Did the young and beautiful Lady Tradescant try to poison her elderly husband? If not, who did? There is no shortage of suspects - quite a few people might have wanted Sir Seymour Tradescant dead. His eccentric twin sister Bettina, his disgruntled son Nicholas, his scheming daughter Olivia... Antonia Darcy and Hugh Payne face one of their most baffling cases. Their investigation takes them from the luxury of Claridges Hotel to Mayholme Manor, a residential home for elderly gentlemen. This proves to be a distinctly sinister establishment, where they encounter the mysterious Doctor Fairchild and his albino manservant Madden. Does the solution to the puzzle lie in the past - there seems to be a link to the Nuremberg Trials? It looks as though a controversial royal figure might have secretly plotted to save one of Hitler's mot notorious henchmen from the hangman's noose. Even when Antonia and Hugh believe they know the identity of the killer, the necessary proof is dangerously elusive.
Release date:
October 11, 2011
Publisher:
C & R Crime
Print pages:
304
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‘Gentlemen—the Queen.’ Major-General Hailsham held up his glass.
‘The Queen!’ They all raised their glasses.
‘His Royal Highness, the Duke of Edinburgh.’
‘The Duke of Edinburgh!’ They drank again. They had already toasted the regiment, twice.
‘Shame HRH couldn’t be with us today.’
‘Terrible shame. No question of him not wanting to be with us.’
‘Of course not. Circumstances beyond his control.’
‘HRH sent a message, saying he’ll be with us in spirit.’
‘How frightfully thoughtful. Couldn’t have wished for a better patron, what?’
‘Absolutely. Sound on every topic. The Army, the Navy, women, the Chinese, what’s to be done about blacks, the Cutty Sark, the French, the global whatsit—am I missing something?’
‘Rain forests, the General Dental Council, the Mussulman menace, horses?’
‘Thank you, Savil. Yes. List as long as my arm. Practically endless. Horses? Horses are important, dammit. Can be a bit radical on occasion, true, but they listen to him, that’s the bloody marvellous thing. They’re not supposed to, they wouldn’t admit to it, but they listen to him. HRH has ideas. Knows exactly what’s to be done about things.’
‘They listened to him about Diana—’
‘Of course they did. And a good thing too, Ormsby. They said they didn’t, but of course they did. MI5, MI6, the Ministry of Defence, the old HO, the old FO—they all listened to him.’
‘Confounded incompetents, but he’s got them all eating out of his hand.’
‘Thank God for that.’
‘Thank God for that. There’d have been no end of trouble if they’d let things take their course. “Lady Diana Al Fayed”, that’s what she would have insisted on styling herself, some such nonsense.’
‘Doesn’t bear thinking about. The mother of the future King of England!’
‘Couldn’t allow that sort of thing.’
‘Of course not. Pretty girl, good colour, but quite mad. Completely bonkers. Mixing with the wrong crowd and so on. Well, HRH saw to it. Knew where to draw the line.’
‘He is often misunderstood, mind, the liberal press tries poking fun at him, calls him gaffe-prone, a Nazi and I don’t know what else, but he doesn’t let that bother him one little bit. Well, there’s nothing wrong with being radical, dammit. Au contraire. Somebody’s got to be radical these days, wouldn’t you say? Somebody’s got to save us from tipping over the edge.’
‘Quite.’
‘Absolutely.’
‘There’s one subject HRH never broaches.’ Colonel Speke cleared his throat. ‘Sometimes a fellow asks an oblique kind of question, drops a heavy hint, but d’you know what? He never gets an answer.’
‘You mean …?’
‘Yes.’
‘Of course not. Out of bounds. Not the done thing.’
There was a pause as they all once more regarded the portrait on the wall.
‘Did—what was the chappie’s name now?—do that one?’ Brigadier Fielding asked. ‘Namby-pamby sort of chap. Never cared for him much, to tell you the truth, but they thought the world of him. Kept asking him over to Buck House. The sort of chap the Queen Mum favoured. You know. Beaton, that’s it. He did them all, didn’t he?’
‘It’s an Annigoni, actually.’
‘Is it? Is there anything you don’t know, Payne?’ Colonel Weldon glowered boozily at him.
‘Payne knows all the answers.’
‘No, not really.’ Major Payne made a self-deprecating grimace. ‘Wish I did.’ He was sitting at the distinguished ‘top table’.
‘How he manages at his age I have no idea.’ Colonel Speke shook his head. ‘No, not Payne. Payne’s a young man. I mean HRH. How he manages to do so much. Where does he find the energy? He’s two years older than me, you know.’
