by Ted Bell
“Thing? Really, Alex. How insulting. That Morgan Plus Four of mine is one of the finest examples of the marque on the road. And don’t worry, dear boy, there’s scant chance of embarrassment. No one will see you riding in it. It will be dark. And at any rate, it’s the seat on a horse that marks the difference between a groom and a gentleman.”
“Did you just insult me?”
“I was certainly trying to. I’m not sure I got the exact phrase I was looking for . . .”
“Don’t get tetchy on me, Constable. It’s not the car I object to, it’s the color. My dear lord! It is the oddest shade, you know. I suppose it’s called canary yellow. But if it is, that was one very sick bird. I, on the other hand, have a beautiful new addition to my stables.”
“Another Ferrari? Please, haven’t you got enough of those bloody Italian jobs? I do admire the catholicity of your collection, but I think you are overstocked with some makes and models.”
“Rest easy, it is definitely not a Ferrari.”
“What is it, then, for goodness’ sake?”
“You’ll see. Just delivered from H. R. Owen in London. God knows I don’t need more cars. But I needed something, anything, a distraction to help from obsessing over the loss of my son. Buckle up, we’ll be landing soon.”
It was a brand-new Rolls-Royce, Congreve saw, as Pelham, the stalwart family retainer, drove carefully around the portside wing of the aircraft. Mammoth. And a shade of deep blue that was just one step shy of royal purple.
“Purple?” Congreve said as Hawke’s crew stowed all the luggage in the boot. “You’ve managed to acquire a purple Rolls-Royce, Alex? Seriously?”
“It is clearly not purple, Constable.”
“Well, what is it, then?”
“It’s a shade Rolls-Royce calls deep indigo.”
“They would, wouldn’t they? It looks expensive, I will say that. If that’s what you were going for.”
“Low blow, but I’ll ignore it. What it is, is a brute. It’s called the Phantom Conquistador. She weighs nearly six thousand pounds, three tons. She has a 7.4 liter engine throwing out 551 brake horsepower, top speed of 174 miles per hour, and she’ll do zero to one hundred in merely 5.2 seconds. Am I right, Pelham? An almost iconic piece of machinery? Yes?”
“Indeed you are, m’lord. Extraordinary thing. I’ve never experienced the likes of such before. A bit intimidating, to be perfectly honest. A handful, one might say.”
Congreve smiled and stuck his hand out to the octogenarian butler.
“Oh, hullo, Pelham, how wonderful to see you outside of prison walls! On furlough, are we?” Congreve said, embracing the white-headed old fellow and patting his back with enormous affection.
After the murder of Hawke’s parents at the hands of drug pirates in the Caribbean, Pelham was granted custody along with the seventy-year-old grandfather. Now in his eighties, but at that time a young senior butler in the Hawke household, he recruited Scotland Yard’s Ambrose Congreve to help raise the child. As a result, the two men had forged a bond that, for decades now, went far beyond friendship. Privately, the two men would say that they had always felt like Alex Hawke’s parents . . . in loco parentis, of course.
“Have a successful trip, did you, Chief Inspector?” Pelham said.
“We made a lot of progress, yes. We’re closing in.”
“Splendid news! I’m delighted. I miss that boy so. Miss him bounding down the stairs every morning with his howling dogs in tow . . . Sorry, is everyone ready to go? The luggage appears to be stowed.”
“Let’s get on with it, then.” Hawke smiled, very clearly happy to be standing with both feet on English soil once more.
“Would you like to drive the brute home, m’lord?”
“Well, I don’t want to step on any toes, Pelham,” Hawke said, already climbing behind the wheel. “But, if you insist, yes, I would like to drive home. You two jackanapes climb in the rear. I shall see you home in jig time, Constable. Sit back and enjoy the ride in a real automobile.”
“Oh, well, if I must. I wonder, Alex. Does it come in canary yellow?”
“Don’t be obscene,” Hawke replied. “I’ll stick to the back roads so there’s little danger of your being seen . . .”
Congreve was rankled but made no reply. He finally said, “Pelham, a question about this new Roller, if you wouldn’t mind?”
“Not at all, sir.”
