reply.
“You’ve not let anyone down, Christine. Why don’t you take some leave? I can give you a forty-eight hour pass.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“What will you do?”
“I’ll have it adopted...” The answer completely threw Hunloke off balance; he was banally referring to what she might do when on leave. He opened his mouth in reply but no words were forthcoming. Christine spoke again. “Mrs Gray told me she was going to tell you. I’ve been expecting this all day. Thanks for letting me join you today.”
He stood up too quickly and almost stumbled when he placed his weight on his weak left leg. He swore under his breath. He needed time to think, he had been totally unprepared for the corporal’s conciliatory attitude. He was further confounded when Christine slid forward, reached into her tunic pocket, and pulled out a slim packet of ten cigarettes. “Here, Captain Hunloke, my flash I think...” She smiled weakly as she held out the packet with a projecting cigarette.
He hesitated before accepting and sparked a light, which he offered to the cigarette dangling from her trembling lips. “Does Brian know?” he asked for the want of a better question.
“No... It’s as well he doesn’t. I’d rather he remembered me as I was, not what I will be.”
“Will be?”
“A scarlet woman...” She spoke the words without any trace of humour.
“You are no such thing, corp... Christine.”
“Brian would think so. He is a bit of an old fuddy duddy. He wouldn’t understand.”
“He might if you told him... No, perhaps you’re right.” Hunloke smiled ruefully. “If there’s anything I can do for you...”
“Thank you, Captain Hunloke. I appreciate that.” She smoothed her skirt over her thighs, stood shakily to her feet, and tossed the half-smoked cigarette into the fireplace. “Am I dismissed, sir?” Hunloke nodded his approval.
When alone in the library, he contemplated upon the derisive nature of the word ‘dismiss’. It seemed a wholly inappropriate word in the case of Christine Baldwin.
Thaddeus Hunloke retired early again that evening, in no mood for the company of others. He lay on his bed reading the book on ornithology, a volume intended for Günter Grass. He wasn’t at all interested in birds but the book was illustrated with many wonderful pieces of artwork. Hunloke preferred books with plenty of illustrations; he had literally learnt to read by reading comics and penny dreadfuls at his East End childhood home.
He superficially scanned the pictures, his mind preoccupied with the unfolding events. Christine had retired to her room immediately after her conversation with Hunloke. He had followed suit not long afterwards having little appetite for light entertainment on the wireless. ‘Band Wagon’ and ‘It’s that Man Again’ was as far his light entertainment interests went.
He must have dozed off lying on top of the bed when he was startled awake by the opening door. Wrapped in her ubiquitous dressing gown stood Poppy Gray. Hunloke shivered with cold and tugged the eiderdown over him.
“Cold or modest, Artie...?” whispered Poppy, closing the door quietly behind her. It was clearly not modesty; the only item of clothing Hunloke had removed was his boots that desperately required cleaning and polishing.
“Don’t you aristos ever knock?” he grumbled, his eyes staring uncomprehendingly at the book.
“I am not an aristocrat, Artie,” she whispered whilst pulling up a chair to the left of his bed. He wondered if Poppy was immune to the cold of the house and self-consciously wished she had chosen to sit by the other side of the bed so that she wouldn’t be looking at his corrupted profile. “Christine is packing her bags. You have let her go,” she stated. “Why?”
“Because she’s pregnant, I’m not being responsible for a pregnant woman.”
“She isn’t an invalid,” she hissed. “You wouldn’t have known she was pregnant if I hadn’t told you!”
“Then you shouldn’t have told me!” retorted Hunloke angrily.
“Poppycock and baloney! Keep your voice down; you’re not on the parade ground now! I’m not bothered if people know I’m talking to you but I have no desire for them to know the nature of our discourse.”
“Discourse...?”
“Oh, don’t be obtuse, Artie!”
“Obtuse...?”
“Don’t play the simpleton with me, young man!” Hunlok
e wanted to laugh; to be called a young man by a nineteen year old seemed inapposite at best. “And move over, it’s cold in here.”
He sighed, sat up, and shuffled across, freeing bed space to his left. He momentarily felt dizzy from the sudden movement and thought the best cure was to light a cigarette. Whilst Poppy lay on the bed on her side, her head propped up by her right arm, he reached for his cigarettes and ashtray on the bedside cabinet. He slumped down with the burning cigarette clench between his teeth and rested the ashtray on his chest atop the eiderdown.
