Ten Lords A-Leaping

by Ruth Dudley Edwards

  The phone rang. As the baroness discussed plans with a still surprisingly calm Tommy Beesley, Amiss closed his eyes and tried to think pleasant thoughts about Rachel. Plutarch, who had just finished the ham, settled in appreciatively to the Stilton. She evinced no interest in the brown bread.

  ‘That’s all settled,’ said the baroness as she came off the phone. ‘As many of us as can make it will meet at 9.00 a.m. at Bertie’s London pad to talk things over.’

  ‘9.00?’

  ‘Only time he could manage.’

  ‘God, we’ll have to get up before 7.00.’

  ‘6.00. We’ll leave at 6.30 sharp so as to avoid the traffic. Then we can have a decent breakfast in London.’

  ‘What’s wrong with the train?’

  ‘I want to drive.’

  ‘How do you drive?’

  ‘How do you think?’

  ‘Could you summon a witness? I think it’s time I made a will.’ He looked round and saw a large ginger form nestled next to a gnawed piece of Stilton and drifting into sleep. ‘And I’m going to leave Plutarch to you.’

  ‘That’s no threat.’ The baroness rose, walked over to Plutarch, and stroked her. ‘She’s a girl after my own heart—appreciates her vittles. Now stop whingeing and try and get hold of young Ellis Pooley. He might have some useful gen. Then I’ll put you to bed.’

  ***

  ‘I should have expected you to drive a souped-up nineteen thirties Aston Martin,’ said Amiss as, relieved, he got into a comfortable seat in her modern saloon.

  ‘Cars are cars. They should be fast and generously built. Rather like me.’ Her chortle almost drowned out the revving of the engine as she sped down the drive.

  ‘That racket should have woken half of St Martha’s.’

  ‘Do ’em good. Shouldn’t be lazing in bed.’

  ‘If you’re awake, everyone should be awake, eh?’

  ‘Naturally.’

  Despite urban traffic, it took them less than an hour to cover the fifty-five miles to London, a feat which, because of inevitable hold-ups, involved the baroness taking the car to excessive speeds along several stretches of the motorway.

  ‘Must you drive so fast?’ said Amiss—trying to keep the panic out of his voice—the first time he saw the speedometer touch 110 mph.

  ‘I wouldn’t call this fast. Stop whining. It’s my job to drive and yours to keep an eye out for the rozzers and speed traps and find us the Today programme.’

  By the time they arrived in London, Amiss’ nerves about the baroness’ driving had been somewhat eased by his realization that—as in all dealings with her—one might as well lie back and enjoy it. From the radio they had learned little that was new except that the definitive tally was eleven, the names of all the victims, and details of the two or three who were eminent enough to attract tributes from the mighty. The Prime Minister had been wheeled on to talk of the work of his beloved colleague, Lady Parsons, whose concern for the underprivileged had been an example to everyone in his party: she had been a dear friend and would be sorely missed by him even more personally than politically.

  ‘Balls!’ interjected the baroness. ‘Bertie tells me the PM never could stand her and greatly regretted being pushed into giving her a peerage.’

  The programme was long on shock and short on facts. All that emerged at the end was that there were now nineteen corpses and nobody was quite clear why—though the finger of suspicion appeared to be pointing firmly at what various commentators kept describing coyly as subversive elements.

  ‘Pretty perfect description of you,’ said Amiss, as the baroness took a short cut by driving the wrong way up a one-way street. ‘Do you keep any rules?’

  ‘Rules are for other people. I like breaking them.’ She turned sharp right into a small car park, on the gate of which was a notice saying ‘Private—no access except for staff and visitors to M. C. Carter Ltd’, drove into a bay marked ‘Visitors’, switched off the engine, placed on the windscreen a notice saying, ‘Attending conference’, grabbed her holdall, and climbed out of the car.

  Amiss climbed out after her. ‘You are outrageous.’

  ‘You’ll turn my head if you go on paying me such compliments. Now come on, let’s step out briskly to the Ritz. We’ve got a long day ahead of us so we’d better stoke up well.’

