“Put your guns down!” hollered Hunloke defiantly. He hoped his fedora didn’t compromise his otherwise military appearance and confuse the Paras. “The kids are coming out!”
He heard no order but noticed the rifles vanish as quickly as they had appeared.
“Poppy, send them out!” he shouted back into the building. Led by the teachers, the schoolchildren of Flash Village cautiously began to stream out of the schoolhouse. The disciplined departure disintegrated into a race when the first worried parent showed herself at the school gate. As more mothers materialised, so more of the children broke ranks and sprinted towards the outstretched arms of parental succour.
Hunloke felt a tug on his right sleeve. He looked down to see the face of a small six-year-old boy staring beseechingly up at him, tears smearing his dirty face. For a fleeting second, the boy appeared for all the world like his son, Harry.
Thaddeus Hunloke felt a surge of debilitating grief for his dead child. “What’s up, son?” he muttered through clenched teeth and stinging tears.
“Please, sir... I need a wee,” requested the child politely yet with obvious anxiety. His eyes flitted to and fro, intrigued by the tall man’s scarred face.
Kneeling reassuringly at the child’s side, Hunloke looked towards the group gathered at the gate. “Is your mum there?” he asked the boy gently. Even though the fog had barely lifted, the child raised his hand to shield his eyes against an imaginary sun.
“Yes, sir... I can see her now.”
“Then you’d best run along. You can go when you get home, okay?”
Without another word, the child ran off and disappeared into the crowd of parents.
“Are you alright?” asked Poppy, stepping out from the school building from where she had been observing the vignette from the doorway.
Hunloke wiped away a tear. “We seem to ask that a lot of each other,” he commented with unusually tenderness.
“Well, are you...?” She squatted by his side and placed a reassuring arm around his shoulder.
“I’d say it’s all a matter of degrees, wouldn’t you? At least I feel, which is more than Brian... I reckon Christine is going to be feeling a lot worse than she does at this precise moment when she finds out what’s happened. So I guess I’m all right... And Poppy...?”
“Yes, Artie?”
“Help an old soldier up would you? There’s a love... I think I’m stuck.”
Poppy sprung lithely upright and pulled him to his feet with an air of feigned difficulty. We her arm around his waist and his around her shoulder, they shuffled slowly towards the gate. The parents had vanished, leaving only an officer in a maroon beret standing next to Richard Rogers and Carey Gladwin. Perhaps fate had decreed that Carey should be wearing a red beret that day.
A disentangled Hunloke and Poppy were ushered behind the high school wall at the roadside so the gate could be shut. Thaddeus Hunloke watched Captain Philby open his mouth to speak. Instead of words, all Hunloke was aware of was the pressure wave passing over the top of the wall above his head, followed a split second later by a combustive roar when an explosion ripped apart the classroom where the children had been just minutes ago.
Admittedly, on the scale of destruction meted out during five years of war, it was not a large explosion. However, it was the biggest explosion in the history of Flash and of sufficient violence to destroy the entire classroom. The windows were completely blown out but at least Sir Gervais Montclair’s over-engineered roof remained intact.
It would be an understatement to say that there were a lot of loose ends to be sewn up. The metaphorical knitting had become so unravelled that Hunloke doubted that the garment could be saved.
The action that took place that day was all over by mid morning. The rest of the day was taken up with the aftermath. Hunloke lost count of the people he spoke to, the interviews that bordered on interrogations. By the afternoon, he had become insentient to time and place. At one point, he remembered alarming the interviewing police officer by his sudden outburst when he remembered that George Burrows and his family were still locked in the cellar at Flash Farm.
Other than that, the day passed in a blur of justifications and explanations. He retold his story to the point that it ceased to hold any significance or meaning. A lurid, cheap paperback novel appeared to make more sense.
At one point, he was taken away to a place he guessed to be Matlock where he was interviewed by someone who refused to give his name before being whisked back to Flash Camp for further questioning.