“Smoking in bed is a disgusting habit, don’t you dare burn the eiderdown,” she chided and snatched the cigarette from his lips. She took two shallow draws on it before returning the smouldering stick to his waiting lips. “So what are we going to do now?”
“Do now...?” Ash from the cigarette fell upon his tunic.
“About Christine, you ninny.”
“Decision is made, Violet...,” he replied with deliberate provocation.
“I am not Violet, I’m Poppy! Only Daddy and Aunt Maude insist on calling me Violet and she’s away with the fairies.”
“Seems to run in the family...”
“I am not mad!”
“No, more eccentric, I’d say. You ought to get out more, find some company.”
“That is exactly what I’m doing now and stop changing the subject.”
“What am I suppose to do?”
“Offer her support.”
“I have, I said to let me know if there’s anything I can do for her!”
“Poppycock! What on earth will you do for her when she isn’t here?”
“Oh, I don’t know! There’s enough shit going on without her problems!”
“Language, Artie!” hissed Poppy. He extinguished the cigarette and clumsily placed the ashtray back on the bedside unit. “All you men think about is the war!”
“Well it does tend to have a profound effect on folk!”
“None more so than Christine...”
“Alright, alright... I’ll sleep on it.”
“Are you pleased Carey is here?”
“Suppose so...”
“Good... I’m not sure who is the slowest wooer, you or Mr Conway?”
“I have never wooed in my life.”
“Then it’s time you started.”
“You staying here or finding your next victim to harangue? Perhaps Carey could do with your highborn advice? I need to kip.”
As if in answer, Poppy reached for and heaved on the overhead pull cord, plunging the room into darkness.
Chapter 18 - Honeysuckle Cottage.
Thursday, 30th November 1944.
It seemed to Hunloke as if the weather had forgotten the palette it had available. The day materialised as a carbon copy of the previous offering, although to be fair to Mother Nature, she had embellished the grey fog with a blanket of pallid frost that shimmered bashfully in the nebulous light. A man with an artistic soul might have appreciated the beauty of his surroundings in the contrivance of natural artifice known as the Flash Estate. Hunloke simply felt cold.
Brian Conway at least silently acknowledged the magnificence of the Atlas cedar standing at the edge of the south lawn, its evergreen foliage a vibrant verdant tinged with cobalt in the billowing mist.
Hunloke elected that he and Conway would walk along the driveway to Honeysuckle Cottage. He could easily have asked Christine to run them there in the Austin but somewhat cowardly had chosen to leave the fate of the corporal in limbo. As far as she was concerned, she was still leaving Hunloke’s troupe of travelling players later that day. Clearly, she had not mentioned the matter of her departure to Brian Conway. Neither had Hunloke.
Furthermore, it also came as no surprise to Hunloke that Conway offered nothing in the way of conversation. He knew he was going to have to confront the lieutenant over his behaviour in the crypt and his descent into quietude. In a pusillanimous manner, he had again chosen to speak with the ranker as opposed to the officer the previous evening. Old Army habits were hard to shake off. Irrespective of the events of the day, he vowed to tackle Conway. Once he had decided how to broach the subject.
The walk took longer than Hunloke envisaged, the journey seemingly prolonged by the accompanying stony silence.
Honeysuckle Cottage at least looked like a cottage in the eyes of city boy Hunloke. Unlike the stark practicality of the design and construction of the so-called cottages in Flash Village, someone had put a little thought into the conceptualisation and building of the estate lodge. That someone was architect, Sir Gervais Montclair. The cottage stood as a graphic example of the whimsical artifice of the estate juxtaposing the harsh realities of the dales without.
The lodge was of a half-timber and stone construction. The latter a softer hue of brown sandstone that afford a mellow and reassuring quality when compared to the utilitarian starkness of the local gritstone. Vines of dormant honeysuckle could indeed be made out clinging to the walls of the pretty cottage. In summer, the place might have looked a delight. For Hunloke, the place now looked at least tolerable.