‘They give him something. Regular course, I am told.’ General Savil lowered his voice. ‘German medico practically lives at Buck House now. No one’s supposed to know. Top secret. Reliable source—lady-in-waiting—friend of m’wife’s—play bridge together—sensible woman—got a head on her shoulders—talks in her cups—only way to get her going. They put him on a drip for two days, she says. He doesn’t like it, grumbles a bit, but he submits, then he gets up and marches out, head held high, as good as new. As bright as a button. Roses in his cheeks and so on. Would create a stir, if it got round, so mum’s the word. Regular as clockwork, I am told. On the highest authority.’
‘The last time he was here you could hear a pin drop the moment he opened his mouth. He hates it, absolutely hates it, terribly unassuming, wants things to carry on as per normal. Expects no credit. Wants everybody to have a good time What was it he said last time, d’you remember, Somerville? Ha-ha. It made us laugh. Remember? What was it?’
‘What d’you take me for? Some bloody oracle?’
‘That’s it, Denham. Ha-ha. How we roared. We weren’t here then, actually, were we? Completely different place. The Savoy, I think. How we roared. It was the Savoy, wasn’t it?’
‘The good old Savoy. Building like a 1930s radio set, you almost expect Lord Reith to toddle along in his dinner jacket and give you a lecture. Some bloody oracle. That was damned funny. Can’t quite say why but it’s damned funny. For some reason. What’s this place called? I mean this place. Sorry—my memory’s completely gone. Total blackout. Memory’s gone AWOL. Place has a name, hasn’t it? All decent places have names.’
‘Claridge’s.’
‘Claridge’s, to be sure. Thank you, Payne. Good to have a young man around. Young Payne knows all the answers. You are such a clever fellow, Payne. The right man to have in a crisis.’
‘Not at all.’ Major Payne stole a look at his watch. He did not feel particularly flattered to be referred to as ‘young Payne’, given the average age of everybody was about eighty-five. The amount of drinking that went on around him was quite astonishing, if not alarming.
‘Jesty’s also a young man, but he’s always busy, aren’t you, Jesty? Always on the run. Oh, he’s gone,’ Colonel Speke glanced round in a puzzled manner. ‘Where’s Jesty gone?’
‘Gone AWOL, ha-ha.’
‘What’s become of Jesty, since he gave us all the slip,’ murmured Payne.
‘Jesty always disappears without warning, have you noticed? Quite a trick he has. Quite a habit.’ Savil cleared his throat. ‘The usual, would you say?’
‘Most likely. That’s the kind of thing he likes to do. Styles himself “Beau”, apparently.’
‘Beau Jesty, eh?’
‘Chacun à son gout. I am inordinately fond of clay pigeon shooting myself. Well, Claridge’s is as good a place as any other for that sort of thing.’
‘One of these days Jesty’ll come a cropper, mark my word,’ said Livingston-Gore.
‘Interesting place, Claridge’s. The King of Yugoslavia was born on the premises. Back in 1940-something. After Tito did his thing. The Communist takeover. Damned good wine, this. Why d’you keep looking at your watch, Payne? Haven’t got a train to catch, have you? Don’t tell us your lady wife keeps you on a short leash. Writes murders, doesn’t she? Dangerous sort of woman to have round the house.’
‘I was here, you know, when the King of Yugoslavia was born. I was chief of security. Had the whole floor cordoned off and declared Yugoslav territory. One of those emergency measures. Real crisis. Checked every bloody waiter—in case one or more of the champagne buckets contained a bomb. Every damned bell-boy too. Ha-ha.’
‘Why couldn’t HRH be with us today?’
‘Bad back, poor fellow—pain more than a human being could bear, I was told—on the highest authority—practically doubled up.’
‘Poor fellow. Worried about Harry, that’s what’s got him down. First they drag the boy back from the Khyber—then they ban him from Knightsbridge!’
‘Don’t be dramatic, Ormsby. They banned him from some club or other, that’s all. Couldn’t matter less. Bijou or Beaujolais, some such name. It’s a night club, or so I understand. In Knightsbridge, that’s correct. Good address.’
‘Boujis, actually.’
‘Is that so? The kind of thing you know, Payne!’
‘I glance at the rags sometimes,’ Payne said apologetically.
‘My niece met Harry once. In Knightsbridge, that’s correct. Charming young fellow, she tells me. A little on the boisterous side, pinched her apparently. Full of beans, as we used to say. Enjoys a drink better than anything else, perhaps, but oodles of charm.’
‘Oodles of charm. Ahem. That thing they suggested about Hewitt …?’
‘Tittle-tattle, Livingston-Gore. Rank nonsense. Complete rot. Nothing in it whatsoever. What d’you say, Knatchbull?’
