Arabella Brightly-Smythe twists her nervous fingers. It is all she can do not to slap her friend. Hot and furiously stimulated she struggles to find the right words. ‘Don’t start sounding like Charlie and Mags—you don’t know him like I do. He has been frightened and manipulated into taking this stand; he was probably afraid that something awful would happen to me if he fought to keep me. I see it all now, so clearly. Poor, poor Jamie, what chance did he ever stand against Them and their wickedness? I was such a fool not to understand what he was trying to tell me. But now, Tusker, with your help, I intend to take Them on and show Them up for what They really are.
‘I intend to be there in church on Sunday with or without your help.’
Oh my God.
TWENTY-FIVE
No fixed abode
‘WHERE THE BLOODY HELL is she?’
‘I haven’t the vaguest clue.’
‘I thought Lovette was supposed to be watching.’
‘I thought so, too, Sir Hugh. The man on duty clearly was not up to his job and Lovette assures me he will be severely reprimanded.’
‘Let us hope so,’ says Sir Hugh Mountjoy, pacing his sumptuous office, sipping from a glass of Andrews Salts every now and again because this is the very worst scenario he could possibly have imagined and it seems to have given him a peptic ulcer. In these dark waters even Sir Hugh is out of his depths. How he wishes, now, that he’d never taken Lovette’s advice, that sinister little man with his crude devices, and it is quite apparent that Dougal, so clean-cut and dapper, standing so apologetically before him, feels this issue to be just as distasteful as he does.
But what else was Sir Hugh supposed to do, faced with the wretched girl’s continued obstinacy? She couldn’t be allowed to give birth to the child, that much was obvious once she refused to give up all claim to Prince James, and a quick and painless abortion disguised as a sad miscarriage would have alleviated much distress on all fronts, including her own in the long run. After that, well, it was merely a matter of branding the girl an hysterical fool given to delusions, and Lovette’s tame doctor swore that a few visits to his private clinic, one little injection, would certainly achieve that with a minimum of fuss. There would be no proof, absolutely no come-back at all. The clinic’s reputation was spotless. So Dougal might do well to take that look of disdain off his face. After all, it was he who advised that Arabella Brightly-Smythe was so dull-witted she would happily submit to private treatment, all expenses paid. ‘She is easy to manipulate,’ said Dougal, showing off to some extent, Sir Hugh is certain, eager to demonstrate his power over women although, of course, the cocky young fellow gets no satisfaction in that direction. ‘And she is a fool.’
‘Well, we know that already,’ Sir Hugh had pointed out on the fatal day when they had Lovette in and discussed this option with him.
‘She stubbornly insists on seeing Jamie and we’re running out of time now. She’s not going to change her mind, although I’ll carry on with the house purchase in case we get some sudden alternative response.’
‘Well, no one can say we haven’t tried kindness,’ mused Sir Hugh, reluctant to give Lovette his head even at this late stage. ‘We have bent over backwards, and I’m still not convinced the wanton hussy isn’t playing with us for what she can get.’
‘She’s not bright enough to do that,’ Dougal annoyingly insisted. ‘She’d have to have some larger brain guiding her from behind if she was intending to do that.’
‘We don’t know for certain that she hasn’t,’ argued Sir Hugh, at his wits’ end, seeing his promotion going out of the window. ‘How about those friends she shares that flat with? They must know what’s going on, surely.’
‘Apparently Arabella is playing all this business fairly close to the chest. According to her, these two friends initially urged her to have an abortion, just as James did. We all know her feelings on that subject. And because of that I believe Arabella is fairly careful with what she lets slip. I know she hasn’t told them about The Grange, simply because I urged her that it would be better, at this stage, if she didn’t.’
‘Oh, and she does what you tell her without question, is that it?’ asked Sir Hugh, disbelieving.
‘She trusts me,’ said Dougal with no shame. ‘And why not? I am a trustworthy person. Or have been so far.’ And he stared pointedly at Lovette.