  Chapter Twenty

  ‘I’m knackered.’ Amiss collapsed into Pooley’s armchair.

  ‘What do you think I am? I only had two hours in bed last night.’

  ‘Yes, but you’re spending your time with Jim. I’m spending mine with the Lady Troutbeck, who has just deposited me here after a sixteen-hour day and gone roaring into the night in high good humour, promising to beat her record of forty-five minutes to Cambridge. Her apparently inexhaustible supply of energy wears me out.’

  ‘I take your point. Jim had the grace to admit to being too tired to come here tonight. Do you want a drink?’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘Whisky?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you eaten?’

  ‘Vast breakfast, huge lunch, don’t need any more.’

  ‘Well, forgive me if I get myself something. We were running around so much today we didn’t have time for anything.’

  Amiss was asleep by the time Pooley returned from the kitchen bearing a tray with two apples, a piece of cheese, and a glass of milk. He awoke as a glass of whisky was put beside him.

  ‘What an admirably healthy meal. Doubt if it would go down well with Jack. It’s a bit austere, and besides, she thinks milk is for babies and cats.’

  ‘Well, from what I’ve seen of her—’ Pooley placed a piece of cheddar tidily on a brown cracker ‘—she’s the exception that proves every rule. Now, while I’m eating, tell me anything I should know that you’ve picked up today.’

  ‘Well, most of today has been squiring Jack around television and radio studios as she delivered variations on her “we-shall-not-be-moved” routine. She had a pretty clear run. Hear any of it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It was good stuff. She even managed a graceful tribute to Parsons. Jack prides herself on her ability to outdo the opposition when it comes to hypocrisy, so she came up with much about the sterling work of her fellow baroness and how tragic it was that this life of public service had been cut short by the action of insane supporters of hers in a cause both misplaced and ill-founded.’

  ‘Any opposition to this line?’

  ‘A couple of interviewers suggested the prohunting lobby might be behind this, but Jack brushed that aside as an absurd reflection on the stout-hearted people who kept our heritage alive in the British countryside. One of Jerry Dolamore’s sidekicks ranted a bit about those who murdered foxes being obvious murderers of people, but he wasn’t very convincing. And Brother Francis was too preoccupied with sharing with the listeners his new poem to get into the whodunit controversy.’

  Pooley finished his cheese. ‘What’s the poem like?’

  ‘All I can remember is

  That noble dame, so pure of soul

  With pity for the slave

  Is mourned tonight by every mole

  And fox and vixen brave.

  ‘Deliciously inappropriate for an apparatchik like the said Parsons, don’t you think?’

  Pooley laughed so much that he almost choked on his apple. ‘Thanks, Robert. I enjoyed that. There hasn’t been much to laugh at today.’

  ‘What’s the state of play with Dolamore?’

  ‘He’s being held under antiterrorist legislation, so in theory Charlie Friel could hold on to him for another five days, but honestly, from what I’ve heard, he’s going to get nowhere. Dolamore put up a very convincing show of shock/horror over the bombs and seemed genuinely upset about Parsons. Otherwise he’s full of self-righteousness and oratorical flourishes, and even Charlie’s coming to the conclusion that he couldn’t organize his way out of a paperbag, let alone into the Lords to murder its inmates. And the Commissioner’s getting tw
itchy about the protests outside the Yard demanding the release of Saint Jerry. My guess is he’ll be out any time now.’

  ‘So you write him off?’

  ‘If you ask me, he’s the sort of man who would be dangerous if he had a different calibre of supporter. But the activists don’t seem to be throwing up any military talents. They’re more like a gaggle of unruly street urchins.’

  ‘So another cul-de-sac?’

  ‘So it seems. How are things with you?’

  ‘Well, I can’t say our meeting at Bertie Stormerod’s was too cheery. A lot of the poor old boys have lost people they were fond of in one or another of those massacres, and a few of them are downright frightened, though rallied by a combination of Jack, Bertie, and Tommy Beesley, who now that he actually has a proper enemy in his sights is behaving just like an old cavalry officer.’

  ‘So is there a plan?’