“As to the color. What color would you say this car of yours was? Purple?”
“I really couldn’t say, Chief Inspector. I’ve never really seen anything like it before. It seems to vary with the lighting conditions.”
“It’s called deep indigo, Pelham,” Hawke said. “And I’ll thank you to remember that.”
“Certainly, sir. Deep indigo it is and deep indigo it shall be for evermore, m’lord.”
“Thank you. Any other questions about my pride and joy, Chief Inspector?” Hawke said, hitting the red start button and igniting all kinds of 12-cylinder hell under the bonnet.
“Any idea how the Oxford English Dictionary defines indigo, Alex?” Congreve said.
“No idea,” Hawke said, engaging first gear and getting the brutish Roller rolling. “And I don’t actually give a fig.”
“Well, I know how. Indigo is a blue vat dye derived from the indigo plant. The principal coloring matter of natural indigo synthesizes as a blue powder with a copper, purplish luster.”
Alex, downshifting to third for a descending radius curve on the country lane, had a huge smile plastered on his face. It was almost as if he had not heard a single word Congreve had said. And, in truth, he had not.
An hour later, the big car was rumbling up to the massive black iron entrance gate at Brixden House. A forbidding piece of architecture in and of itself, the structure was topped with numerous gilded eagles atop marble columns, the birds weathered enough down through the centuries as to be discreetly unobtrusive.
After a short wait, a plainclothes detective emerged from the small stone gatehouse. Upon seeing Congreve in the back of the Rolls, he opened the gates and waved them through. A twisting drive through rolling parklands then led to Congreve’s home.
It was a winding lane, bounded on either side by hawthorn hedges. It wended through vast plantations filled with yews, pear trees, laurels, and rhododendrons, many soon to come into full pink and white bloom. Acres of ancient trees filtered late-afternoon light onto dappled grass.
The evening was clear and seasonably chilly, and in the far distance, where sunlight lay like great bars of gold on the surrounding hillsides, one could see the earth just going green, with leafy old forests, towering oaks, elms, and gnarled Spanish chestnuts many hundreds of years old coming out of retirement.
They rounded a corner and a wide vista opened up before them. The sight of his home always evoked strong feelings in Ambrose Congreve. Set high above the River Thames, with a far-reaching view over the countryside, the impressive main house of golden limestone reigned over the rolling landscape in an imperious and almost lordly fashion.
“Here we are,” Ambrose said as the big car rolled under the covered porte-cochere at the entrance, “welcome, gentlemen, to Brixden House. Pelham, please come in for a glass of sherry before heading on to Hawkesmoor, won’t you?”
“Very kind, Ambrose. But I’m afraid I must continue onward with my journey. I want to get all of his lordship’s belongings unpacked and put away before he returns home after dinner.”
Hawke, sad to leave, climbed out of the car and smiled at his beloved Pelham. “Be careful with the beast on the way home. She’s all-wheel drive of course, but the back roads are slick with ice by now.”
“I certainly will, sir. And I should be most appreciative if the beast will be careful with me.”
Chapter Fifty-Three
Brixden House, Taplow, UK
“It’s a house of secrets,” Congreve had once told Hawke about Brixden House. It was the ancestral home of Congreve’s wife, the former Lady Diana
Mars. Located just off the Taplow Common Road in Oxfordshire, it had borne witness to the doings of countless forebears, many illustrious, a lesser (so it was said) number of the nefarious, the notorious, and in the swinging sixties, the famously decadent.
The magnificent Italianate palace stood atop great chalk cliffs overlooking a graceful bend in the gently flowing Thames. Dusk was soon to come, and every window, large or small, was blazing with the yellow cast of interior light.
Ambrose had once confided to Alex Hawke the true nature of Diana’s family seat. “In earlier times it was a den of treasonous spies,” he said. “During the Second World War, a circle had formed around Diana’s great-grandmother, the viscountess, a German. Brixden House had become a de facto salon for a right-wing aristocratic group of politically influential individuals. This Germanophile cabal was not only in favor of appeasing Adolf Hitler, but also of England promoting friendly relations with Churchill’s sworn enemies, the Nazis.”