The thin little man who wore a mac like a spy spoke up from his upright chair in the corner. Sir Hugh noticed with some horror that he was wearing the kind of white shoes gangsters in movies used to wear. ‘Would she accept the idea that she should visit a private gynaecologist for further checks if you put this to her?’
‘I’m sure she would.’
‘And you would be prepared to go with her?’
‘Of course he would,’ put in Sir Hugh. ‘It’s his job.’
Lovette’s voice was thin and sly. His predatory little eyes circled their sockets as he spoke. Both his superiors regretted the necessity of doing business with such a creature but he’d been reliable in the past, got them out of certain distressing scrapes concerning some Family members, particularly James. And he’s tight as a clam. Ex-CIA. ‘You think she would keep this matter to herself in the same way she took your advice over the purchase of The Grange?’ he asked.
‘I don’t see why not, but I must make it clear at this stage that I am not entirely happy with—’
‘We are not concerned with everyday morality here,’ broke in Sir Hugh firmly. ‘We are here to protect a great tradition and to ensure it goes forward from strength to strength in spite of all the little hiccups that sometimes beset it along the way. And may I remind you of your oath, young Rathbone?’
‘I just feel—’
‘And what makes your feelings so superior to everyone else’s?’ blustered an apoplectic Sir Hugh. ‘God dammit, Dougal, I must say this is really most aggravating of you. We are all reluctant to take such a dire step, we’re not monsters after all, but it seems there is no other way out. If you feel so strongly against it, then come up with something better why don’t you. Put up or shut up! Hah!’
‘I’m sorry my sincere opinions antagonise you so, Sir Hugh, but I really must ask Mr Lovette here, what sort of mental state would Miss Brightly-Smythe be in once she had succumbed to his friendly doctor’s ministrations and miscarried? Would there be any longterm damage, for instance?’
Lovette laughed, not a pleasant sound, more like a rat scuttling along through watery gutters. ‘No longterm damage, son. She’d get over it in the end, most women do.’
‘Well, that doesn’t sound too bad now, does it?’ Sir Hugh looked at Dougal expectantly, tapping a polished shoe, waiting for a positive answer.
‘And this drug, this little injection—it would merely induce a normal miscarriage?’
‘Yes, although the miscarriage wouldn’t start until some days later. She’d probably not even associate it with the clinic at all. But it has to be done quickly. The later the pregnancy, the more damage, psychologically as well as physically. That’s just plain common sense.’ Lovette fiddled with the cigarette wedged behind his ear. Sir Hugh had refused him permission to smoke, a decision he’d accepted with grumpy reluctance.
‘So Arabella is going to be in safe hands,’ Dougal stated uneasily, standing with his back to the others and staring out of the window.
‘The end justifies the means in our job, dear boy, and it’s time you started remembering that. Whatever happens to the girl it’s hardly a fate worse than death. You’re not here just to deal with garden parties, exercising the dogs and the launching of ships, you know. I’m afraid we have no choice.’ Sir Hugh came and stood beside Dougal with his hands behind his back and his chin up belligerently high. He rose and came down on his smart black heels. ‘It’s time we made the decision.’
‘Right,’ Dougal capitulated reluctantly. ‘I’ll ring her up then and tell her that it’s important she gets some top-rate maternity care. I’ll say that the first appointment’s for to
morrow then, shall I—tomorrow morning. Would that be convenient, Lovette, for your amenable doctor friend?’
‘I think so, sir,’ oiled Lovette from the corner, getting up to leave and picking up his scuffed little bowler.
‘The only thing that’s rather unfortunate,’ Dougal added before Lovette could move, ‘is the timing of all this. Pity we didn’t do it earlier. The big engagement announcement is due to be made tonight and I do worry about Arabella’s reaction.’