‘Fearful piffle. Hewitt deserves to be shot.’
‘Charming young rascal, eh? Eye for the girls, like HRH. I mean Harry.’
‘That’s why HRH has taken it so badly. Damned fond of the boy.’
‘Damned fond.’
‘Nothing namby-pamby about Harry.’
‘Nothing namby-pamby about Harry.’
‘That’s what we want to hear.’ Major-General Hailsham nodded. ‘Let’s drink to it, shall we? I’d like to propose a very special kind of toast.’ He picked up his glass.
‘Gentlemen—Prince Harry.’
‘Prince Harry. Hurrah.’
‘Hurrah!’
‘Cry God for Harry, England and St George.’
‘Jolly well put, Payne. Has a familiar ring to it … Your own?’
The regimental reunion luncheon was exactly what Major Payne had expected it to be—glorious grub, the best of wines, incredibly inconsequential talk—everybody sounded as though they had sat at the feet of Ionesco or Beckett. Virtually interchangeable, if one shut one’s eyes and just listened. It didn’t matter who said what. Age and the demon drink had something to do with it. Payne didn’t exactly revel in the company of his brother officers, though regimental dinners were something he was apt to attend, out of habit rather than loyalty or any particular affection. His accounts of past regimental dinners had made Antonia laugh, so now he tried to keep mental notes of what was being said. Was the superannuated army officer an intrinsically British phenomenon? He rather thought it was. They didn’t have quite the same thing in France or in Germany. Why did they have to shout so? Enough to burst one’s eardrums. Well, some of them were quite deaf …
Major Payne cleared his throat. ‘Would you allow me an observation? At our last reunion most of the fellows had moustaches. Now there are only two chaps with moustaches. Jesty and the Brigadier.’
‘By Jove, you are right. You are always right, I can’t help noticing.’ Colonel Speke squinted around. ‘Yes. How perfectly extraordinary. Damned curious, in fact. No moustaches!’
‘The mystery of the … diminishing moustaches, eh, Payne?’ Brigadier Fielding cocked a knowing eyebrow. ‘Perhaps you should investigate what’s behind it? That’s what you like doing best, someone said. Investigating. Finding out about things. You and your lady wife. That’s what a little bird told me.’
‘Not true. Nothing but silly rumours. People like to make up all kinds of stories.’
‘I say, Payne, would you like one of my cigars? You strike me as the kind of fellow who would appreciate an authentic Montecristo.’
‘Thank you, Fielding, I think I would. If you’ll excuse me …’ Major Payne rose.
‘No moustaches,’ Denham said thoughtfully. ‘Payne’s absolutely right. Payne’s hit the nail on the head, as usual. That’s what I’ve been thinking. Standards are slipping. Where are you off to, Payne? No problems with the waterworks, I trust? A young man like you—’
‘No, nothing of the sort. Got to clear my head,’ Major Payne explained.
2
Conduct Unbecoming
He strolled out of the private dining room and found himself in the foyer. The tall silver-framed mirror told him what Antonia had already pointed out: he looked good in uniform. He twirled an imaginary moustache and looked at his cigar. An authentic Montecristo, eh? Made the Brigadier feel young and dashing, he supposed. Payne didn’t smoke cigars often, but sometimes he did feel like it—after a good meal—when he was ever so slightly tipsy—with a good brandy—always made him think of Kipling—went with the uniform somehow. Shame he couldn’t smoke it here, though. For some reason his thoughts strayed back to the Annigoni portrait of the Queen. It had been painted two years after the Coronation and blended formality with informality, in a manner that was characteristic of the Queen’s style. She wears her Garter robes like a dressing gown, Payne thought. An ordinary woman in an extraordinary role …
Not many people around. Lunch hour drawing to a close, too early for tea. Someone standing beside a potted palm, looking furtive. Same uniform as me, Payne thought languidly. The next moment he blinked. Good lord. One of their chaps. Jesty? Yes. The elusive Captain Jesty. Payne had seen Jesty slip out of the dining room earlier on—he’d had a determined air about him, or so Payne imagined. Payne didn’t know Jesty terribly well, but they were on friendly enough terms, whenever they bumped into each other. Jesty seemed to be spying on someone. He was standing stock still, head thrust forward, face flushed, eyes bulging—
Not exactly the conduct of an officer and a gentleman. The regiment would most certainly take a dim view of it. What was he up to? With his snub nose and round blue eyes that held a malicious glint, Jesty brought to mind an overgrown boy. Short mousy hair and a little moustache that was not in the least becoming. Physiognomy, no doubt, was an inexact science, but Jesty’s face did not invite trust. Jesty had the face of an ageing debauched Puck.
