Hell bay, p.2
Hell Bay, page 2
“She has not informed me that I would be accompanying her,” he went on, mustering some sangfroid. “Pray tell me more about the party. Where shall it be?”
“On the Isles of Scilly. Ours is called Godolphin Island, after the family house. It is about one kilometer square. There is a jetty at the north end and a lighthouse at the other. Beyond that there is the house, a few outbuildings, and an old cannon left over from old Boney. It’s secluded, but we prefer it that way. A launch brings supplies and visitors to the isle. Once it leaves, we will be alone with only each other for company.”
“How is the launch summoned when needed? Is there a telephone cable?”
“Oh, dear me, no. Nothing as modern as that. There is a pole by the jetty. We run a red flag up it and the first boat that spies it and docks knows they will receive a gold sovereign for their labor.”
“How many guests shall be there?”
In answer, His Lordship reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and handed a folded slip of paper to my employer. I leaned toward him and glanced over his shoulder at the list of names. There were at least a dozen of them there.
“This is quite a houseful. Have you any reason to suspect something might occur?”
“No, nothing at all. There have been minor border disputes between our countries in Africa, but I suspect the enmity between us since the Hundred Years War is finally at an end. We have mutual enemies in Russia and Germany. I would deny that they are our enemies in public, of course, but I want us to understand one another.”
Barker crossed his arms, then raked his nails under his chin, a gesture he often made when he was thinking.
“What sort of staff is on the island?”
“There are the usual lot of servants in the house, plus a gardener. There is also a lighthouse keeper named Noah Flannen, but he rarely comes to our side of the island. He prefers his own company. A man of few words, but a good keeper. That’s the lot.”
“How many servants altogether, would you say?”
“Fifteen at most.”
“That is almost two dozen people who might have reason to want the house party to fail. If I might make a recommendation to you, it would be to hire a full detail of guards, even if they are not needed. There is too much that could go wrong.”
“The French ambassador insists upon privacy. He wishes to come and see how his favorite goddaughter is doing, and has no desire to see the island full of British men in uniforms.”
“How astute is he? Would he notice a few extra footmen or undergardeners?”
“Too astute to trick so easily.”
“What are my duties, precisely? To protect M. Gascoigne, he and you together, or the entire party? Each addition becomes progressively difficult.”
“I’m concerned with Henri alone, of course, but if something were to occur to someone else and you can help without jeopardizing his safety, I hope you would consider lending your skills. I had considered doing without security entirely, but my natural inclination toward safety made me look for a few men I could trust. I have been told you are those men.”
“I won’t ask who provided the recommendation.”
“That is good, because I will not give it. Do you accept the assignment or not?”
“I am caught in a snare of my own making, but I need not trouble you about that. Mr. Llewelyn and I accept the assignment.”
His Lordship beamed a smile at us both. “Good man. Philippa, that is, Mrs. Ashleigh, has all the details. You’re to be at the ferry in Land’s End tomorrow at eleven. From there, you’ll board a launch that will bring you to the island.”
“The event will take a full week?”
“Six days and seven nights, yes. But the talk will take only a few days.”
“Very well,” Barker said. “Have you a sovereign?”
Lord Hargrave fished in his pocket for the required coin and put it in the Guv’s hand with a questioning look.
“Thomas,” my employer said, handing it to me. “This is a retainer for our services. Pray write up a contract and run it over here for a signature.”
“Yes, sir.”
Barker stood and nodded at His Lordship. “We won’t take up any more of your time, sir. Come, Thomas, we have plans to make. Sir, if I have any further questions, will you be in Whitehall to answer them?”
“I fear not, I’m leaving within the hour.”
“Good day, then.”
Barker bowed and I clapped my bowler on my head, then we returned to the ground floor. I got another look at the Rubens. Who knew when I’d see it again?
“Damn and blast,” Barker rumbled. “Philippa has trussed me like a Christmas goose.”
“Surely it’s not as bad as all that. It’s only a party.”
“A party lasts a few hours. It has a beginning, a middle, and an end. This kind of event goes on for days. Everyone gets to know everyone else. One cannot go anywhere without being questioned about everything. One is asked about one’s relatives, one’s political views, private history, and personal references. One engages in small talk. Do I look like the sort of person who enjoys engaging in small talk?”
“No, sir. I know you don’t. But why did you accept the assignment, then?”
“I put off Philippa’s last request. I cannot turn down another. Come to think of it, she took my refusal rather easily. I wonder if I’ve been tricked.”
“Oh, no, sir. I’m certain Mrs. Ashleigh would never do such a thing.”
We reached Craig’s Court just as the old bell in the tower of the Houses of Parliament rang nine times. Barker opened the door, stepped inside, and jammed his walking stick into the stand as if he were a matador performing the estocada upon a hapless bull. Filling a pipe from his cabinet, he was soon puffing angry plumes of smoke toward the ceiling.
“This had better be worth my while,” he said. “If I have to endure a week of sweetmeats and polite conversation, I’m liable to set back Anglo-French relations all by myself.”
CHAPTER TWO
We were up early the next morning to finish our packing. If I knew our butler, Jacob Maccabee, he was trying to convince the Guv that he was the better candidate to go with him, for while I could not do his work as perfectly as he could, he most certainly could do mine at least as well, if not better. Whether or not it was true, Barker had chosen me for the work and he would be difficult to convince. Rather than wait for a change of mind, I shaved, dressed, finished my packing, and had coffee and a bun for breakfast. We had a train to meet at Paddington Station shortly after ten that morning.