His one huge regret was not being able to speak to Christine Baldwin. It was Sergeant Donovan who told him that an anonymous officer had taken her to one side and the distraught ATS corporal was last seen being helped from the guardroom.
Midnight arrived and it seemed to Hunloke as though he had awoken from a trance. He found himself alone in the guardroom. For the first time that day since leaving the school, he was unaccompanied. A dreadful loneliness grew in the pit of his stomach. He felt thirsty and hungry. He wondered where the duty corporal was and the answer came a few minutes later.
“Captain Hunloke, sir...” The corporal had to repeat his question to rouse the slumbering Hunloke.
“Sorry, corp, what is it?”
“Sir, there’s a young lady outside the gates. She’s been there all evening waiting for you, sitting in her car. She refused to leave.”
Hunloke instinctively knew it was Poppy.
“Do you suppose they have finished with me today, corp?” asked a cold and dispirited former commandant of Flash Camp. The young corporal gave an ambivalent shrug. Hunloke picked up his now rather battered and dirty fedora and absently reflected upon the fact that he actually preferred it now that it had acquired what he cynically described as ‘wear’.
He hovered by the exit. “How many lads died today at the school, corp?” he asked without looking at the corporal.
“Six including Major Fakir. Three of the lads should pull through.”
“I’m glad... Night, corporal.”
“Good night, sir.”
The door rattled shut behind Hunloke and he limped lethargically towards the main gate where he had to wake up the solitary private on the gate. The veteran of goodness knows what campaigns apologetically and clumsily opened the barrier, allowing Hunloke to trudge to the waiting Humber Snipe.
He stood briefly to look around him. The fog had been banished and beneath the clear starry sky, a silver hoar frost had settled, coating the world in a luminescent sheen. Glancing to the southeast, a waning gibbous moon in its last quarter was rising over the forest.
Poppy was asleep, curled in the passenger seat, her legs neatly folded beneath her, covered by the sprawling duffle coat. She murmured in her sleep when he started the car and drove unhurriedly back towards Flash House.
The mansion appeared unreal beneath the bright starlight, like a block of carved stone, only the extremities of her features appeared distinct against the impenetrable blue of night, each turret and pinnacle uniquely plotted against the firmament. He was unaware of thinking about the house in terms of gender.
Poppy stirred when the Snipe crunched over the gravel forecourt. “I’m cold...,” she murmured child-like from the shadows of the passenger seat.
“I should think you are, sitting there all night...” He sounded critical but felt anything but when he turned the key, silencing the engine.
“What time is it?” she asked.
“After midnight. I don’t want to look.”
“Why?”
“Because for a few hours I would like to be oblivious of time, to live the moment and to hell with the world.”
“Then you’ve come to the right place... I need Horlicks to warm up, do you want some?”
Hunloke had been considering something stronger but the novelty of the malted milk drink held a compelling appeal. He had not eaten all day and felt beyond the normal bounds of hunger. The drink would do him good.
“Sure. Can
you manage?” His voice now conveyed concern.
“I was asleep not dead...” Poppy suddenly became aware of the crassness of her words. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to say that.”
“It’s alright, princess. I know a lot of folk who are dead, better people than those left to see the peace, if the bloody war ever ends. What’s a few more names to the growing list? I hope the bastards who come after us will be grateful... I somehow doubt they will... Come on, let’s get you inside, you must be frozen.”
He was well used to Flash House by now and he knew instantly that the house was not empty. Rod Bidder had been kept in Chesterfield Royal Infirmary overnight with suspected concussion.
Inspector Thaddeus Hunloke was aware that it wasn’t his chief’s presence in the mansion who raised his hackles.
Poppy too sensed the presence; they both froze in the cloister, Poppy with her head to one side as if listening. He drew his large revolver from inside his jacket and pulled back the hammer to full cock.
“She’s in the morning room,” stated Poppy calmly.
“Who?”
“You’ll find out soon enough. I don’t think you’ll be needing that...” She nodded at his Webley revolver. “I’ll make the Horlicks and join you.” She yawned and shivered before sauntering off in a seemingly unconcerned fashion towards the hallway en route to the kitchen.