Shrouded by an avenue of overgrown yew bushes, the dwelling might easily be driven past and ignored. It was with a sense of relief that Hunloke, wreathed in a veil of exhalations, guided Conway down the crazy-paved path to the low front door. His expectations may have precluded the act; nevertheless, Hunloke pounded the door with the flat of his clench fist.
“Take a shufti around the back, Brian,” ordered Hunloke. For a moment, he believed Conway was about to question his order. Conway’s reservation may have been stifled; even so, it was with an ill-tempered gait that he stepped around the cottage to the rear. A minute or so later, a scowling Conway returned.
“I knew this would be a waste of time. No answer...,” stated Conway officiously. Hunloke quelled his rising anger and swallowed hard to forestall any utterance he might later regret. He would allow Conway that one comment.
Poppy had furnished Hunloke with a set of keys and his frozen hands fumbled to select the correct one for the impressively over engineered mortise lock. Love them or hate them, thought Hunloke, you had to admire the way the Victorians built.
The lock clicked open in a convoluted fashion. Hunloke was still annoyed with his troubled companion. That was the only reason he could later find to justify his decision to send the young lieutenant into the cottage first.
Conway stepped petulantly into the dimly lit building. There followed a hideous gagging sound and the waiting Hunloke instinctively reached for his revolver as he watched the silhouette of Conway appear to double up as if he had been punched in the gut.
The odour, which hit the shivering captain a second or two later, was immediately recognisable and explained the lieutenant’s bodily contortions. It was the unique and unmistakable miasma of death. Sweet and repugnant in equal measure, the corporeal stench sought its escape through the open door.
Hunloke had smelt worse. Admittedly, not through the course of his war experience where corpses had been mercifully exposed to the elements or swiftly dealt with. No, his encounters with such malodorous extremes derived from his police work when a cadaver had been confined within a sealed room.
A stooped Brian Conway bundled his way outside past the inanimate Hunloke. He listened without sympathy to Conway retching over the box hedging behind him and edged cautiously into the shadowy interior of the cottage. Resisting the temptation to cover his mouth and nostrils, he peered inquiringly about him.
The sitting room was comfortably appointed, summoning to mind contrasting images of Carey Gladwin’s meagrely furnished home. The blackout curtains remained pulled, the half-light presented via the open door revealed an armchair positioned close to the fireplace on the far side of the room. He could make out the top of a head endowed with white hair. The chair was patently the source of the odour.
Whilst swallowing hard to suppress the reflex that spitefully encouraged him to vomit, he paced carefully across the room to the detestable piece
of furniture.
Major Beevor sat comfortably in his chair. His head appeared to be resting on his chest as if he was dozing. Hunloke knelt in front of the major and looked up into the purple-tinged face. The lifeless eyes were beginning to bulge from their sockets and Beevor’s tongue protruded through his lips as though mocking the seconded police inspector. Charles Beevor’s body seemed to be unspoiled, his tan service shirt looked untouched other than where it billowed over the distend stomach and intestinal region where gases of decomposition were at play.
“Brian, get your arse in here, now!” Hunloke never liked to shout in the presence of a corpse, it somehow sounded disrespectful. In this instance, he made an exception to his rule. He had to repeat the order with ‘lieutenant’ replacing the familiar name.
Conway took an age to arrive. Hunloke refused to look at him but could hear his muffled breathing through his shielding hand.
“No sign of violent trauma...,” said Hunloke quietly. “Someone has messed with the body though. There is a smear of dried blood at the corner of his mouth where they tried to wipe away the blood. And they closed his eyes post mortem; see how the eye balls are forcing the lids open...”
Lieutenant Brian Conway vomited again, not that he had anything other than digestive juices left in his stomach by that time. He staggered drunkenly back out through the doorway and ploughed through the box hedging, to crumple to his knees upon the frozen lawn.
Oblivious to the cold, ignorant of the world at large, Conway cupped his hands to his face, sobbing unashamedly, not caring who might see a commissioned officer in His Majesty’s Armed Forces act with such unrestrained distress.
Minutes elapsed before Hunloke emerged from Honeysuckle Cottage. He coughed and took countless breaths of cleansing air before he was able to confront Conway. Lighting two cigarettes, he tapped the kneeling man on his shoulder.
Dancing with Artie (Thaddeus Hunloke Book 1) Page 19