  ‘Just to carry on with business as usual, with all the hard core having the job of rallying the troops and me continuing the back-room stuff and helping them make their case in committee. We’ve had one boost with today’s opinion polls showing that support for the abolition of fox-hunting has slumped from ninety-one per cent to sixty-four per cent. Stormerod gave most of the credit for this to Jack, though she said it should go to the Avengers for offending the English sense of fair play. It’s probably a mixture of both.’

  He drained his glass and waved it at Pooley. ‘So what gives on your side?’

  Pooley finished his apple, drank his milk, refilled Amiss’ glass, and poured himself a small measure of whisky to which he added an equal measure of water.

  ‘Well, it’s all so extraordinary and unprecedented it’s very hard to get a grip on. Take the bombs, for instance. The Bomb Squad are pretty certain that what happened was that the members of the Committee trickled in a few minutes before the meeting was due to start, sat down, chatted, and were joined by their chairman, Lady Parsons, precisely on time at 4.30. As soon as she sat down, the bomb under her cushion exploded. Naturally, everyone leaped up, and the bombs under each of their cushions exploded in turn.’

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘Two different types of antipersonnel mine. One kind explodes on contact, the other explodes when you release contact.’

  Amiss grimaced. ‘How very unpleasant.’

  ‘Horribly ingenious and sick at the same time.’

  ‘But what would have happened if the chairman had come in first?’

  Pooley shrugged. ‘Who knows? Maybe the murderer didn’t want to kill everybody. He might have been content with one or a few. That might even be why he didn’t use a bigger bomb. Though, of course, these mines are easier to transport.’

  ‘How big are they?’

  ‘About the size of a compact disk.’

  ‘Difficult to get?’

  ‘Unfortunately not. There were thousands of them sloshing around after the Gulf War, and they’re even easier to get from crooked arms dealers than the stun-gun.’

  ‘Still, there’s specialist knowledge involved, isn’t there? Presumably we’re looking for someone with a military background?’

  ‘If by military you mean paramilitary, yes, probably. But there’s no shortage of such people around these days.’

  ‘So who’s the hot favourite for perpetrator?’

  ‘Well, quite apart from the matter of Dolamore, the antiterrorist boys are still going hell for leather after the animal activists; they’re working steadily through the shortlist of particularly dangerous groups. We’re still plodding through the list of individuals murdered to see if by any chance all these people were murdered as a cosmetic device to cover up an attempt on the life of one of them.’

  ‘Surely in the light of the second lot of murders, that’s outrageously far-fetched?’

  ‘Come on. Don’t you remember the guy in America years ago who blew up a whole passenger plane so he could collect the life insurance on his mother? These things happen. Still, I admit it’s not likely, and Jim—because he’s thorough he’s going through the motions—thinks it’s hardly worth entertaining. Having gone through last week’s victims, we haven’t found a soul whom anyone would have wished to murder except for poor old Poulteney. And since we talked to the ghastly Vanessa, we really don’t rate her as a prospect. And of course, if any of those killed the first time round were specifically targeted, why were those others murdered yesterday?’

  ‘Well, exactly. If we’re to believe in the notion of murdering many to dispose of one, yesterday’s bombs would mean that they were aiming, a couple of weeks ago, for someone they missed, so all the ones they got then were irrelevant. So you should really only be investigating those they didn’t kill.’ He took a meditative sip. ‘It’s making my head swim.’

  ‘We haven’t quite reached that stage. At present we’re now focusing on who might have wanted to kill any of the unfortunates blown up yesterday as well as everyone in your group who would have been expected to turn up in committee room 4.’

  ‘So you must be talking about perhaps twenty-five individuals.’

  ‘Yes. But talk about needles in haystacks! We’ve got a team of CID people investigating everyone, but it’s an enormous job and God knows what the chances are of turning up motives unless they’re absolutely staring one in the face. And what’s more, as you can imagine, the security implications are an absolute nightmare. We’re going to have to bring in the SAS. We’re under ferocious criticism for having let yesterday happen. And since the media are screaming for his resignation, the Home Secretary’s hopping mad and is taking it out on the police. Yet how could we have stopped it? You could have fitted twenty of those bombs into a small briefcase and hidden them anywhere. We did as thorough a search as we could, but inevitably it just wasn’t good enough.’

