by Lynne Truss
‘Thank you, sir,’ she said, pulling a face. She was trying (in vain) to assume an expression slightly less of open-mouthed excitement, more of worried concern. Things had certainly looked up for Mrs Rogers since the arrival of Lord Melamine. Life had never before been packed with so much incident.
‘What is it, sir?’ said Hoagland.
‘Take a look.’
Hoagland took the paper and read it.
‘Oh, no. I’m sorry, sir.’
‘Yes, it’s extortion.’
‘Oh, no!’ moaned Mrs Rogers in sympathy. Then, confused, ‘Is that like blackmail?’
‘It’s just what I was fearful of,’ Melamine went on. ‘Someone threatening to tell that murderous pair where you are. Damn!’
Mrs Rogers’s heart went out to both of them. But what could she do?
‘Can you start packing things up, please, Mrs Rogers?’ said Melamine. ‘And, Hoagy, how soon can you have the car ready?’
‘You’re leaving?’ said Mrs Rogers, with emotion.
‘No choice, I’m afraid.’
‘But I’ll miss you!’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I’ve been here on my own all these years! I thought you might stay – at least until the house was pulled down! That’s why I hoped they’d agree to it.’
‘I know. I’m sorry. But I can’t think of anything else we can do, not now. Captain Hoagland, can you think of anything?’
‘Do think, Captain Hoagland,’ urged Mrs Rogers.
‘Well,’ said Hoagland, thoughtfully. ‘I suppose I could telephone Palmeira. I know it sounds ridiculous, but in a situation like this she might know exactly what to do.’
Steine’s meeting with Adelaide’s solicitor turned out to be very brisk and straightforward. After a telephone call to arrange things, they met at the Windsor Hotel in Russell Place, just a few doors away from the Maison du Wax. The solicitor said he’d met another client there the night before and was glad to see Steine at such short notice as he was planning to catch the Victoria train in half an hour, so he hoped Miss Vine had explained everything thoroughly already.
‘This will only take a few moments, actually,’ the man said. He had a bright and businesslike manner. ‘Now, did you remember to bring a copy of your will as I asked you?’
Steine handed it over for inspection.
‘And you don’t mind my keeping this for a few days?’
Steine frowned. ‘Oh. Is that necessary?’
The solicitor shrugged. ‘Not at all, Inspector, if you’d rather not. But I assumed you were here because you wanted to help Miss Vine, and not cause further delay. If I can press on straight away, and avoid chancery – well, you know how preferable that would be!’
He laughed, as if Steine would know precisely what he was talking about. Steine, mystified, laughed too.
‘Then of course you must take it,’ he said. ‘But look after it. That’s the only copy.’
The solicitor placed Steine’s will in a briefcase. Then he consulted the clock on the wall. He was evidently worried about that train. He stood up. Steine politely stood up too.
‘Is that it? Didn’t you want me to sign something?’
‘Of course, I nearly forgot.’
The solicitor withdrew a couple of legal-looking documents from his bag.
‘I must say, Inspector, this must all be a lovely surprise for you. Miss Vine is such a charming girl. To tell you the truth, I’m quite smitten.’
He riffled through the documents to find the relevant pages.
‘So if you would just sign here and here, I’ll witness your signature and take my leave.’
Steine obeyed. He was very conscious of the time.
‘I hope you’ve got your ticket already?’ he said, as the solicitor quickly scrawled his name.
‘Thank you, I have.’
The man took a quick look at the signatures and bundled the documents back into his briefcase, then offered his hand for shaking. And before Steine could utter the word goodbye, he had grabbed his hat and raincoat and bolted for the door.
Twitten sat in Ben Oliver’s office at the Argus, waiting for news. He was very agitated. Just a couple of hours ago, he had been seriously wondering whether Dupont’s murderer would get away with it (not to mention bawling like a baby on Mrs Groynes’s shoulder). But now things were moving quickly. If the Argus editor agreed to it, this afternoon’s paper would ‘splash’ the story of the missing dossier. By the time the Left Luggage office closed tonight, the culprit might be known.
Other stuff was speeding up too. It had been a packed morning – and it was still not eleven o’clock!
