“If you’d told me that last week you might have surprised me.”
“But not now...?”
“No... Nothing about the past week surprises me. It’s like I’ve been living in a dream.”
He rolled to face her and reached out, pulling her small frame against his, taking unspoken solace from the physical bonding. The pressure he exerted was uncomfortable but she passed no comment, allowing her skin to meld against his until it felt they were one corporal entity.
“You sound sad...” Her voice was muffled against his shoulder.
“I feel... I feel displaced.”
“Do you wish you hadn’t come here?”
“Last week I’d have said yes. Now... I don’t know what I think anymore... Nothing about this place makes any sense. You know I told you about meeting Tommy...”
“Yes...”
“I’ve had lots of weird dreams since then. I had a dream about my old company sergeant major, he died at Dunkirk...”
“Sergeant Major Willow.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve been sleeping with you... I’ve heard your conversations when you’re asleep.”
“Poor old Pussy Willow... Do you know what he told me?”
“He told you to trust no one.”
“Words to that effect... He always said I was too trusting. Always too ready to believe anything a senior officer told me.”
“And did you trust too much?”
“Yea... And you know what? I still do. I try not to, but I still do. It’s a disadvantage of being promoted from the ranks. You can’t quite shake off the ingrained conditioning of accepting orders. That’s why promotion from the ranks is rare.”
“Even if you know the order is wrong?”
“Not my problem... A soldier’s duty is to follow orders. If you don’t follow orders, chaos rules...”
“You’re an honourable man, Captain Artie.” She hugged him tightly and felt the intensity of his own grasp ebb as he relaxed, soothed by her loving caress.
“Honourable? Lying in bed with my arm wrapped around another man’s wife? I’m not honourable, I’m...”
“I wonder what Brian would say if he could hear you speaking right now.”
“He’d be shocked by my wickedness...”
She issued a disparaging chuckle. “Men seem to get over that very quickly so long as their own wife isn’t involved... No, I think he’d be stunned by your lack of confidence and uncertainty.”
“Confidence comes with the pips and crowns on your shoulders or the rank inscribed on your warrant card. I’m nothing without them... I’m a useless nobody, a lousy soldier, a failed copper, an absent father...”
“I wished I’d known you when you were younger. I could have had so much fun with you. I’d have made your life an absolute misery. You are perfect tease material.”
“Is that what you’re doing now, teasing me?”
“In a way... Do you want me to stop?”
“No...”
“Oh dear, you really are one of life’s victims, Hunloke from the Camp... What am I to do with you?”
They fell silent for a moment before Poppy spoke in a whimsical manner. “The lies, and the truth, and pain? Oh yet... Stands the Church clock at ten to three, and is there honey still for tea?”
“Did you make that up?”
“No, it was written by Rupert Brooke.”
“A friend of yours?”
She smiled unseen by her lover. “No, just another one of life’s victims...”
Thaddeus Hunloke awoke to the intrusive overhead light dazzling his eyes and a hand shaking his shoulder. The hand did not belong to Poppy Gray. There was nothing stimulating or comforting about the violent incursion.
“Wake up!” came the order. Hunloke shuffled up the bed and stared up into the face of the coercing man. He recognised the uniform worn by the redcap. He ought to know, he had once worn it.
“Get up, Captain Hunloke!” The order was issued by a sergeant. Only a redcap could address him by his rank and yet show such little respect. “Kindly get dressed, sir...”
Hunloke glanced across the bed and was relieved that Poppy was nowhere to be seen. He was alarmed to note that a second redcap standing at the door was holding his webbing belt with the holstered Webley revolver.
“The colonel wants you down stairs as soon as,” continued the sergeant from the Military Police. “I’ll be outside the door.”
As if in answer to his next question, the longcase clock in the hall chimed the hour seven times. When he had dressed, Hunloke was escorted down the stairs by the two military policemen and ushered towards the library. He saw Poppy standing in the open doorway of the morning room, wrapped in her dressing gown and oversized tweed jacket. The house felt cold and threatening and he wasn’t cheered by the look on his lover’s face. Her youthful features were set in a stony grimace that she normally reserved for troublesome tradesmen.