The fire blazed in the fireplace having recently been re-stoked and supplied with a fresh chunk of dried elm. In the chair beside the fire sat Carey Gladwin. She appeared to be dozing, her eye-catching woollen-stockinged long legs stretched out before her beneath a blue dress, her arms hugging her matching cardigan to her body beneath her bust.
“I hope you’re not pointing anything menacing at me or I’d be most disappointed,” whispered Carey.
Her eyes remained shut and she stretched feline-like in the chair. Hunloke released the weapon’s cocked hammer, arresting its descent towards the loaded round with his thumb. Even so, something prevented him from putting the gun away. He allowed it to hang limply at his side.
“Do take a seat, Thad; you’ve had a difficult day. For my part, I think you did very well. I’m not sure everyone agrees with me...”
He remained standing, enjoying the direct heat from the fire. He only wished the room was reversed so that his left leg was nearest to the source of heat. With his left hand, he tossed his hat upon the coffee table.
“Who are you, Carey?” he asked with an air of exasperation.
“You know who I am. You don’t necessarily know what I am.” She looked at him with her deep brown eye. Unusually, it did not flitter but remained unwaveringly fixed upon him. Her countenance bore a stern aspect, coldly beautiful in his humble opinion. It occurred to him that she was like the beautiful Greek statues in the hall, exquisite in form and on the eye but disappointingly devoid of the spark of life.
“Do I really have to repeat the question?” he asked. “I’m too tired and fucked off for any more games...”
“I am many things. As far as your interests go, I was once in the SOE, that’s how I got this, courtesy of some interrogating Gestapo man.” She pointed vaguely at her right eye.
“I’ve no idea what SOE is,” declared Hunloke honestly.
“Special Operations Executive.”
“Not another bloody spy...,” he moaned. His irritation was genuine if somewhat demonstrative.
“No, I wasn’t a spy, Thaddeus; I was a saboteur in France.”
“You mean the Germans got hold of you, did that to you, and still you got out?”
“I have persuasive talents, Thaddeus... The right word in the right guard’s ear does wonders for a girl’s chances of escaping, plus a willingness to oblige... Anyway, my SOE days are long behind me. Not much use to anyone looking like this.”
“I think you look lovely.”
“Yes, I believe you do. You really are very sweet underneath that prickly exterior. I wonder if you’d feel the same way if you weren’t damaged goods yourself? Sorry, that’s unfair, forgive me...”
“So why are you here in the village? Checking up on me?”
“God no, you flatter yourself. I didn’t know you were coming until Mrs Claxon at the post office told me you were staying at the Red Lion in Ashover. I’m here as a prospective purchaser of the house.”
“You? Buying Flash...?” He was genuinely taken aback. He moved slowly to the sofa and sat gently upon the fabric, placing the revolver on the coffee table. “Does Poppy know?”
“No, although she rightly has her suspicions about me.”
“Are you rich?”
“Lord no! I represent what is best described as a consortium who is interested in the house’s potential. William has agreed to the sale in principal. The Grays are rather strapped for cash.”
“Poppy has her own money,” he leant wearily back into the sofa.
“Yes, but the house doesn’t belong to her or her husband.”
“Who is this consortium?”
“You don’t need to know that, Thad.”
“So you working here has just been your way of assessing the property? Covert real estate. And you say you aren’t a spy?” He hadn’t intended the smile but it escaped nevertheless.
“I suppose so, but you have drawn yourself to the attention of the consortium.”
“Me? They want to buy me? I’ve been fighting corruption at Scotland Yard for years and for my sins, ended up here.”
“Yes, so we discovered. You have a very interesting track record. Important people find you interesting.”
Hunloke shrugged, too tired to glean any subtext from her announcement. “So you know Henry Mills?”
“I know him only by name. He was in Section D of MI6 in the early days; they were in much the same line of business as the SOE.”
