Diplomat's Folly

Book 196: Murder Room

by Henry Wade

Genres: Mystery; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

Aylwin Hundrych is a diplomat with political aspirations, who was once involved with a French girl, Antoinette, with whom he unwittingly shared details about a royal visit to Paris - details which put the King's life in danger. Antoinette's brother holds the former lovers' letters, and is threatening to use them. Hundrych makes a first payment, but the demands continue. Hundrych enlists his old friend Sir Vane Tabbard's son, an ex-commando called Gray Tabbard, who is not too scrupulous about what he does. Gray searches the blackmailer's apartment, but reports back that he cannot find a particularly compromising note. And Gray is in love with the girl Hundrych plans to marry . . .

Release date: July 28, 2016

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 297

Sample

EIGHT people sat at dinner in the oak-panelled dining-room at Shackley Manor on an evening in March 1947. Silver and fine glass
glittered in the light of candles on the long refectory table. In the shadows an elderly butler moved silently and efficiently about his duties, helped by a young maid; in the large open fireplace
logs of generous size threw up tongues of blue and yellow flame, adding cheerfulness to the scene.

At first glance one might have thought that this was England in 1937 or thereabouts—pre-Munich. But it was not; it was façade—the brave face presented by Major-General Sir
Vane Tabbard to a dirty and disappointing world.

The General sat now at one end of the long table. At his right hand sat his wife, an extremely good-looking woman, with dark hair only slightly touched with grey. On her high black dress, cut
almost straight across the neck from shoulder to shoulder, a single rope of fine pearls stood out with simple and beautiful effect. Next to her sat her husband’s nearest neighbour and oldest
friend, Aylwin Hundrych; a tall sleek man of fifty, with fair, thinning hair and the discreet pomposity of a professional diplomat. Sir Vane himself was fifty-seven, and his wife—his second
wife—forty-three.

Others at the table were the General’s son, Gray—Major Gray Tabbard, D.S.O., a strongly built man of medium height, with brown hair and restless brown eyes; his French friend Roland
Mantenet, tall, thin, dark, pale, with long sensitive fingers, looking like an artist or musician of perhaps forty to forty-five—anything but the bitter Resistance fighter that he had been
and. at the age of thirty-three, still was; two girls in the early twenties, of normal good looks, Juliet Tabbard and her friend Anne Chesney; and, finally, an extremely nondescript youth of
twenty-two, who, having completed his conscript service, was now at Oxford, destined also for diplomacy, but concentrating at the moment all his delayed-action instincts upon horses, cards, and
other primary sports.

The food which this oddly assorted party had been eating was in keeping with the deceptive appearance of the table. Vegetable soup, roast chicken and bacon, baked apples, Scotch
woodcock—with the exception of the anchovy on the last item all these were home-grown, as were the apple-logs on the hearth and the young maid, daughter of Jessop the butler. Only the candles
could be described as luxury, and they were the survivors of Lady Tabbard’s post-Munich hoarding. The excellent port that Jessop was now dispensing had been in the Shackley cellars even
before the First World War.

Perhaps it was the clothing of the men that most clearly recorded post-war fashion or austerity. The General himself wore a stiff shirt and collar with his short evening coat. The
diplomat’s collar was also stiff, but his shirt unstarched. Gray Tabbard and young Charles Gilmer wore soft, turn-down collars with their evening-dress, a habit which Sir Vane regarded as
deplorable. Roland Mantenet was in a blue suit, too tight about the hips, too square about the shoulders; one of the alleged reasons for this, his first post-war visit to England, was to replenish
the wardrobe plundered by his Vichyite enemies, and he had been astonished to find that, with the exception of Germany, in no civilised European country were well-cut clothes so hard to come
by.

Jessop placed a full second decanter before his master and faded from the room, switching on three picture-lights in place of the lamps on sideboard and serving-table.

Aylwin Hundrych lifted his glass to his host.

“Perfect effect, Vane,” he said. “I feel as if it had never happened. And only at Shackley is that possible.”

“One does one’s best,” said the General stiffly. Even from an intimate friend he disliked any comment on his hospitality.

