Hell bay, p.1
Hell Bay, page 1
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Table of Contents
About the Author
Copyright Page
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To my sisters, Sherry and Denise, who enjoy mysteries as much as I do
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First, I would like to thank my agent, Maria Carvainis, whose guiding hand through the years means so much to me.
I have a fabulous team at Minotaur that I would like to thank: my terrific editor, Keith Kahla; Hannah Braaten, Hector DeJean, and so many others who worked on the fabulous cover and all of the many jobs that made it possible to see Hell Bay in print.
To the many librarians who helped me assemble the research for this novel, and to the family and friends who encourage me along the way, I extend my thanks.
And to my family, Julia, Caitlin, David, and Heather, who encourage me daily as I create the world of Barker and Llewelyn. My deepest thanks for your love and support.
PROLOGUE
Harold Throgmorton’s face was florid. He had exerted himself too much for a man approaching seventy. He’d reached that age at which a man should sit back and take his ease in life, and even consider an end to work entirely, with a modest pension. And yet, there were a few pleasures here at the Bromley Boarding School he would miss; one of them was caning a child who had dared to be willful at his school. He had collected a number of tools for the work over the years—hickory, oak, malacca—and even made his own improvements upon them, testing them on the backsides of a generation of unruly boys. He had just finished with one, a boy who had deliberately spat on the stairs.
The headmaster reached to the sideboard and poured himself a tumbler of water, willing his hand to stop shaking and his heart to slow to its proper beat. He believed, most of all, in self-discipline. If his students actually took his messages seriously, they could have derived great benefit as they matured and made their way into the world. But no, most if not all of the boys who came through his school lacked any real moral fiber, and each class was worse than the last. They were slack, lazy, and degenerate. All his words of wisdom were no more to them than pearls before swine. Perhaps in his twilight years he should consider putting them down in a book. There might yet be someone in the world who could appreciate such razor-sharp foresight.
He should have gone to London, he told himself. Far better than flogging his life away here in far-off Cornwall. He could have been a headmaster at Eton or Rugby by now. Had he taken the easy way through life? Positions were always open, but hard-won. He had talent; he should have tested it against the best and brightest England had to offer. He could even have taught in Europe at a university, Heidelberg or Berlin. Yes, perhaps he had allowed himself to take an easy route, running a choice boy’s school on the west coast for forty years. Once he’d been the youngest headmaster he knew. Now he was the oldest.
There was a knock at the door.
“Come in!” he called.
The door opened and a dried old trout of a fellow entered.
“What is it, Walpole?”
“The tomatoes, sir,” the bursar said. “From the grocer. They were bad. The entire bushel. The cook will have to change the menu.”
“So, let him get on with it,” Throgmorton sputtered.
“We’ll have to announce the change.”
“Who in bloody hell cares if we do or do not have grilled tomatoes with our supper?”
The old fellow visibly kept from heaving a sigh. Even the bursars were not a patch on the ones that had come before.
“I’ll inform everyone if you’d prefer not to do so, sir,” the man answered.
“Do it,” Throgmorton growled. “I’ve got more important things to do with my time, thank you.”
“Very well,” Walpole said, backing toward the door. “I’ll see that everyone is told.”
When he was gone, the headmaster sat down in his chair and poured himself a second glass. Chaos. Everything was falling into chaos everywhere. Standards were no longer being met, and so they lowered the standards, rather than getting at the root of the problem, which was lazy boys. Boys needed to be disciplined hard and often if they were to make anything of themselves, and only one in a hundred had natural discipline. It requires a man with the knowledge of how much punishment a boy’s body could take in order to break their spirits and make them ready for instruction. Once they received it, there was no end to how high they could soar.
There was a sound outside, which came to Harold Throgmorton’s attention through a half-open window, raised due to the heat of the day. He crossed to the window, threw up the sash, and looked out upon the knoll the school used for recess after lunch. As usual, the students were skylarking, getting into trouble when there was a perfectly good cricket game in progress toward the back of the green. Throgmorton had the pitch put in himself, to combat indolence. The headmaster’s attention focused on two boys nearby, who were engaged in a wrestling match while still standing, one with an arm tight around the other’s neck. The aggressor was Toler, a bully if there ever was one. He’d warmed the headmaster’s paddle many times. The boy he was picking on was a spindly specimen by the name of Wilkins, thin as a rail and bespectacled.
“Toler!” he bellowed. “What do you think you’re about? Leave off tormenting Wilkins before I haul you in here and give you stripes like a tiger!”
Everyone stopped and stared, Toler in particular. He pulled his arm from around the smaller boy’s neck and attempted to look innocent, while Wilkins lay in the grass, coughing.
“You think that’s funny, do you, Toler? Perhaps we need to call your father in for a conference about your attitude.”