‘We can’t help that now,’ said Sir Hugh crossly. ‘There’s even a chance the shock will make her more amenable.’ He’d had enough of all this pussyfooting about. Problems, problems, they were ever beset by beastly problems and most of the time Sir Hugh, with his military background, derived the greatest satisfaction from solving them. But now they had to act; they’d explored other avenues and now there was only this. ‘Carry on, Lovette, put a tail on the girl tonight in case she decides to do something silly. Let’s get cracking and get it all over and done with. Make your arrangements, and Dougal, phone the girl from your office as quickly as possible. Tell her you’ll pick her up at her flat at ten-thirty tomorrow morning and drive her to the clinic. She seems to enjoy your company, that might sway her, and give the idea you’ll take her out somewhere nice for the afternoon—lunch etc. Give her some inducement, you know how to play it.’
‘Right you are, Sir Hugh. Consider it done,’ said Dougal as behind him Lovette crept from the room.
Damn. And now she has gone, decamped, flit, done a bunk and no one, it seems, saw her go. There’s a loose canon on the deck of the Royal Yacht and it is imperative that she be found before she can fire and hole the ship and sink it to the deepest fathoms of the majestic ocean.
Dougal is forced to explain how he arrived at the flat in good time, only to find Arabella flown and her friend Charlie on the phone dressed in a vulgar jade-green nightie and in a state of excited concern. ‘Disappeared—and in her condition,’ cried Charlie. ‘There’s no note—nothing. She’s not been in touch with home either. This is all so very worrying and not like Peaches at all. I knew we shouldn’t have gone out without her last night. If we’d had the slightest idea that this blasted engagement was about to be announced—did you know, by the way? You must have—you’re one of Them, aren’t you! Well, we wouldn’t have dreamed of going without her. None of her other friends have seen her either, and she’s not been into work for days, ever since she gave in her notice. Oh God, oh God, and now I’m going to have to call her parents and tell them she was pregnant. They’ll be so devastatingly upset I can’t bear it! They’ll probably blame my bad influence, and I suppose the police will have to be informed…’
Dougal was stunned. She couldn’t have gone. She was expecting him at ten-thirty. She’d assured him she would be here waiting. ‘Sit down and relax and let me make you a coffee,’ he offers hurriedly. ‘What makes you think she’s gone? She could have popped out for a morning paper and lost track of the time…’
‘No, no, it’s not like that! Some of her things have gone—Beppo has gone.’
‘Beppo?’
‘Her old teddy bear. She’d never go anywhere without him. Her overnight bag has gone. Her brush, her comb, her make-up, her knickers—there’s none left in the drawer, I looked. And Mags is at work and I can’t contact her there.’
‘I’ll get in touch with Mags. She might well know where she is. Just leave all this to me. I will also inform Arabella’s parents if necessary.’
‘But I ought to. I am her friend and I am responsible.’
‘I can do it much more effectively, and probably without filling them with gloom which you, in this hysterical state, are quite likely to do. I will also contact the police although they won’t do much for twenty-four hours. After all, Arabella is a grown woman and can take care of herself.’ Even as he said this Dougal found it hard to believe. She was an innocent, such a trusting, foolish creature. She’d be had by the first con man to pass her way.
Charlie, at her wits’ end, and stung by terrible guilt, flung herself into the attack. ‘This is all your friend Jamie’s fault, playing around with feelings as if nobody’s count but his own. He should be told. Jamie should be the one to feel responsible, should anything happen to poor little Peaches.’
‘Hey, Charlie, sit down, calm down, and let you and me make a list of anywhere Peaches is likely to be, and I will get someone on to it right away.’
But Charlie, red-faced and fraught, eyed him with angry suspicion. ‘You’re trying to do a cover-up job, that’s what all this is about, isn’t it? You’re not worried about Peaches at all. You’re just shitting yourself in case the press get hold of this and your precious master is dragged through the dirt.’
‘Charlie! Please don’t.’ He was trying to force his eyes off a mind-boggling display of Charlie’s underparts, most upsetting. ‘You can believe whatever you like but I am genuinely fond of Arabella and would do anything to make sure she was safe. I have the contacts to be able to take the necessary action, talk to her family, see the neighbours, get hold of her bank records and cash withdrawals and so follow up on where she might be. That’s if your worst fears are confirmed and she’s blundered out of here with no plan in her mind, just a deep unhappiness.’