“I think there are too many bloody spies in this war. Too much bloody secrecy for secrecy sake,” scoffed Hunloke.
“There are many ways to fight a war.”
“That’s cheering to know. Why are you here, now I mean?”
“To make sure you’re alright. I’m sorry about Mr Conway. He was a good man. If I can help in any way...”
“Yes he was. I hope there was no way you could have prevented his death.” Whatever trace of smile had been present vanished at the mention of Brian’s name.
“Like I said, Thaddeus, I’m retired from the business. I only came here to look over the house for my employers.”
“I wonder if you’re playing down your talents...”
“Not at all...,” smiled Carey.
“There is one thing you might be able to do, with your seemingly excellent connections.”
“What’s that?”
“Find out where Henry Mills is.”
“That might be difficult if he doesn’t want to be found...”
The door opened and Poppy entered the morning room carrying three cups of Horlicks. That Carey Gladwin was in the room didn’t faze Poppy at all. She took a seat next to her unlikely lover on the sofa.
“Ah, a lovely fire. Here you are, Artie.” She handed over a steaming mug of malted drink to the inspector, who cupped it appreciatively in two hands. “I made one for you too, Carey. I take it you intend staying the night?”
“If that’s okay with you, Mrs Gray. You did invite me.”
“Of course it is, my dear,” smiled Poppy deceitfully.
There was a standoff between the two women for a moment until Carey spoke. “Well, I think if it is alright with you two, I’ll take my drink to bed with me.”
“Yes, why don’t you do that...,” agreed Poppy.
“Good night to you both then.” Carey raised herself gracefully from the chair. Poppy remained silent, only Hunloke bidding Carey goodnight. The door had no sooner closed than Poppy turned on Hunloke.
“So what the hell did she want?” insisted Poppy.
He laughed at the sight of her blazing eyes. There was little likelihood of her giggling in the next five minutes. “She r
epresents an organisation that is in negotiations with your brother-in-law to buy the house.”
“Over my dead body!” grimaced Poppy, “I bloody knew she was up to no good!”
He grinned upon hearing Lady Violet Gray swearing, but his laughter subsided when he saw the tears filling her eyes and rolling down her haughty cheeks. He absently put his half-consumed mug on the table and slid across towards her.
“Table...!” she cried through her tears. He glanced at his mug and rolled his eyes when he realised he had missed the coaster and placed it directly on the mahogany table top. He shifted the mug and resumed his traverse.
“I don’t think you’ll have much say in whether the house is sold or not,” he said softly. He felt her arms scrabbling to resist his embrace but finally she relented and buried her face against his shoulder. She fell silent, considering the implications of the sale.
“Did you bathe this morning?” she muttered into his tweed jacket between snuffles.
“You know I didn’t.”
“No wonder you stink...”
He attempted to move aside but she clung on to him. “Don’t, please... hold me...,” she whispered, her voice trembling with the emotion of a day like no other at Flash. He did as he was told, clutching her tightly, pulling her across to lie on top of him. He felt a wave of emotional exhaustion sweep over him and was prepared to accept the aesthetic balm until he felt something hard and metallic jabbing painfully into his flesh. It took little effort on his part to deduce it was Brian Conway’s silver cigarette case.
Chapter 31 - The Reckoning.
Wednesday 6th December 1944.
It was light when he tentatively awoke. The room was held in perpetual twilight by the blackout curtains but he was astute enough to know that outside daylight ruled. As if to confirm his suspicions, he heard the raucous calls of the competing crows. On the other hand, were they rooks? He really had no idea.
He sensed his mind’s reluctance to abandon its dormant state. He felt comfortable and relaxed. He slowly reached out with his right arm where he felt the warm skin of Poppy’s bare back. Her heavy breathing held a hypnotic quality, lulling him back towards sleep. It was rare to find Poppy slumbering and her rhythmical exhalations kept at bay the encroaching memories of the previous twenty-four hours and the repercussions that the coming day would demand.
Dancing with Artie (Thaddeus Hunloke Book 1) Page 33