First: there had been a telephone call from Angélique at the Maison du Wax saying that Inspector Steine’s wax model was unexpectedly ready ahead of schedule and was such an absolument triumph that they would like to invite the inspector for a private viewing this very afternoon. (Twitten considered explaining that ‘absolument’ was an adverb, but decided against it.)
Then: Dupont’s aunt in Eastbourne had replied to Twitten’s letter, claiming to have information possibly relevant to the case. (Twitten resolved to make a visit to her as soon as possible, once the stake-out operation was over.)
Then: just as Mrs Groynes was about to explain her intimate connection to Colchester House, she’d been interrupted by a distressing phone call from someone she addressed as ‘Hoagy’ – presumably Captain Hoagland, the valet who had been so helpful to Dupont. Was he the ‘PH’ of the handkerchief?
‘I can’t lose you again, Hoagy,’ she had said, rather melodramatically. ‘I’ll help you, whatever it takes.’ (Twitten felt he was missing a big personal story here, but what with other matters pressing, it would have to wait.)
And on top of all this: Phyllis had asked for Twitten to call on her at the Belles’ digs, because she’d remembered something about the day of the murder. (Twitten wondered why she couldn’t bally well tell him on the telephone, but was too polite to say so. He had no idea that Phyllis had found him very attractive, and wanted an excuse to see him in person again.)
All of these urgent matters Twitten had left behind to race to the Argus office before half-past ten with the phoney news-story idea.
‘We can do it!’
Ben Oliver flung open the door. He was very excited, too. ‘The editor’s main objection was that Inspector Steine ought to be the person sanctioning this, so I said if it went well, you’d be happy to give Inspector Steine the entire credit. You don’t mind, do you? If we keep your name out of it?’
‘Not at all. I think that’s bally clever. It might even save me my job.’
‘Good. So, if all goes to plan, and nothing bigger comes up, the story of the missing dossier will be the splash in the three o’clock edition. We’ll have our best long-lens snapper positioned in the news-stand opposite the Left Luggage office from the minute the paper hits the streets, to take the incriminating picture when Mr X comes out with that bag.’
‘Right.’
‘Old Ted reckons he can manage not to give the game away.’
‘Good.’
‘You might have to wait out of sight, so Mr X doesn’t spot the uniform.’
‘Right.’
‘Or indeed that very noticeable helmet.’
‘Of course, yes.’
‘And I’ll pretend to be buying fruit. I’ll get a good view from there.’
‘Excellent.’
‘Might you need a few other policemen to help with the actual arrest?’
‘Well, I don’t think I can ask for any without authorisation so we might have to manage between us. After all, I’ve got handcuffs, and a whistle … ’ He trailed off.
Oliver seemed puzzled by Twitten’s flat tones. ‘Aren’t you excited, Constable Twitten?’
‘Well, I am, yes. Gosh, yes.’ He grimaced. ‘But, you see, Mr Oliver, there are any number of ways in which this could spell the end of my police career, and I’m only twenty-two. So I can’t quite give way to outr
ight excitement right now.’
‘Oh, nonsense. They’ll promote you after this.’
‘On top of which, there’s something else.’
‘What?’
‘You might not understand.’
‘Try me.’
‘It’s this ruse. All this clever flushing out. It feels a bit like cheating.’
‘Cheating? When it will mean flushing out a brutal murderer?’
‘Yes. I know it’s silly, but it feels underhanded to me. I’d so much rather have worked out in the proper way who the murderer bally well was, and then gone and arrested him!’
Ten
After two weeks of continuous sunshine, a promising day had turned misty. In a hundred boarding houses, landladies at breakfast-time had served salty fried bacon to hungry guests and cheerfully delivered the news that a cool sea fret was descending over the town; it was predicted to linger all day.
‘I’d take a warm cardigan with me, if I were you,’ the landladies had advised, briskly. ‘And a mac.’
By nine o’clock, the view from every chilly window was the same: a blank of white, with the odd blob of washed-out colour. In most places, you could barely see to the other side of the road.