Sitting against the desk in the library was a tall man wearing an expensively cut uniform of a British staff officer, his role denoted by the red flashes on his tunic. He wore the rank of a lieutenant colonel and a lack of any regimental insignia. His nose twitched at the unpleasant odour coming from the half-burnt log in the fireplace.
The door closed behind him and Hunloke cautiously edged towards the desk as though he might be walking through a minefield.
“Do your button up, captain. It’s half way through the bloody day, having a lie-in were you?” suggested the sarcastic clipped voice of the senior officer. Hunloke fumbled to do up his top shirt button and straightened the hastily knotted tie. “I do resent the hour of the morning,” stated the visitor. “I begrudge being in this ugly house. I don’t know the word, it’s so...”
“Gothic...,” answered Hunloke.
The lieutenant colonel scowled, his linear face stretching to emphasise his square dimpled jaw. “Quite...”
Hunloke stood before the staff officer, his mind racing. He felt he was already on the back foot, having been dragged from bed. Why had he uncharacteristically slept so late? His brain was screaming warnings as if his consciousness was some imbecile, unable to read the portents of the difficult meeting ahead.
“My name is Lieutenant Colonel Turbutt from the War Office,” announced the visitor. “Came up yesterday and stayed in Matlock Bath at the behest of the local authorities. Came to see what the fuck is going on here...”
The expletive was used to very good effect. When a senior officer used such language, it was a clear sign that the man was unhappy, not simply employed for colourful embellishment.
“You’re the officer who ordered I requisition this house,” declared Hunloke, tugging the memory from somewhere.
“Am I? And stand up straight when I’m talking to you!” Turbutt’s thinning red hair was complemented by a freckly face and piercing eyes with tiny dots for pupils. His face turned puce with his sudden burst of anger.
“Yessir...” The reply was made automatically in the way Hunloke might have replied to a junior officer when he was a private soldier.
“We have two escaped POW’s on the prowl, a murdered major, and you swanning around at some country mansion! You let a naive lieutenant and some ATS corporal go to London and ask damned fool questions. Who put you in charge of the camp?”
“Major Mills, sir,” replied Hunloke cautiously.
“And where is Major Mills?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Have you any written orders?”
“No, sir. Major Mills said he would send them to the camp.”
“And have you seen them?”
“No sir...”
“You, captain, are a bloody fool! What are you?”
“A bloody fool, sir.”
“Not only are you a fool but you’ve been harassing the local population.”
“Harassing...?”
“The local authorities have received a complaint about your conduct.”
“From who?
”
“From whom? None of your damned business! The allegations will be investigated when we can spare someone to come up to this godforsaken place.” Turbutt paused and appraised the scarred face of the captain with disdain. “I’ve spoken with your superior...” Hunloke made no response to the statement, allowing the lieutenant colonel to continue. “Superintendent Bidder has told me all about you. I don’t quite see the man described by the superintendent standing before me, the idiot who has made such a pig’s ear of running this place!”
“It wasn’t me who was responsible for letting the prisoners escape and I have not done anything improper since being here,” insisted Hunloke, summoning from somewhere some admittedly half-hearted defence.
“Oh, the captain shows defiance! It’s pretty clear that any fool could escape from a British POW camp if they wanted to. The thing is, they have not been found.”
“And that wasn’t my job either. I satisfied myself they were not in the immediate vicinity.”
“No, I don’t suppose tracking down escapees is your remit, but not abusing your position is! Did you not think to question Major Mill’s authority for placing you in charge of the camp?”
“I was senior officer present.”
“With bugger-all experience of running a POW cage! What on earth were you thinking of?”
“Following orders, sir.”
“Good God man, did you think you were capable of running a POW camp?”
“I don’t think I’ve made a bad job of it, sir. Admittedly, a lot of that is down to Sergeant Donovan. He’s a good chap. There is a war on you know...”
