Dancing with Artie (Thaddeus Hunloke Book 1)

by Pete Heathmoor

  “Steady on, old chap, a man could be horse whipped for saying things like that...,” declared Mills.

  Poppy sensed the rising tension and broke into the head to head between Hunloke and Mills. “You need a top up, Thaddeus...” She glided svelte-like across the floor towards the piano to collect his glass.

  Carey took the opportunity to speak. “I know you have had a trying time, Thaddeus, but I don’t think the day should be spoilt by you two boys fighting. Do you really think that Major Mills was involved with the German POW’s escaping?”

  “Yes, Carey, I believe your brother was...”

  Hunloke felt his excitement mounting another notch; an innate pleasure accrued by the casual way he revealed to Carey that he was aware of her kinship with Henry Mills. “Did you really think that I wouldn’t find out Henry was your younger brother? To be fair, it was the admirable Lieutenant Conway who did all the real work, which is why I feel it is fitting that Christine should be here. Have you always had to look after your younger brother?”

  Carey did not say a word for a few seconds. She waited for Poppy to hand over the recharged glass to Hunloke, still sitting at the piano. “I don’t see how you could possibly believe that Mr Mills and I are related. That really is a wild stab in the dark, even by your standards, Thaddeus.” Carey smiled sublimely as if by doing so Hunloke’s statement might be dismissed as a flight of fancy.

  Hunloke now had the bit between his teeth. “The reason you don’t look alike is because you’re not related. Henry was adopted from the Sisters of Devotion. Brian found the records. Perhaps the reason he found them so easily is because someone else had tracked down the records recently, is that not so, Henry?”

  Mills grinned mockingly. “I think you’ve had one too many knocks on the head, Thaddeus. You really are delving into the realms of fantasy.”

  “I don’t think so. The coincidences in this story are piled so high that the hand of design is clearly at work. I think this house has a lot do with it, she has acted with a stealthy hand throughout the proceedings.”

  It was not only Carey and Mills who offered an expression of bewilderment at Hunloke’s declaration. So too did Bidder and Christine Baldwin. Only Poppy, standing supportively at Hunloke’s shoulder, remained unmoved.

  Hunloke continued. “I don’t pretend to know all the subtle nuances at work, only how the plot resolved itself, which leaves us with one unanswered question. The story begins during the Great War. Thomas Gray brought home a pal from the Western Front, a fellow officer by the name of Charles Beevor. Tommy was effectively impotent, either by wounds physical or mental, inflicted through combat or by his increasing reliance on alcohol. Tommy was married to the headstrong and beautiful Constance. She and Beevor conducted an affair, which resulted in a child, who after the death of Tommy in 1918, was put out for adoption by the family. Connie died during the Spanish Flu epidemic in 1919, or from a broken heart. It would appear as if our Charles Beevor dropped Connie like a stone after the war. Perhaps he was married or had a fiancée waiting for him.”

  Carey spoke up. “Are you suggesting that Henry is that child? That is preposterous! Of all the places he could have gone, why come here?”

  “That, Carey is where I believe the house comes into play. Why would Beevor be posted to a camp as its commanding officer where he had spent his leave during the Great War? Why should Henry be drawn to Flash Camp when there are dozens of others he could have focused upon?”

  “But how did Major Mills discover Beevor was his father?” Christine Baldwin asked the question that was on everyone’s mind.

  “That, I don’t know, Chrissie,” confessed Hunloke. He lit a cigarette and watched the blue expanse of cloud drift up into the high ceiling. There was an air of whimsy in his voice when he next spoke. “Perhaps when he and Beevor discussed Operation Rabe, one or both of them felt something, a connection that transcended the casual. I reckon that is when Henry began researching. As an accomplished agent, he would have had little trouble finding Beevor’s beautiful scribed and detailed journal, which more or less spelt out the whole story. Why he didn’t steal the journal, I don’t know. What we do know was that when we arrived at the camp, Beevor was keeping a very low profile. I guess Henry had by then confronted him.”

  Carey could no longer maintain her silence. “This is ludicrous! You can’t prove a word of this! I’ll see that you are struck off!”