Hundrych gloomily eyed the ruby wine in his glass.

“Never again at the Chase, I’m afraid. It’s wonderful what the Army can do to ruin a beautiful place, even in their own country. And I was fool enough to suppose that two
locked doors would keep them out of the cellars of a requisitioned house.”

“Wouldn’t be so with a well-disciplined unit,” declared the General.

Gray Tabbard frowned. He knew that gambit of his father’s, and was bored by it. He himself, starting in the County regiment, had transferred to the Commandos. Discipline of the
old-fashioned type had not been their forte, and Gray regarded it as of minimum importance compared with their magnificent fighting spirit, based upon self-reliance and individual
responsibility.

As it happened, Gray had been frowning a good deal, though unconsciously, during dinner. Across the table his romantic-looking friend had been concentrating the full battery of his charm upon
Anne Chesney, and Gray was not pleased; he had realised that his own stock was in any case not standing high in that quarter, and he did not welcome so attractive a rival—wished he had not
brought Roland to Shackley.

Throughout the dinner conversation had been spasmodic. Unless it is fully occupied, a long refectory table does not lend itself happily to dinner-table conversation. Two people have emptiness on
their right or left, whilst the narrowness of the board makes it almost impossible to speak to your neighbour without also being heard across the way. With a well-balanced party this may not
matter, but this party was anything but well-balanced, either as regards sex, age, or interest. Aylwin Hundrych had given all his attention to the host and hostess on his left, largely ignoring his
neighbour, Gray, whom he regarded as a rough-mannered bore. Across the table, Anne Chesney, while giving charming attention to her host, had been largely monopolised by Mantenet. Juliet Tabbard
inevitably was left to the raw Charles Gilmer, for whom, in any case, she was responsible, having picked him up at an A.T.S. dance the previous year; now that he was so near, at Oxford, she had
felt it her duty to ask him to Shackley, though she was only mildly interested in him.

As soon as Sir Vane had circulated the second decanter of port, Lady Vane rose to her feet.

“To keep up the deception,” she said, “the ladies will now leave you. In any case, there is a proper fire in the drawing-room.”

Murmurs of protest were conventional, and young Charles hurried to open the door. As it closed behind the ladies, Sir Vane resumed his seat and Hundrych moved to the chair next to him. Gray,
however, remained standing.

“Want any port, Roland?”

The Frenchman shook his head.

“What about a game of something? And you, Gilmer?”

The General looked across at his young guest.

“What time have you got to be in?” he asked.

“Oh, twelve o’clock, sir—nominally. But one can get in.”

“Over the garden wall, eh? Better not. It isn’t worth it. What can you play, Gray—just the three of you?”

“Oh, cut-throat, or vingt-et. Anything to pass the time.”

The three younger men left the room, and Vane swung the decanter in a circular motion to his friend.

“I don’t feel quite happy about that,” he said.

Hundrych looked surprised.

“What’s the trouble?” he asked.

“That boy’s got plenty of money—and no sense. Gray’s got plenty of sense—or rather wits—and all too little money. And not much balance, I’m
afraid.”

Aylwin Hundrych had never had much use for young Tabbard. The boy had made a fool of himself at Harrow, got into a fast set and played the dangerous breaking-out and night-club game—with
the inevitable consequence. He had been on the drift when Hitler saved him, for the time being. His war record, Hundrych knew, had been magnificent; raids on the Dutch and Danish coasts, a drop
into France and work with the Resistance men—that, no doubt, was where he had met this chap Mantenet—an immediate D.S.O. for his share in the Normandy landing. But after . . . there
were funny stories about. And the fellow was a boor.

Still, he was Vane’s son, and one must pretend an interest in him.

“Is he settling down to anything?” he asked.

The General frowned, twisting the stem of his glass.

“That’s just the trouble, my dear Aylwin; he’s so damned restless. All these boys, splendid fellows, brave as lions, take on any job, any responsibility. But they can’t
settle to any steady career. The finer Commando leaders they were, the less well do they fit into a humdrum peaceful life.”

The diplomat gave a short laugh.