Charlie sobbed, pushed back her tumble of hair. She lit a cigarette and drew on it deeply, tapping it nervously over the ashtray. ‘I know that’s what she’s done. It would be just like her, to act without thinking—you know how soft and silly she is. Oh, how hurt she must have been when she saw Jamie and Frances posing together like that. We should have been here with her! Oh God, when Peaches needed us we weren’t around. It’s luck she didn’t collapse from the shock. She really genuinely loves him, you know, and she’s never been in love before.’
‘I have to make a few telephone calls, so why don’t you just lie back and drink your coffee while it’s hot and leave everything to me for the moment.’ And then, as an afterthought he added, ‘I shall go and fetch you a dressing gown at the same time.’
‘Don’t think you can pander to me!’ Charlie rose and faced him, her fists stiff at her sides. ‘Who are you anyway? You’re not one of Jamie’s friends, are you? Some kind of shady minder? Working undercover for Them? The Government? Or are you from the police? Do you carry a gun? How come you can nose into somebody’s bank account without their permission, and why were you always hanging around poor Peaches? What the hell did you want from her? Were you bullying her, is that it? Were you threatening her with what would happen if she didn’t play by the rules? You disgust me, people like you, parasites, creepy crawlies, dressing up in your fancy robes and floating around with cushions and sticks. You’re weird, Dougal, d’you know that? You’re so bloody weird.’ Charlie, exhausted, broke down and flung herself on the sofa in tears.
He let her give vent to her gathered fury and then gently, averting his eyes, Dougal covered her up modestly before making for the phone extension in Arabella’s bedroom. He had to inform Sir Hugh at once, much as he dreaded the reaction.
No trace. No sign in any of the obvious places. Automatically security was increased around James Henry Albert but even his closest detectives were not given a reason why. Luckily he was up in Scotland where even a grouse stood out against a hill, not in the middle of crowded London, and he seemed to be behaving at the moment, not sloping off as yet to frequent his old haunts. Must be the influence of the managing Frances, or maybe he was at last aware of the mayhem he had left behind him down south.
Sir Hugh ponders in his restlessness. If this one went wrong it could badly affect his career. ‘What is she likely to do, that’s what we’ve got to try and discover.’
Dougal reminds him, as if he needs reminding: ‘But she’s never done anything like this before. This is quite out of character, according to all our information.’
‘What about her old beau—Thomas the Tank, they call him. Has he been checked out?’
‘Yes, all her friends have been checked. I
t was comparatively easy. They’re a very tight bunch, you see, mostly old schoolchums who have kept in touch and go round being Sloaney together. Unless…’ Dougal stops dead in his tracks. He whips round and stares at Sir Hugh, half-demented. ‘Damn! Why the hell didn’t I think of that to start with? Belinda Hutchins—the one she calls “Tusker”…’
‘Do stop rambling, Dougal.’
‘I told you about her, the girl at The Grange, with that has-been crooner, Jacy from Sugarshack! It’s a long shot, and I’m probably totally wrong on this, but that meeting with Belle would have stuck in her mind. They seemed very close in the short time I saw them together.’
Sir Hugh proceeds slowly, stepping cautiously across the thickly carpeted floor as he speaks his thoughts out loud. ‘If she has gone there, and it sounds as if you might have hit on something at last, Dougal, if she has gone to The Grange we can be fairly sure the secret is out. She wouldn’t have fled all that way for nothing. Perhaps our little friend has more up there than we credited her for,’ he looks at Dougal and taps his forehead, pausing briefly in his steady pacings, ‘although I always suspected as much. Don’t you see, Dougal, if she has gone to stay with her old friend, Belinda, she will have confided everything, and maybe, just maybe, she realised something was in the air with the clinic visit coinciding so unfortunately with the public announcement of James’ engagement!’
‘Damn,’ says Dougal. ‘That puts the cat among the pigeons.’
‘It most certainly does. And it means that before proceeding further in that direction we must take extra care. We must ascertain whether or not our assumptions are right, and if they are we must find out all we can about this dude and his moll.’
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