  ‘Calm down, Ellis. You’re sounding very defensive. Now, I’m not attacking you and your stout colleagues, but—if I may be just a touch self-centred for a moment—how likely do you think I am to get knocked off in the service of the humble fox?’

  ‘Less than before, I think. You won’t be allowed to meet all together again without security clearance and high-grade protection. Even the mighty Duke of Stormerod got a flea in his ear this morning for having organized that meeting with all of you without telling us first.’

  ‘Where can we meet that’s safe?’

  ‘Well, not in the duke’s pad for a start. Jim and I have been there to see him and I observed—as no doubt you did—that it’s a five-storey house crammed with thousands of objets which would probably take us three days to search.’

  ‘I suppose the duke could ask the PM for his bunker.’

  Pooley rubbed his eyes. ‘Finish up your whisky and go home, Robert. We both badly need sleep. And if you see a dark form behind you when you’re waiting for a taxi, don’t worry. It’ll be one of ours. At least, it should be one of ours.’

  ‘Thanks, Ellis. You make me feel so safe.’

  ***

  ‘Why didn’t you ring? I was frantic with worry.’

  ‘I did! I left a message last night with Ravi that I was OK and gave a number where I could be reached. And I tried your office phone several times but it just rang and rang.’

  ‘It’s out of order,’ she said wearily. ‘And remind me to kill Ravi.’

  ‘Don’t kill him. Just sack him.’

  ‘Killing him would be a lot simpler. The dependants would get his life-insurance policy and you could come out and replace him. That would keep you out of harm’s way and also console me in my exile. Now, what the hell’s going on?’

  Ten minutes later he said, ‘That’s it. I don’t think there are any more salient details.’ There was a silence. ‘Rachel, are you there?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I’m here.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘With me? Nothing. With you it seems to me rather a lot.’

  ‘You don’t like what I’m doing because it’s dangerous?’

  ‘Parachuting is dangerous
. Bareback riding cross-country is dangerous. Walking across a motorway is dangerous. What you’re doing is suicidal.’

  ‘Don’t exaggerate.’

  ‘Exaggerate!’ she exploded. ‘Exaggerate! Nineteen corpses, half of them in smithereens, and you tell me I’m exaggerating? And now you and that lunatic Jack Troutbeck are proffering yourselves for target practice next time round.’

  ‘Oh, now…’

  ‘Don’t “Oh, now” me. What are you doing this for? To enable people you don’t even like to have the right to continue pursuing foxes around the countryside? Yes, that’s clearly a wonderful cause to die for. I’m sure your parents, like me, will see that the sacrifice was not in vain. We can club together to provide a fitting memorial. A stuffed fox, perhaps? Placed tastefully in a glass cabinet with a silver plaque engraved with “Robert Amiss 1964–1995. He died for this”.’

  ‘It would be more accurate, wouldn’t it,’ said Amiss tentatively, ‘to make it a stuffed hunter?’

  ‘It depends on how you interpret the word “stuffed”.’ Her tone was icy. ‘Why are you going on with this?’

  ‘On the fox-hunting front, because I hate leaving anything half finished. And on the murder investigatory front, just curiosity, I suppose.’

  ‘Wouldn’t your curiosity be satisfied if you let the police sort things out, and you were left alive to read about it in the newspapers?’

  ‘It’s not the same as being involved. And maybe even helping. Come on, Rachel. We’ve had this conversation several times before.’

  ‘Normally when we do, there are no more than a couple of bodies on the scene and nobody seems much interested in rubbing you out. This time is different.’

  ‘The curiosity isn’t different.’

  ‘You know what you remind me of? Hunters. In fact, everyone involved in this crazy business is a hunter. The prohunting ones are the simplest kind. All they want is to career around in pursuit of their foxes. The antihunting lot want, metaphorically, to hunt down the hunters. And you now want to hunt down whichever of them is the murderer even if, in the process, you break your neck or have it broken for you.’

  Amiss couldn’t think of anything to say.