“I shouldn’t have thought either of those epithets applicable to our present existence,” he said. “But what is he trying for? What has he done?”

Vane Tabbard frowned.

“He’s done a lot of things . . . and nothing. When he came out he said he was all for a peaceful life—farming. He spent three months with one of my tenants, Christie . . . you
know him. Then he said he wasn’t going to get up in the dark and that he hated the smell of cows. Thought he would sell motor-cars, but there were none to sell. Then he went across to Paris
and joined this fellow Mantenet. They started a cocktail bar. Fine job for a Tabbard. My God, what would my old father have said?”

Hundrych shrugged his shoulders.

“Times have changed—if one may use a platitude. What matters now is that a young man should stand on his own legs and do some honest work.”

“Yes. But is that work? In any case it didn’t last. I put some money into it for him, and they seemed to be doing pretty well. Mantenet was a bit of a hero in Paris after the
liberation, and of course they got to hear about what Gray had done in the war. It was the fashionable place to go to . . . for nearly a year, and then it suddenly closed down. Gray wouldn’t
give me any real reason; just said he was tired of being fleeced by the black market and bored with the French. It didn’t sound a genuine reason, but I have never badgered him to tell me more
than he wants to.”

Hundrych drew thoughtfully at his cigarette.

“Might have been a woman in it,” he said.

The General shook his head.

“Oh, no, I think not; he’s never looked at anyone but Anne Chesney. Boy-and-girl affair, you know.”

“Really, I had no idea of it.”

If Vane Tabbard had been looking at his friend, he would have seen a sudden stiffening of his expression. The poker-face and give-nothing-away voice of the professional diplomat had come into
use.

“Are they definitely engaged?”

“Oh, well, I don’t know about that. Always was an understood thing. Of course, I’m delighted. Charming girl and the only child of a rich man. Chesney must have done very well
out of that business. You get your wine from him, I suppose?”

“I used to. I’ve got no cellar now.”

“Ah, my dear fellow, you soon will, you soon will. You’ll be back at the Chase in a year or two—though I suppose, with your career, you could hardly be there very much. And you
would need a wife to look after it for you. You need a wife, my boy. Can’t think why you never married.”

Hundrych smiled.

“The old story,” he said. “Some other fellow always got the woman I wanted. While I was a junior it didn’t matter—rather an advantage, even. But when I became a
Minister I did begin to feel the need of a wife. With an Embassy it is a serious disadvantage not to have one. A sister isn’t the same thing—grand as Catherine has been.”

Tabbard passed the decanter to his guest and then refilled his own glass.

“You’ll be getting another soon, I suppose,” he said. “What do the doctors say about you?”

“Another two months’ sick leave, I’m sorry to say. It’s a slow business. Not that I’m altogether sorry, though. It might be extremely useful to be free in about two
months’ time. They say Paris may be going somewhere about May.”

Vane Tabbard sat up sharply.

“Paris? Is there really a chance of that? Biggest plum of all, isn’t it?”

Hundrych shook his head.

“Not now. It used to be, of course. Still, it is a plum. A very big one, and the great ambition of my life; I was there as Second Secretary, you know, in the early
thirties.”

“Yes. Yes, I remember. My dear fellow, with all my heart I hope you’ll get it. But have you really a chance? Have you the seniority?”

“No. I have not. But seniority does not go for so much nowadays. And I have one special pull—this Government. As you know, I’ve been accused for years of being a damned
Socialist—and suffered for it. Now the swings may come my way. Officially, of course, diplomats have no politics, but their views are not unknown.”

The General gave a short laugh.

“You and your views! At one time I thought you were going the other way.”

A faint flush spread over the handsome diplomat’s face. He had hoped that people had forgotten—if they had ever noticed—his momentary leaning towards Fascism in its early days.
Probably no one but dear old Vane did remember it.

“Quite a mistake on your part,” he said firmly. “I was a good Conservative till Oxford, and was cured of that constitutional ailment by the egregious Stanley. Safety First is a
doctrine that I could never stomach.”

Again the General stared.