Payne tried to remember what he knew about Jesty. Late forties. Hadn’t risen above the rank of captain. Twice divorced. Or was it three times? Something of a ladies’ man, nay a professional amorist, if gossip was to be believed. An indefatigable pursuer of the fair sex, in fact. That reference earlier on to the ‘usual’. Jesty was reputed to have had affairs with the wives of several of his brother officers. Personally, Payne found it hard to envisage Jesty in the role of an irresistible Don Juan, but then women were funny when it came to that sort of thing. Some women. No accounting for tastes.
What was he doing? He hadn’t moved. He looked riveted by somebody or something. Payne wondered if he could be witnessing one of Jesty’s amorous pursuits …
Feeling a little light-headed, Major Payne tiptoed up to him. He was not sure what he intended to say. Something on the lines of ‘gotcha’ or ‘boo’. Jesty, however, turned round before Payne could make a sound. Jesty didn’t appear particularly startled. He put his forefinger across his lips.
‘Voyeuristic practices are frowned upon at Claridge’s,’ Payne said sternly. ‘Does the honour of the regiment mean so little to you?’
‘Something funny’s going on, Payne. See that couple over there?’ Jesty pointed. ‘The old boy and the girlie?’
‘What about them? You couldn’t possibly be after him, so you must be after her.’
‘Perhaps I am. Any objections?’
‘Are you stalking her?’
‘She did something rather peculiar. I’m trying to work out what she’s up to exactly …’
The young woman had a delicate pale face. Hair pulled back in a severe bun. Late twenties or early thirties, Payne decided. Attractive. Practically no make-up. Simple black dress. Intense. Beautiful, yes, in a rather exclusive kind of way. Her bone structure! A model? Something of the head girl about her—the way she did her hair. Made her appear a trifle forbidding. Shouldn’t do her hair like that. The old boy was probably in his seventies. Face like a lugubrious bloodhound. Querulous expression. Balding. Smart double-breasted blazer and black tie … Her grandfather?
There was a coffee pot on the table in front of them with two cups. Also a glass. No food of any kind. Had they been to a funeral? Or were they going to one? A somewhat desolate air hung about them.
‘Who are they?’ Payne whispered.
‘Her name is Penelope, that’s how the pantaloon addressed her. No idea how they are related. My guess is he is her aged uncle.’
‘May be her aged husband …’
‘Perish the thought! Don’t think she likes him very much.’ Jesty’s eyes narrowed. ‘She’s a looker, isn’t she?’
‘She is, rather. Now, steady on—’
‘You think I am after her virtue?’
‘Aren’t you?’
‘I want to stroke her hair … Look at those lips … She’s the kind that puts up a fight … I’d like that … Incidentally, the pantaloon is going to a place called Maybrick Manor.’
‘Maybrick Manor?’
‘Some such name. May have been Maypole Manor. Or Mayflower. Not sure. The acoustics here are awful. Intend to complain to the manager about it.’
‘Hasn’t it occurred to you that perhaps Claridge’s was never meant to accommodate eavesdroppers?’
‘The old boy said something about it not being his fault the ghastly woman wanted to end it all.’
‘What ghastly woman?’
‘No idea … I managed to walk close by their table twice—after I saw what she did. I was curious. Don’t think she noticed me. Didn’t so much as lift her pretty head. Distraite.’
‘What did she do?’
Jesty pointed. ‘See that little box beside the old boy’s cup?’
‘What about it?’
The next moment the young woman signalled to one of the waiters and said in a peremptory voice that was loud enough for them to hear, ‘Could we have the bill, please?’
‘Yes, madam.’
‘Looks like a snuff-box.’ Payne squinted. ‘A silver snuffbox. Seventeenth-century, at a guess.’
The old man spoke peevishly. ‘Penelope, my dear, isn’t it a bit early?’
She glanced at her watch. ‘I don’t think you should make the Master wait. It would be bad manners.’
‘I wouldn’t have minded some more coffee, actually. There’s no need to hurry. The Master said, come whenever you want.’
‘The Master was only being polite.’
‘The Master is always polite.’
Payne frowned. ‘Who is the Master?’
‘A damned fine-looking filly,’ Jesty murmured. ‘I love her voice. I love her throat—’
‘She looks jolly tense. Like a cat on hot bricks.’ Payne stroked his jaw with his forefinger.
‘She’s got a reason to be tense. She did something damned odd.’
‘What did she do?’
Jesty did not answer. They watched the old man pick up the snuff-box and put it into his pocket.
‘What’s inside the box. . .
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