‘Can we perhaps stay indoors this morning, Mrs Holdsworth?’ a brave paying guest might have ventured to ask, shivering in anticipation of the cheerless day ahead. ‘We could read our paperbacks quietly in our room.’
‘You can come back at half-past four, Mr Chappell, same as always,’ was the accommodating reply. ‘Personally, I always go to the pictures when I want to keep warm.’
Mrs Groynes might never have heard of the pathetic fallacy, but she certainly recognised the way the weather had altered in the course of a few hours in direct accordance with her mood. At six-thirty this morning, she had left Colchester House with her heart fluttering in her chest and with other less mentionable parts of her body positively a-buzz with joy. At that time, the early sun had glistened on the flat, green-ish water of the sea, and the light breeze whipping inland seemed to whisper ‘Yes!’ and ‘Isn’t it good to be alive?’ (And also, ‘Palmeira Groynes, can you believe what just happened?’) At the station, she had all but solved the Dupont murder case for young Clever Clogs Twitten, she’d been in such a generous and up-beat mood.
But now, as she made her way back to see Captain Hoagland, the sunshine was blotted out. He was in danger! What if she were losing him again? Could she bear it? The day was no longer saying ‘Yes!’: it was saying ‘Are you kidding?’ and ‘What were you thinking?’ and ‘Well, that didn’t last long, did it?’ Some unknown person had written to Lord Melamine, threatening that Hoagy’s whereabouts would be communicated to Joseph Marriott within the day.
‘You came, Mrs Groynes,’ said Lord Melamine, as he opened the door to her. ‘I must apologise. We are in uproar, I’m afraid.’
Behind him in the hall was evidence of packing. Maids were scurrying about, under the sober direction of Mrs Rogers, who appeared to have been crying.
‘Where’s Hoagy?’ said Mrs Groynes. ‘Is he all right?’
‘He’s gone to fetch the car.’
‘I can’t believe this is happening. It’s so bleeding sudden.’
‘I agree.’
She felt sorry for Lord Melamine. He looked quite bewildered.
‘Where will you go?’ she said.
He pulled a face. He had no plan.
‘Not Tristan da Cunha again, I hope?’ she said, trying to lighten the mood. ‘It would hardly be fair to those ostriches.’
Lord Melamine smiled bravely. ‘No, not Tristan again. But I hear that Tierra del Fuego is extremely pleasant at this time of year!’
He showed her into the morning room, to wait for Captain Hoagland. On Melamine’s desk was the letter. She wasted no time snatching it up. It became quickly apparent that Hoagland had not shared with her its entire contents. It was in fact an offer not to inform Joseph Marriott of Hoagland’s whereabouts, in exchange for a payment of thirty thousand pounds in untraceable notes, to be left in a designated spot at a designated time.
When she saw the amount, she gasped. But then perhaps the sender knew that Hoagland was the treasured employee of a generous marquess with umpteen ancestral homes and a very large stash of gold bars.
‘You shouldn’t have seen that, Palmeira. Give it to me.’
It was Hoagy. He looked ashen. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘Give it to me and I’ll destroy it.’
‘No.’
‘Give it to me.’
‘Look, Hoagy. I can’t lose you again.’
‘Well, you can’t really come where I’m going, I’m afraid.’
It was an uncharacteristically blunt thing to say, which made her all the more worried for him as he threw himself into a chair beside the window. The view behind him – usually of blue sky and twinkling sea (not to mention the hustle and bustle of hard-working pimps and pickpockets) – was today nothing but white. Mrs Groynes sat down, too. She was so anxious about Hoagland’s dismal state of mind that she struggled to breathe. What had he meant by you can’t really come where I’m going?
‘Look, Palmeira. I can see you’re upset, but I have no words of comfort. I’ve been thinking about this confounded situation, and I’ve made up my mind. His lordship doesn’t know it yet, but I have decided not to run away. Not again.’
‘What do you mean? You’ve got to save yourself.’
‘No. His lordship’s too good a man to abandon me, so I can’t tell him— ah. Oh, blast.’
Lord Melamine, they both suddenly realised, was standing in the doorway.
‘Tell me what, Hoagy?’