“My dear Aylwin, what will you say next? I should have said that you had never taken a risk in your life—not an unjustified risk, I mean. I only wish Gray had half your
steadiness.”

For a moment Aylwin Hundrych seemed to hesitate.

“I once . . .” he began, then lifted his glass and emptied it, putting it down firmly on the table beside his dessert plate. “I suppose we all make fools of ourselves at least
once in our lives,” he said.

And left it at that.

While the two older men were gossiping over their Croft ’04, Gray and his friend Roland Mantenet were improving the lamp-lit hour. In the smoking-room, which also served
Sir Vane Tabbard as a study, a card-table stood near the fire, one of the four chairs being permanently empty. Cut-throat bridge is not a very scientific game, but there is none other at which two
cronies can more easily, and with complete lack of technical dishonesty, take money off a victimised third. Charles Gilmer was a young man who could afford to pay for his pleasures, and as it
clearly thrilled him to play cards with two such heroes as his present companions he was probably getting his money’s worth. So everyone was happy.

Not quite everyone, because Juliet Tabbard and Anne Chesney knew perfectly well what was happening, and hated it. They had felt obliged to go to the drawing-room with Lady Tabbard and entertain
her with the small change of social gossip in which she delighted. But Juliet had seen whisky being carried into the smoking-room and had heard her brother’s laugh and the rather high-pitched
voice of young Charles Gilmer; knowing Gray only too well, she felt certain that he and his unreliable-looking French friend would try to take money off the guileless Charles; and that, if they
tried, they would succeed.

She felt responsible for Charles. He was a nice young thing—young in being quite twenty months junior to herself—and rather pathetically regarded himself as a man of the world. He
would be easy money for the other two, and though he could probably afford to lose all that he would lose, it did not please Juliet that this should happen to him as her guest in her father’s
house. So, soon after half-past ten, she suggested to Anne that they should “go and see what the others were doing,” and together the two girls made their way to the smoking-room.

A haze of cigar-smoke lay over the card-table, and through it the faces of the players were not clearly visible; but Juliet thought that her young friend was looking rather flushed, and she was
certain that she discerned a quick look pass from her brother to Roland Mantenet as soon as he saw them come into the room. Roland and Charles half rose from their chairs.

“Oh, sit down, sit down,” said Juliet quickly. “Finish your game or your rubber, or whatever it is.”

The two girls perched themselves on the club fender and watched in silence while the hand was played out. Gray Tabbard entered up the score.

“As a matter of fact that is rub,” he said. “You girls coming to cut in?”

“We thought it was time Charles started back.”

“Oh, not yet, surely? Can’t take him half an hour. Time for another.”

Juliet saw Charles Gilmer hesitate. Miserably she wondered whether he had spotted her brother’s game.

“I want to show him some photographs before he goes,” she said. “You know, Charles, the ones taken at our farewell parade. You were rather rude about it.”

Charles showed creditable alacrity in picking up this hint and, after some consultations over the score-cards, muttered something about a cheque and followed the two girls out of the room.

Gray Tabbard threw the stump of his cigar into the fire and drew a pipe and pouch out of his pocket. He stared moodily at the glowing wood. Roland Mantenet still had his cigar in excellent
condition and was clearly enjoying it.

“His cheque is good? Your young friend?” he asked.

“Of course it is. Rolling,” returned Gray glumly. “Another rubber and we might have had something worth while.”

“But then we should have missed your charming sister and her not negligible friend. When the young Charles has gone we might perhaps dance. You have a radio in the hall I think I see. It
would be great pleasure.”

Gray Tabbard’s strong forefinger plugged the tobacco down into his pipe. A flicker of flame lit up the strong angle of his jaw.

“Look here, Roland,” he said curtly. “Lay off my girl.”

The Frenchman’s expressive brows rose in exaggerated surprise.

“Lay off? Ah, yes; the cultured English idiom. Your girl? That is Miss Chesnée? She is your girl, eh?”

“Yes, she is. And I won’t have it. I saw you throwing the whole of your glamour-battery on her at dinner. Cut it out.”

Mantenet laughed.