“I remember reading accounts of that era, yes,” Hawke said, lighting a fresh Morland cigarette.
“Ah, but the best was yet to come,” Congreve said. “The swinging sixties had brought fresh scandal to the house. It was apparently the scene of ardent sadomasochistic sex parties. Parties where naked prostitutes, ashtrays and drinks trays strapped on their backs, were paid to crawl on the floor amongst the besotted revelers, HM government types, aristocrats, and royals, gleefully careless about precisely where they stubbed out their cigarettes or spilled their whiskey.
“Parties including one where cabinet minister John Profumo met and bedded a beautiful working girl named Christine Keeler. A woman who just happened to be simultaneously sleeping with a Soviet naval attaché named Yevgeny Ivanov. The press had a field day of it, merrily summarizing kinky and scandalous goings-on inside Brixden House.”
“And John Profumo went down in flames along with Harold Macmillan’s tattered government,” Hawke added.
“He most certainly did.”
After being greeted inside the doorway by an aging butler, Hawke and Congreve made their way through the great hall, a splendid room with its grand fireplace, soaring ceiling, and the famous John Singer Sargent portrait of Lady Mars’s great-grandmother, which hung to the left of the wide hearth.
“There you are, darling!” Diana trilled, making her way down the broad and winding stone staircase. “And you’ve brought young Alex! How delightful.”
She took his hand in both of hers and pulled him to her, looking up at him with shining eyes. “Darling Alex, I’ve been utterly bereft at the news of Alexei’s kidnapping. I am so very, very sorry. But, Ambrose tells me that my precious godson is alive and unharmed. Alex . . . is that right?”
“I’m delighted to tell you that it is. And we’ll find him soon, Diana. Your husband and I. We’ve made a great deal of progress in one short week.”
“Only a matter of time, darling,” Ambrose said, putting his arm around his wife. “Only a matter of time.”
Hawke said, “And, Diana, we’ve learned he’s also in the custody of someone whom I once helped enormously . . . Joe Stalingrad.”
“Understatement,” Congreve interjected. “You saved Joe Stalingrad’s bloody life, Alex. Without you, Putin would have had Uncle Joe impaled on a stake in the courtyard at Energetika Prison.”
Diana, her eyes aglow, said, “So, Alex, that’s a very good thing, isn’t it? A comfort to know that he is in the care of someone who is beholden to you?”
“A small comfort. Who knows? Alexei’s still a pawn in a very dangerous game. For all I know, Putin is dying to get his hands on him. And this friend whom I helped is either trying to protect him . . . or gain favor with Putin by delivering him into the lion’s den. We really don’t know the answer to that yet, but the sooner we find out, the better the chances for Alexei’s survival.”
“Of course, darling, I’m sure you’ll find out soon,” Diana said, and went up on tiptoes to kiss Alex on the cheek.
Diana’s wanton beauty and glowing energy always gave Hawke a start. She said, “Well, who’s hungry? Your timing is impeccable, darlings! Dinner is just about to be served. Come along, Alex, we’ve just enough time to have a quick cocktail. And we have a great deal to talk about this evening.”
“You mean Sigrid, of course.”
“Yes, Alex, I’m afraid I do.”
Ambrose, hounded by hunger and the scent of lamb roasting somewhere in the innards of the house, had walked ahead. Hawke turned to her and whispered, “That will be a private conversation, I hope, Diana.”
A sharp pang had struck him. She wanted to talk about Sigrid. And whatever had happened to Sigrid, the beauteous young law student who had formerly resided in Gardener’s Cottage, a lovely little manse situated just down the hill from the house where they now stood talking.
“Of course, you darling boy,” she told him with true affection. “Our world-famous detective always goes alone into his library for a postprandial brandy by the fire. When the coast is clear, we’ll duck outside and take our drinks onto the terrace and have a chat there.”
“If you don’t mind,” Hawke said, “I’d rather like to see the cottage where she lived. Have a quick look round.”
“Happy to show it to you. And so happy you and the famous detective had such a productive trip. He rings me every night to say that you’re very close to solving this puzzle. Is that right?”
“Well, you should hear my prayers some nights.”