‘I’m so sorry, sir. I’ve packed up everything for you, and there’s a van coming soon to take most of the things to Albemarle Street. The gold and so on. But as for me—’
‘Does the vehicle have a reinforced floor, dear?’ interjected Mrs Groynes. She couldn’t help herself. She had visions of all the gold falling through and getting left in a heap on the north-bound carriageway of the London Road.
‘It does, thank you, Palmeira,’ Hoagland replied, with a pained expression.
‘Sorry, Hoagy. You were saying something important to his lordship.’
‘Yes,’ he sighed. ‘Yes, I was. The thing is, sir, I’m afraid you’ll think me very ungrateful after all these years together, and I can’t thank you enough for your kindness, but I just can’t run away any more.’
‘Of course you can,’ insisted Lord M. He sounded stricken. ‘You have to do this, Hoagy.’
‘No. No, I really don’t.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s hard for either of you, I think, to understand quite how little I care for this life, sir. I know we’re not supposed to dwell on that blasted war – ’
‘Oh, Hoagy,’ breathed Mrs Groynes.
‘ – it’s considered bad form, and I agree with that. We should put it behind us. But for some of us, there’s just no choice. When you’ve diced with death day after day; when you feel you’ve all but died a thousand times already; when you’ve seen people – friends – sordidly blown to pieces … ’
Mrs Groynes’s eyes filled with tears. He reached over to pat her hand.
‘I am so pleased that we found each other again, at least, Palmeira.’
She bit her lip. ‘I love you, Hoagy. I always did.’
Hoagland sighed and looked away, shaking his head. Much as she willed him to do it, he couldn’t bring himself to say that he loved her too. She knew why. It was because she had hurt him too badly in that Lyons Corner House of yore, over that damned congealing fried-egg-on-toast.
‘I think we could have been happy once,’ was as far as he would go. ‘But I’m tired of it all, you see. I wish I’d never crawled out of that blasted unfinished house. I wish I’d never survived Borough High Street!’
‘You often mention Borough High Street,’ said Mrs Rogers, gently (she’d been listening quietly from the doorway). ‘What happened there?’
Captain Hoagland’s face
contorted at the memory. Lord Melamine answered for him. ‘It was a bomb in January 1941, Mrs Rogers. A bomb with – what was it – two fuses, Hoagy?’
Captain Hoagland sighed. ‘Yes, sir. A seventeen and a fifty. Three men were killed as the device was raised by rope and pulley.’
‘You hadn’t defused it first, then?’ said Mrs Rogers, puzzled.
Hoagland hung his head.
‘As I understand it, this one wasn’t ticking, Mrs Rogers,’ said Lord M. ‘And it had been in the ground for five days, which they believed at that time made it safe. But afterwards they said moving the bomb must have restarted the clock. Is that right, Hoagy?’
‘Yes, sir. The men were raising it. All I knew was a blinding flash, and then I was thrown twenty feet against a wall. I was in hospital – in God knows how many hospitals – for a long while afterwards. I had a long time to think about what had happened.’
‘It wasn’t your fault,’ whispered Mrs Groynes.
‘But it was, my dear. There is simply no escape from that. It really was my fault. And if the time has come for me to pay for it, then let it come. That’s what I say. Let it come.’
A knock at the front door made them all jump. Hoagland stood.
‘That will be the van, sir. I’ll tell them to come to the side entrance.’
Lord Melamine, Mrs Rogers and Mrs Groynes all exchanged looks. Their expressions were as blank and forlorn as the day outside. Hoagland, by contrast, seemed glad to have said his piece.
But he evidently hadn’t changed his mind about facing Marriott. As he was leaving the room, he bent close to Lord Melamine and whispered, ‘Ask Palmeira to stop clutching that note, would you, sir? Honestly, no one can do anything. There’s absolutely nothing to be done.’
Back at the station, Twitten came face to face with Inspector Steine for the first time in about a week. It was quite a shock. He had just popped back to collect the holdall. It was like running into someone you assumed was dead.
‘Gosh, sir. Good morning, sir. It’s you.’
‘Of course it’s me. Where is everybody?’ said Steine. ‘Where’s Mrs Groynes? I was hoping for a cup of tea.’