“Mon cher Gray. Ever you delight me. Never in the year we knew each other in Paris, or before, have you shown one little sign of possessing the correct English girl. Au
contraire. Does this charming young lady know perhaps that she is ‘your girl’?”

“Certainly she does. We’ve been—well, not engaged, perhaps, but it’s been an understood thing since we were kids.”

“I see. How very convenient, now that the little business goes not so well, to come back and settle down to respectable life and marry the daughter of the rich marchand de vin,
Monsieur Robert Chesnée.”

Tabbard stared.

“How the hell did you know that—about her father?” he asked.

“Ah, my dear Gray; I too am a business man. My little business too has not gone so well, and if I were to find a nice little wife with a comfortable dot . . . why, how convenient
that would be.”

Gray stared at his friend, his rather heavy brows drawing together in a frown. Although sharp-witted, there was little subtlety in his make-up, and if he had any strong feeling he showed it. He
was showing it now.

“Good God! You’re not serious?” he exclaimed angrily. “Look here, Roland, we’d better get this straight, here and now. Anne Chesney is my girl, and if you start
your games with her you’ll have something coming to you.”

A slight narrowing of the eyes was the only sign which the Frenchman gave to show that he too could have strong feelings. His voice was quiet, almost casual, as he answered:

“What I may or may not do I shall decide on what I think you call the merit of the case. But I do not like to be threatened, not even by my bon camarade Gray Tabbard.
No.”

WHEN he woke up on the morning—Sunday—following his undignified verbal tiff with Roland Mantenet, Gray Tabbard felt
rather ashamed of himself. In the cold light of morning reason, it was difficult to believe that he had serious cause for suspecting his friend of poaching—of doing more, in fact, than amuse
himself, as was his wont, with the nearest pretty girl.

Gray realised that he would probably have not thought twice about it if he had not already been feeling uneasy about his own relations with Anne Chesney. During the war he had not thought much
about her; there were too many other exciting things to think about. When he came home on leave he generally saw her, and sometimes they went to a dance or did a show together in London. He could
read in Anne’s eyes that he had assumed the comfortable image of a hero, and he liked the idea, but he did not take her admiration very seriously. He hardly bothered to wonder whether it was
anything more than that—the natural, war-time development of their youthful friendship. Certainly he himself was not in love with her, though he supposed that when the war was over they would
probably marry and settle down and become very fond of each other. He took her, in fact, for granted.

When the war did end he found himself unable to raise any enthusiasm in the matter. It would come, no doubt; but in the meantime his first idea of a peaceful country life proved to be a flop.
The dull routine and, indeed, the drudgery of farming were quite unsuited to his mood. A quick switch to London and the motor trade was even less successful. He could take no interest in
second-hand cars—there were no new ones to sell—and he took a violent dislike to the types he met and had to consort with in his new business.

An invitation from Roland Mantenet, with whom he had worked for several exciting weeks during the pre-invasion period, took him to Paris, and from that visit had sprung the joint enterprise that
for a time had been so dazzlingly successful. Paris itself was drab, the life of its population grim and straitened, but in the little underworld in which Gray Tabbard moved, the world centred
round their bar—Le Coq déchaîné—there was a hectic gaiety, a false luxury, and at the same time a submerged excitement that suited exactly the restlessness of his
own spirit.

Le Coq déchaîné drew the main part of its clientèle from the Resistance groups, but its large profits came from American officers and from the business men
who had made fat profits out of the German occupation and now realised that their only hope of keeping them—of keeping even their liberty and their lives—lay in toadying the lean
fighters who were now in control of the destinies of France.

Gray Tabbard realised that the gaiety and friendliness of the bar masked some form of activity in which he was allowed no part. No doubt the air of furtive intrigue so noticeable in his new
friends was the inevitable legacy of their hunted years, but none the less he was conscious from time to time of a real excitement that even the outward calm of his colleague Mantenet could not
entirely hide. Something was afoot, and if he could have no part in it he could at least sense and enjoy its thrill.

As for Anne, during this Paris period he forgot all about her. There were distractions closer to hand, and after six years. . .