  Hunloke smiled apologetically. “I’m not a doctor, Carey, you don’t strike off policemen. Perhaps Poppy should top you up?” He could see Carey seething, not so much for what he had said, but due to her lack of composure when challenging him. Poppy collected the decanter from the three-bottle tantalus along with fresh tumblers and topped up the glasses. No one refused a refill, even Christine who didn’t particularly like whisky.

  Hunloke carried on with his exposé. “I suppose you must have been looking after Henry all your life, Carey. Getting your little brother out of the scrapes he would always find himself in. Always a striver as a child but never quite feeling that he belonged. And that for me is the sad part of the story, how he used you...”

  Hunloke stared at Carey, looking for a response that wasn’t forthcoming. She glared at him accusingly with her eye, which darted to her left, monitoring the reaction of her brother as she had done so all her life.

  By acquired practice, Mills sat calmly in his chair, a faint smile contorting his thin lips. He could easily have been in a cinema watching a movie on the big screen.

  “I would say Henry joined the intelligence service first,” declared Hunloke. “He went to the right school and college. I’m told he was very good in Germany just before the war, that he had actually found something that suited his Machiavellian nature. Being a nepotistic world, it is no surprise that he found you a role in the foundling SOE; he wanted his big sister to be a part of his world. You were an ideal candidate, Carey, smart, resourceful, and beautiful. And then you were caught by the Gestapo. I would love to know how you escaped; it must be a story worth telling. The insidious part of the tale is how your brother betrayed you.”

  “He didn’t betray me, it was Beevor!” roared Carey.

  The confession was spontaneous and for a second she regretted her outburst until a cathartic balm engulfed her body. She had been unable to speak to anyone other than Henry concerning the clandestine, terrifying world she had inhabited and which still haunted her. To make a declaration to the room felt wonderfully liberating, she felt a head rush of giddy delight like plunging naked into a French mountain stream on a stiflingly hot summer’s afternoon.

  “Ah, but there’s the irony, Carey. It wasn’t Beevor...” Hunloke’s assertion hung in the smoke infused atmosphere.

  “Rubbish! Everyone in the service knew it was Beevor!” cried Carey animatedly, leaning forward in her seat, her one eye blazing furiously with wrathful denial.

  “So Henry told you...,” whispered Hunloke softly.

  “Everyone knew!” repeated Carey.

  “Not the ‘everyone’ I have spoken to. According to Turbutt, who is closely connected to the head of SOE, no one knows who betrayed you. It was most likely someone in France. Beevor had no motive to set you up. You just wanted it to be someone at home like Beevor, not the French who you admired and who had provided you with a lover who died at the hands of the Gestapo or Milice. Henry fuelled your understandable desire for revenge and Beevor’s fate was sealed. That he died from cyanide poising pointed the way to the intelligence services, we all know you’re issued with capsules.”

  “That is utter rubbish! We all know it was Beevor who betrayed me and François!” shouted Carey.

  “No, Carey...,” said Hunloke apologetically, “When Henry told you it was Beevor, you simply wanted to believe it, settling of scores for the death of your lover and your torture and perhaps rape. Henry used you to murder the father who had deserted him and ruined his mother’s life. Why don’t you ask Henry?”

  Carey twisted and looked angril
y at Mills. He remained as disdainfully aloof as he had throughout Hunloke’s declaration. “Tell them, Henry!” screamed Carey. “Tell them it’s not true!”

  Mills reached inside his jacket pocket. For a second, Hunloke thought he was reaching for a weapon and found himself standing by the piano. However, all Mills produced was his pipe, which he fumbled with whilst striking a match. Hunloke still thought the pipe ill-suited, merely an aid to garner gravitas.

  “The man is talking balderdash, Carey,” stated Mills. “He hasn’t a shred of evidence, he is simply goading you,” muttered Mills, his teeth clenching the pipe stem.

  “Is it true, did I...” whispered Carey.

  Hunloke felt the charged atmosphere within the room. It felt as though a thunderstorm was imminent.

  “For the sake of God, Carey, shut up!” shouted Mills with an explosion of anger. He visibly composed himself by shrugging his body within the confines of the chair. “I’ve lost my appetite. If it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll leave now,” proposed Mill to no one in particular.