“I wish I had a pound for every time I heard that line! Just because there’s a war on doesn’t mean the country has completely gone to the dogs, not to put an id... a novice like you in charge!”
“No sir...”
“Anyway, I’ve said all I’m going to say. You are relieved of command of Flash Camp. There’s an experienced chap coming down from Catterick who’ll run the show. Any allegations against you will be followed up. Understood?”
“Yessir.”
“You will hand over the running of the camp to Major Fakir.”
“Fakir...?” enquired Hunloke, not quite believing he had heard the name correctly.
“Yes, Fakir, do you know him?” asked a puzzled Turbutt.
“No sir...”
“Right... I have nothing else to say save that the CSDIC have finished with your services. I’ll leave you in the hands of your colleague to brief you further.”
“Finished with me...? My colleague...?” mumbled a stunned Hunloke.
“Yes, Superintendent Bidder of Scotland Yard is outside somewhere. He came up with me from London.” Lieutenant Colonel Turbutt walked quickly from the library. He would leave the matter in the hands of Superintendent Bidder; after all, he was the man behind the misfit Hunloke’s secondment. Turbutt glanced at his half-hunter pocket watch. With any luck, he might be back in London by early evening.
With Turbutt gone, Hunloke stood alone in the library. It might not have been noticeable to Turbutt but Hunloke was shaking throughout the entire confab. He had no idea of what he had said to the visiting red tab officer. All he was aware of was his inner dialogue whilst he listened to the words of admonishment and dismissal.
His pulse thumped at his temples and his mouth felt as dry as the Sahara. He thought that at any moment his legs would buckle. In addition, he had lost all sense of feeling from his neck down.
So that was it... The ridiculous charade he had been performing was over. Rationally, he felt he should be experiencing some sense of relief. Instead, he felt consumed by rage and bitterness, certainly where allegations of misconduct were concerned, accompanied by an almost inconsolable sense of loss. He would be leaving Flash ignominiously, his reputation once and for all damaged beyond repair. What had he done that had been so heinous a crime?
He was hazily aware of the adjoining door opening. He did not hear the approaching bare feet, his ears were singing with the blood that circulated painfully through them.
“Come into the morning room, Artie..., it’s cold in here...”
Cold it might have been but his brow was bathed in a fine film of perspiration. He was conscious of being tugged and trudged automaton-like behind Poppy through to the admittedly warmer room. A twin bar electric fire sat in front of the fireplace, the concave deflector guiding the heat from the red-hot elements towards the sofa.
She pushed him down onto the furniture, took his rigid body in her arms, and tenderly kissed him. The contact of her lips and the response of his own shook him from his torpid rigor, comforting him in his moment of distress. He buried his face against her narrow neck and clung desperately to the willowy woman, his mouth griping strands of blonde hair as he fought the urge to wail like a child.
“It’s okay, Thaddeus... Don’t worry... Everything will be fine...” Poppy for once was lost for words. He was unaware she had used his Christian name.
“I’ll be leaving today... I’ve been relieved...” The words caught in his proud throat. He hated his defeatist attitude but his voice and emotions were not yet his to control.
“You’ll do no such thing! You’ll leave when you are good and ready and not before! The Army isn’t in charge of this house!” Poppy spoke the words defiantly and felt a retch of laughter from the trembling man in her arms.
“Actually, that isn’t strictly speaking true, Mrs Gray...” Poppy looked up with a start towards the source of the intrusive words.
A man stood in the open doorway from the hall. He wore a grey mackintosh and held a black fedora hat in his hands. He was of middling height, solidly built so that he appeared to fill the open doorway, and wore his Brylcreemed hair neatly trimmed and side-parted.
Upon hearing the voice, Hunloke embarrassedly pushed himself away from Poppy and stared self-consciously into the dead fireplace.
“And who the devil might you be?” demanded Poppy angrily. She protectively squeezed Thaddeus Hunloke’s hand, which brought an amused smile to the interloper’s face.