The boy’s eyes went large. If there was a bigger bully in England than Toler Junior it was Toler Senior. He ran a manufacturing business with an iron thumb, and would not appreciate having to come to the school during office hours to deal with an unruly son. Once junior came in with a blackened eye after being sent home from school the day before.
“Sorry, sir! Wilkins and I were just playing, weren’t we, Wilkins?”
Breaking their spirit, that’s what it was all about. It was the same with horses. You break their pride by showing there was someone higher up they needed to obey. You do that and they become ready to learn. If they learn their lessons, soon they will be ready to lead. If it was good enough for kings, it was more than good enough for this lot.
From his window, Throgmorton began scrutinizing each and every child in the play yard for infractions. His standards were exacting.
“Barnaby, straighten your tie!”
“Yes, Headmaster.”
“Quilby, you know gaiters are not part of the school uniform!”
“Yes, sir! Sorry, sir!”
“Henning, you—”
No one would ever know what infraction he had assigned to Henning, because just at that moment a bullet struck Headmaster Harold Throgmorton square between the eyes. It shattered the pince-nez he was wearing and killed him instantly. Quite probably, he died feeling no pain whatsoever, which, considering how much he had inflicted on others during his many years, doesn’t exactly seem fair.
All the young men from fourteen to eighteen who were playing or standing in the yard watched him fall. One of them later claimed that Toler gave a kind of cheer, but no one could verify the claim. All of the witnesses agreed the shot came from the woods that surrounded the school on three sides, but no one actually saw the shooter or any sign of a rifle. There had been no visitors to the school that day, there were no gypsies in the area, and the nearby town of Roxton had little trouble with poachers.
An examination of the woods that afternoon by the local constabulary revealed no trace of an assailant, such as footfalls, cigarette ends lying about, or broken limbs scattered among the bushes. In short, some person or persons unknown had willfully murdered the headmaster and gotten away with it free and clear. So the coroner’s jury ruled in the Royal George Inn the following week.
They say in the afterlife all things shall become illuminated. If so, perhaps Throgmorton would find some irony in the fact that the bullet that ended his life came by way of the one student in his generation who took the headmaster’s lessons to heart.
CHAPTER ONE
We all make mistakes, of course, even the best of us. Some of us are famous for them. We make big ones, small ones, messy ones, boneheaded ones, spectacular ones, and occasionally deadly ones. Take the fellow in a hurry, who steps off the curb into the path of an approaching omnibus. Something had happened that morning to throw off his schedule, and one by one, events had toppled like standing dominoes until he took the fatal step, which had seemed perfectly reasoned at the time. In one instant, his life became encapsulated in a brief article in The Times.
Even those who have a reputation for not making mistakes make them all the same, just not as often or as visibly, but when they do, they c an be real crackers. One can fool Mother Nature only so long before she must have her due, and she can be a contentious old biddy when she wants to be.
“What’s the name of this place again?” I asked Cyrus Barker as I trotted south beside him in Whitehall Street. The Houses of Parliament and Westminster Abbey were ahead of us, and across the street lay the Colonial Office, just past the Horse Guards who were passing in their shiny helmets. Sometimes I forget what an important street I am fortunate enough to work in.
“The Royal United Service Institution,” he supplied in his raspy voice. “Are you having trouble assimilating the name?”
“I am. It sounds like a thousand similar departments in the area. What sets it apart from the others?”
“It was founded by the Duke of Wellington himself in 1831. Its purpose is to monitor other nations both politically and militarily, and suggest policy to the government. Their recommendations are taken very seriously.”
“What sort of policy?” I asked, as Barker’s long strides ate up the pavement.
“Suppose the Russians start building their navy and begin maneuvers in the North Sea. The Royal United would keep track of their movements and suggest a diplomatic warning and patrols of our own in the region.”
“I see,” I said.
“The organization is made up of diplomats, historians, and military strategists. They include some of the top minds in the country.”
“Then why have I not heard of it before now?”
“You’re not supposed to. They don’t call attention to themselves.”
“How do you know so much about it, then?”
“I try to keep abreast of the various agencies in the immediate vicinity, in case we might be of some use to them.”
“Which, apparently, we are.”
A telegram had arrived in our chamber that morning requesting our presence. It wasn’t the kind of request one refused.
“That is it, there. The White Building.”
I stopped and pointed. “That building? Sir, that’s the Royal Banqueting Hall. It was built by King Henry VIII as part of the Palace of Whitehall. Are you sure that’s the one?”
“Aye, it is. Now, come along.”
We’re like that, Cyrus Barker and I: chalk and cheese. If something interests one of us, it probably won’t interest the other. Somehow, between us, we manage to know an awful lot of information that the general public has never heard of. I began walking again.
“You do know that Charles I was beheaded here. That’s why the statue beside our offices faces this way.”
“I hadn’t,” the Guv said, sounding about as bored as I did when he described the purpose of the Royal United Whatever-it-was.
“How did a palace sink to the level of being used as a mere government office?”