  “Henry, where are you going?” pleaded Carey. She pitched forward even further in her seat and twisted frantically to grasp his right arm.

  “Get off, woman!” Mills snatched his arm away from Carey and in one admirably slick movement, reached inside his suit jacket and pulled out a compact Walther PPK pistol. The appearance of the weapon impelled everyone back in their seats as though pushed by unseen hands. “As I said,” repeated Mills, “I think I’ll be on my way...”

  “You’re not going anywhere, you bastard!” Hunloke was leaning against the Steinway, grimacing at Mills.

  “Well, I don’t think a cripple like you is going to stop me,” leered Mills. “And by way of security, I think I’ll take Mrs Gray with me. Promise I’ll take care of her.”

  “What about me, Henry?” beseeched Carey.

  “You’re quite safe, my dear, just keep your mouth shut.” Mills pointed his pistol at Poppy. “If you’d be so kind, Mrs Gray, I think it’s time we were on our way.” Mills was smiling, clearly enjoying the moment. “I’d like to say it’s been a pleasure, unfortunately I can’t...”

  Hunloke stepped in front of Poppy, barring her path.

  “Oh, very chivalrous, Thaddeus,” laughed Mills. “Take one more step and I’ll use this German gun. I’ll have no qualms about shooting you. It might be as well that I do. I’m sure Mr Edward Gray and the Duke of Brocklingby will be most eager to lay their hands on you when they discover what you’ve been doing to the young wife and daughter.”

  Hunloke snarled ferociously at Mills. Before he could launch himself at the MI6 man, he felt Poppy’s hand tugging at his sleeve.

  “No, Artie...,” broadcast Poppy with her haughty, authoritative voice. Hunloke glared at her, the feral intensity of his eyes only moderating when he looked upon her calm and resigned face. “Let me go, I’m sure I’ll be quite safe with Mr Mills. He wouldn’t dare harm an Eason; Daddy would set the hounds on him.”

  Poppy stuttered up to Mills. He indicated for her to turn around and thrust the pistol in the small of her back. Bidder and Christine were now on their feet; Hunloke clenched his fists and edged back towards the piano stool whilst Mills cajoled Lady Violet to walk backwards with him towards the open door of the drawing room.

  “Wait, Henry! You can’t leave me!” screamed Carey. The words had no effect on Mills. He continued to retreat slowly backwards towards the door. With one final, beaming smile, Mills grabbed Poppy’s bare arm and like a pantomime demon, exited stage.

  A groan, accompanied by a dull thud, emanated from the anteroom. A second later, a relieved and pale looking Poppy appeared in the doorway flanked by Sergeant Donovan and acting Corporal Bird.

  “Major Mills has taken a bit of a tumble, Mr Hunloke,” announced Donovan. “Would you like us to take him back to the camp with us?”

  Hunloke smiled his lopsided grin. Planning was everything. “Thank you, sergeant. That would be most appreciated. I hope you haven’t cracked his skull, Corporal Bird?”

  “No, sir,” grinned Bird, “just a tap with the rifle butt.”

  Hunloke nodded his thanks. “Pity, never mind, so long as the bastard has a headache when he wakes up...”

  Chapter 35 – The Last Laugh.

  Sunday 10th December 1944.

  The air within the morning room positively shimmered. The central heating had long since passed its effective best but the small log fire kept the room snug and comfortable. Hunloke conceded that it was perhaps not just the physical warmth of the room that made his body tingle.

  Carey Gladwin was sitting in the chair by the fire whilst Hunloke and Bidder perched anticipatively on the edge of the sofa.

  “I really am sorry, Carey,” professed Hunloke.

  She looked up from inspecting the whisky tumbler clutched on her lap by her trembling hands. Her eye was clear but had lost a good deal of its natural effervescence. Her mouth opened but no words emerged and her gaze returned once more to the amber liquid within the glass.

  “You were tricked by Henry. Would you like to tell me what happened?” Carey again looked up following Hunloke’s suggestion and glanced towards Rodney Bidder. “He has to be here, Carey,” he declared gently. “Don’t worry, Rod is a good friend of mine, he isn’t here to trap anyone.”