“Superintendent Rodney Bidder of Scotland Yard, ma’am. I’m glad to see you’re looking after Inspector Hunloke.”
“He isn’t an inspector, he happens to be a captain in the Buffs!” answered Poppy audaciously.
“Well, that’s a moot point... Do you mind if I sit down?”
“If you must...,” replied Poppy peevishly. “Close the door, I assume you weren’t born in a barn.”
Bidder smiled politely. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance of rustling up a cup of tea, Mrs Gray? I’m spitting feathers.”
“I will make one... So long as you don’t go bullying the Major!” declared Poppy Gray, her eyes aflame with anger and hostility. Bidder was reminded of a hen goose protecting her brood. He wanted to smile at the incongruity of the picture she painted, defiantly dressed as she was in a dressing gown and an over-sized tweed jacket.
“I think you’ll find he was a captain, ma’am... I promise to behave myself, scout’s honour...” Bidder raised his fingers in a scout salute.
“Well, in that case... Artie?” Poppy shook Hunloke by the shoulder, demanding his attention. “I’m going to make tea. Don’t say anything until I get back. Claim the eighteenth amendment!”
“That was the prohibition act,” replied Hunloke, automatically correcting her.
“Good, got your brain back, have you? Don’t say anything until I return, Artie...” Poppy scurried out of the room.
“Did she call you Artie? Is she for real?” asked a grinning Bidder.
“Yes, she is very special...,” replied Hunloke thoughtfully.
“I never thought I’d see Inspector Hunloke being consoled in the arms of a... how old is she, early twenties?” queried Bidder.
“Nineteen going on thirty-nine... Have you got a fag? I left mine upstairs.”
Bidder reached into his overcoat pocket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. He lit two simultaneously and ha
nded one over to Hunloke.
“So that’s it, is it?” asked Hunloke miserably. He coughed when he drew deeply on the cigarette that quivered in his hand.
“What?”
“I’m washed up...”
“You’re a funny bugger. You actually couldn’t wait to get back in uniform could you? Missed all the Army bullshit, did you? Well, the good news is, you can kiss the bull goodbye and get out of that bloody stupid uniform. If you recall, you were only on temporary secondment to the Army. And a fat lot of good that did you.”
“So I’m out on my ear?” Hunloke looked dejectedly up at his superior.
Bidder sighed and shook his head. “Just shut up and listen, lad... The ADC at the Met who had it in for you and your team got sloppy with you out of his hair. He got caught with a few of his acolytes red-handed consorting with the Turnbull twins. He’s suspended pending investigation. I had a word with the commissioner and he’s prepared to eat humble pie and have you back at the Yard.”
Hunloke stared into the jowled face of the forty-eight year old superintendant.
It was Bidder who had recruited Hunloke into Scotland Yard and fast-tracked him to the rank of inspector. Hunloke knew that his police career was all down to Rod Bidder. What he hadn’t appreciated until that very moment was how Bidder had always covered his back. Without Bidder, Hunloke would no doubt have been fitted up by the now discredited ADC.
With his time spent on compassionate leave and later in Derbyshire, it was patently clear to Hunloke that no one had been watching his back and he had allowed himself to be out manoeuvred.
“So what about the work I’ve been doing here?” enquired Hunloke.
Bidder laughed. “According to Turbutt, who I came up with from London, you haven’t been doing a lot... apart from pissing off the locals and ingratiating yourself with the local gentry.” He cast a wary eye towards the door. “Are you giving her one, then?” asked Bidder, clearly referring to the absent Poppy.
“Fuck off!” spat Hunloke.
“Can’t do that, lad...,” grinned Bidder. “Now perhaps you’d better tell me what’s been going on so I can make my own mind up as to how we proceed.”
“‘We’?”
“You’re reporting to me again now, lad, not the bloody Army. So tell me what’s been happening...”
Dancing with Artie (Thaddeus Hunloke Book 1) Page 26