“You should consider it fortunate the building is standing at all. Space is at a premium in Whitehall. Shall we step inside?”
We did. I removed my bowler and looked about at what was left of Henry VIII’s dream of the “greatest palace in Christendom.” I found a once breathtaking building in poor repair, and crowded with modern furniture that in no way matched the décor. At least I could take in the magnificent ceiling.
“Rubens painted that,” I said. “Peter Paul Rubens. Inigo Jones brought him here all the way from Antwerp, with the offer of a knighthood. Now look at it!”
The ceiling was decidedly sooty, probably the result of tobacco smoke. Everyone I saw in the bustling offices seemed to have a pipe, cigar, or cigarette in his mouth. The pantheon of gods overhead looked down wearily, as if contemplating a move to a healthier clime.
“We’re here to see Lord Hargrave,” Barker said to a guard, handing him the card we’d been sent.
The guard clapped a small bell sitting on his desk and an aged porter came along and led us up a staircase built for royalty to the first floor. The few doors that were open revealed either shelves containing books and files, or walls full of maps. People seemed to be lounging about. One fellow was actually seated on his desk rather than at it. Every desk had a full ashtray and a cup of tea on it, or the dregs of one. Men were talking, even gossiping, but no one looked particularly occupied. I still had trouble working out what they did here. They came to conclusions and made recommendations on matters of security. Based on what? Innumerable cigarettes and map reading, it would appear.
We came up to a door which the porter entered without a by-your-leave. There was a desk in this room, a substantial one, but it shared space with more shelves, books, boxes, and maps. Behind the desk was a gentleman approaching his sixtieth year, but doing so with squared shoulders and an authoritative manner. His hair was crisp and iron gray, and he had the kind of mustache that military men favor. When he looked at us, I saw a twinkle in his eye, as if there were a private joke to which we were not privy. He rose slowly but gracefully enough, and offered a hand, which Barker took. Meanwhile, the porter slunk out without comment or introduction.
“Mr. Barker,” our host said.
“Lord Hargrave. This is my assistant, Thomas Llewelyn.”
He shook my hand. His was dry and callused enough to crack a walnut with. He gestured for us to sit in the two chairs in front of his desk and lowered himself into his own.
“Gentlemen, are you aware of what we do here?” he asked.
“We are,” Barker rumbled.
“There is an event which shall occur at my estate tomorrow, a private but important meeting with the French ambassador, Henri Gascoigne. Our purpose is to dictate policy between our governments. You may be aware there has been some friction between our colonies in Africa. It is hoped by our government that a treaty might be brokered between us. Henri is an old friend of mine, and we’ve both been entrusted with concessions if an agreement can be reached. You understand that I am taking you into my closest confidence. Even the Prince of Wales has not been informed of this meeting.”
“How may we be of service, your lordship?”
“You have been recommended to me for security.”
Barker held up his large hands, palms upward. “Alas, sir, you are looking at my entire operation. If challenged, I could extend it to five or six men, but not a sufficient number to cover such an event.”
Lord Hargrave sat back in his chair, unfazed by Barker’s refusal. “There is a second element to the negotiations. As I intimated, they are completely clandestine. In fact, they will be shrouded by another event at our estate, a house party. So far, none of my children have wed, and my wife has devised an event which she hopes may kindle a spark or two in that direction. It is hoped the talks may occur informally during the party.”
“Which came first, sir?” I asked. “The plan or the party?”
“They both evolved concurrently, but it was I who put them together. You see, Henri and his wife are godparents to my daughter. It would be suspicious if he made a diplomatic mission here to London, and would raise questions at home. Attending a party at my estate would be another matter.”
“May I assume that our presence there as security agents would be sub rosa?” Barker asked.
“Precisely. As long as you are not needed, we shall let the guests believe you are one of them.”
Barker’s brow curled in perplexity. “I don’t think the lad here has much in his favor to suit Her Ladyship as a possible son-in-law. How are we to explain our presence?”
Hargrave chuckled. “As it happens, you are both already on the guest list,” he said.
“I? How so?”
“You will be accompanying Mrs. Philippa Ashleigh. She is my wife, Celia’s, closest friend, and she is helping to coordinate events. The invitations are already in the post. So you see, your presence is completely plausible, since you are already invited.”
Barker crossed his arms and frowned, considering the matter. Of all the services he offered, security work was his least favorite. Too many unexpected things could happen. His Lordship had finessed that rather well, the old diplomat. Philippa, Barker’s companion ever since I’d known him, had tried unsuccessfully for years to trap him into one of these week-long house parties, but he was as difficult to corner as a wounded badger. I wondered if the French alliance were a ruse merely to get the Guv into his evening kit at a social function, and at her side for an entire week. Barker turned his head, studying me suspiciously from behind his dark-lensed spectacles, as if determining whether I was somehow part of this conspiracy. I took the opportunity to scrutinize a painting over the fireplace.