“I’m sure, poor dear. I’m quite sure. Now, what can I get you to drink, your lordship? Dinner will be served shortly.”
“Rum, please. I believe you have the Gosling’s Black Seal 161?”
“Indeed we do! Onward!”
She took Alex’s arm and the threesome made their way through a long gallery to the main dining room. It was a generous rectangular space with high vaulted ceilings and blazing chandeliers. Large candelabra with flaming tapers illuminated the suits of gleaming armor that stood guard against the old stone walls. Walls that were hung with faded tapestries and large gilt-framed portraits of Lady Diana’s long-forgotten royal ancestry.
The three old friends were oddly quiet for the first and second courses. They were each preoccupied with their own private thoughts. Then came the roast lamb, pink as a baby’s bottom, the perfectly cooked veggies, and the delicious claret, as the British so fondly call the wines of Bordeaux, flowed, loosening tongues.
Diana, so lovely in the candlelight, her coiffed blond hair and diamonds gleaming, raised her wineglass. Then she looked across the table at Hawke.
“To Alexei!” she said, her voice filled with hope.
“To Alexei,” Hawke and Congreve chimed in, raising their glasses.
After dinner, Congreve, as expected, excused himself and retired to his library. Outside, a light misty rain had begun to swirl in the gardens during dinner. Hawke and Diana each donned a mackintosh for the stroll down to the Gardener’s Cottage. Passing through a cherry orchard, Hawke felt the earthy, pungent presence of leaves and limbs dripping in the dark.
“Please take my arm,” Diana said, “These stone steps are dreadfully slippery.”
“I’d be delighted,” Hawke replied, and they made their way through lush dark gardens, down to the place where Sigrid had last been seen. He hoped she was still alive, Hawke thought, suddenly recalling her vivid descriptions of her violent ex-lover and her thoughts of suicide. Sigrid said her stalker had died in an auto accident, but there was something he couldn’t put his finger on, some aspect of her story that just didn’t seem altogether believable.
Had she given up on herself?
Had she given up on him at last?
Gone back to the ex-lover, despite all her fears? This was his own fear, that she might be lost to him forever. He’d planned to visit the Congreve’s small garden cottage once he’d returned to Britain, had done so ever since she’d disappeared. Wondering, hoping, that perhaps he’d discover some kind of clue, some kind of physical evidence
of where she might have gone.
“Here we are!” Diana said brightly. “Isn’t it lovely?”
It was a small Wind in the Willows stone cottage, painted white, Hawke saw, even though to him it looked a bit forlorn and dark.
Covered with climbing ivy, two stories, brick chimneys at either end of the roof’s peak, sitting in solitary splendor in the midst of a traditional English garden. There was a gate at the front, an opening in the white picket fencing, and they pushed through and made their way up the flagged front walkway.
Hawke, trying to keep his spirits up, kept looking up at the house, trying to imagine glowing lights in every window, and smoke curling up from the twin chimneys . . .
Suddenly he was seeing her silhouette in her upstairs bedroom window, reading something by Graham Greene before retiring to her bed . . .
“Here’s the key,” Diana said, interrupting his reverie. “Just give me a second . . .”
And they were inside a small foyer that led to the sitting room.
“There’s a light switch on the right, Alex,” Diana said in the dark.
“By the door?” Hawke asked, feeling the wall, and finding the switch, turned the lights on.
It was a confused little room that looked out on the rear garden, with china cupboards and bookshelves sagging under the weight of heavy leather-bound tomes on gardening, and near the hearth one large comfortable wicker chair for the gardener, nestled beside the steel fireguard. Worn chintz and faded gingham on the occasional upholstered furniture . . .
Hawke remembered a trick Congreve had taught him long ago: Upon entering a crime scene (and this could be construed as one), stand in the center of the room in total stillness. And then, Congreve had said in a letter:
Open your heart and mind to all the secret memories the room holds. Open eyes and ears to the stories rooms can tell; they are significant because here they remain. They are the stray symbols of a life, a life after all the tall tales and sad stories have slunk back into the unconscious past; and there they cry out for rescue like the survivors of a shipwreck.