  “Do you think I trust anyone, Thaddeus?” Her voice was firm and clear but with a qualification that denuded it of any passion. “The last man I trusted has betrayed me, you are all cads.”

  “I doubt that you think François was,” attested Hunloke.

  “Don’t you dare talk about François! You have no idea what you’re talking about, absolutely no idea...”

  “No, I don’t think any of us can imagine the life you lived together.”

  Carey looked wistfully into the flames of the fire. “I loved the south of France. It was so beautiful; the climate is so different. I’d like to go there when this is all over.”

  “‘This’?”

  “The bloody war...”

  “What happened to François?”

  Carey screwed up her eye and peered contemptuously at Hunloke. “He died.”

  “The Gestapo?”

  “No, Pétain’s Milice. They were as bad if not worse than the Gestapo.”

  “And you managed to escape?”

  “Obviously, or I wouldn’t be sitting here.”

  “How?” probed Hunloke with genuine curiosity.

  “Oh, I really don’t think you want to know, Thaddeus. It might upset your Edwardian modesty. I did what I had to do...”

  “And were you really here to assess the purchase of the house?”

  “Of course I was. I maybe a hideous wreck to look at but some people still recognise my talents.”

  “The consortium?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Henry?”

  “He told me that Beevor was the man who betrayed François and I and that Beevor was in charge of Flash Camp. And before you go off into the realms of coincidence, you’ll be surprised what a small world it is.”

  “I know... So what happened with Beevor?”

  “I went to his cottage. He’d been drinking and was dozing in his chair. It was easy. I popped the capsule between his molars and clamped his jaw shut.”

  “So he was asleep?”

  “Not after he bit on the capsule, he wasn’t, cyanide does tend to burn the mouth somewhat...” She glared challengingly at the two police officers.

  “So he saw you?”

  “Oh, I made sure he saw me!” Hatred flared in Carey’s eye.

  “And how did he appear?”

  “Appear? What fool question is that? It takes up to three minutes for a cyanide capsule to kill you. Perhaps it was a little quicker in his case. Apparently it works quicker on an empty stomach full of booze.”

  “Did he look surprised?”

  “Of course he looked bloody surprised! Wouldn’t you?”

  “But did he understand why you wer
e doing it?”

  “I don’t follow...?”

  “Did he realise you had come seeking revenge?”

  “Of course...” Carey stopped mid sentence to relive the death throes of Charles Beevor. “He didn’t put up a fight, if that’s what you mean.”

  “And I would suggest to you that Charles Beevor was resigned to his fate, not for any act of betrayal perpetrated against you but for what he had done at Flash House and the son who despised him for abandoning him.”

  “That’s not true! It was because he recognised me!” spat Carey.

  “No, he knew you to be the sister of the son he had let down and betrayed.”

  Carey sat open-mouthed, staring into the fire.

  “I’ve heard enough, inspector,” said Bidder. “Charge her with the murder of Charles Beevor and get her off to Flash Camp for the night.”

  The lone figure sat hunched at the library desk writing up his notes concerning the events at Flash House that afternoon. It was after eleven o’clock when his fountain pen made the last stroke on the paper and he lolled back in the chair, stretching his long body. Professionally, it had been an excellent day for the Scotland Yard detective and yet try as he might, he couldn’t summon up one ounce of satisfaction.

  Henry Mills’ actions that day as good as confirmed his guilt of assisting the escaped POW, Hans-Georg Bonhof and Cathy Maxfield. How much he could prove in a court of law was debatable without Mills’ confession. He could at least be held on the attempted abduction of Lady Violet Gray.

  A knock on the door was followed by the appearance of Christine Baldwin. Although dressed, she wore a borrowed red silk dressing gown from Poppy to combat the growing chill of the nocturnal house.

  “Can I come in, sir?” asked Christine meekly.

  He offered a receptive grin. “How come you were incapable of addressing me ‘sir’ when we were both in uniform and yet you manage to when there’s no need? Come on, Chrissie, sit by what is left of the fire.” He stood up from behind the desk and met her at the armchairs by the glowing embers in the fire grate. He offered her a cigarette and placed a flame beneath her bobbing smoke. Synchronised in their movements, they each took a chair.