Mac was not the only one displeased by our leave-taking. Harm, Barker’s prized Pekingese, trotted in circles by the front door, whining at our presumption in not taking his feelings into account. Whose lap would he sit in at night, and whose bed would he lie at the foot of? Not Mac’s, that’s for certain. The two barely tolerated each other. I bent to pat his head, but he scooted out from under as if my hand were a hot poker. He would not be mollified as long as we held the ridiculous notion of leaving without him. But then, I knew him well enough to understand he wouldn’t go willingly, either. Someone must watch over the garden and keep out the foxes and stray cats or the country would go to ruin.
When we met Mrs. Ashleigh on the platform, the porters were attempting to load her mountain of cases into the luggage van. Save for my bay mare, Juno, all that I owned could fit into a single steamer trunk with room left over. Cyrus Barker owned many things, being a wealthy man, but he always packed sparingly. I’ll never understand why women require so many cases of potions and perfumes and foundation garments, not to mention hats, muffs, and so on, but I suspect their difference from us in that regard is part of their charm. If a third of the items they bring along are never worn, well, what is the harm in that? That is, as long as I’m not doing the carrying.
Mrs. Ashleigh was immaculate in a traveling suit of light tweed in a color she would probably call aubergine. Her hat was a small spray of purple flowers and fruit, covered by a stiff veil that just reached the tip of her nose. She looked the most composed person on the platform. The Guv hailed her with his stick, and when they met they took each other’s hands, and she patted him on the arm. They are not demonstrative in public. They smiled at each other and, with nary a word between them, entered the first-class coach.
Before we embarked, I left them to their private conversation and stepped out onto the platform. I like engines and keep a guide in my pocket to check off every kind I see. This one was a Great Western Railway Rover Class, a 4-2-2, liveried in GWR Brunswick green and named Dragon. She would be taking us from Isambard Kingdom Brunel’s masterpiece, Paddington Station, all the way to the west coast. My favorite line is the Brighton, but I must admit the Dragon was a beauty, down to her pert copper chimney cap. I dared lean in close to the footplate and engaged the engine driver and footman in conversation about her. How much coal was she carrying? How fast would she go? What landmarks should I keep an eye open for between here and the coast? I slipped them half a crown before I left, for putting up with my questions. My work is important to me, but if by some miracle they offered me a permanent place on the footplate, I’d have been sorely tempted.
It occurred to me as I sat down in our compartment that this would be the closest I would come to my home and family in many years. A lot had happened to me since I had left Gwent five years before: university, marriage, imprisonment, widowhood, destitution, and finally employment with one of the most unusual men in London. At his insistence, I had finally written to them and begun sending back money regularly to meet the demands of a large family, but so far I had not returned to what I considered my disgrace. But my employer and Mrs. Ashleigh were talking and there I was, off in my own thoughts.
“I’ve known her for ages,” she was saying. “She helped me through my mother’s final days when I was a youth and attended my wedding. When I returned years later from China a widow, she made a trip to Sussex especially to see me. We’ve been friends ever since.”
“Is she of like age to her husband?” the Guv asked.
“No, she is nearly a decade younger than Lord Hargrave. They are each from a distinguished family but they are very close. It is considered one of the best matches in society. The house is hers and the money is his. Normally, it is the other way around. She didn’t want to leave her ancestral seat, and he agreed. They’ve been blessed with two sons and a daughter.”
“Has he been working in Whitehall long?” Barker asked.
“Four or five years, I think. Before that, he was the ambassador to France under Gladstone. He’s considered one of the most knowledgeable men on French affairs, but to tell you the truth, I don’t know what his current position is, if he has one. I was surprised to hear he had called upon you.”
Barker crossed his arms and sat back against the seat of our carriage. “I was under the impression that you and Lady Hargrave had hatched this between you.”
“Oh, no, I rather think this is your fault, not mine,” Philippa replied, touching his sleeve again with a gloved hand.
“How so?”
“You have successfully managed to avoid meeting Celia at several events. She may have put forward your name in order to finally make your acquaintance.”
Cyrus Barker did his best not to look glum. He finds first-class carriages cramped, however, so after a decent interval, he and I availed ourselves of the smoking car. There he spread out on the bench, filled his traveling meerschaum, and seized a handful of newspapers. I opened a window and took up the least dull-looking of the journals available, an issue of Blackwood’s. After a few minutes, my employer grunted.
I’ve become an expert on Barker’s grunts. He has several to display irritation, inquisitiveness, confirmation, or even triumph. This one was to show interest. I looked up in enquiry.
“Unusual murder, or perhaps a mere hunting accident. The headmaster of the Bromley Boarding School in Roxton opens a chamber window to call to some of his charges and is shot dead.”
“A stray bullet from a poacher, perhaps?” I asked.
“The headmaster, Harold Throgmorton, was known as a strict disciplinarian, but had no known enemies. A search was made of the woods nearby, but no tramps or gypsies were found.”
I chuckled and put down my magazine. “The most likely suspects, I’m sure, only neither is likely to have a rifle accurate over twenty feet.”
“Precisely. And listen to this.”
Local Woman Found Dead
The body of Mrs. Yolanda Tisher was found this morning outside of her retirement cottage in St. Ives. She was sixty-nine. Her neck was broken, according to the medical examiner, and there were signs of a struggle. Mrs. Tisher had run a successful boarding school for infants for many years, having retired after three decades. Inspector Whiteburn of the local constabulary asks that anyone with pertinent information in this case come forward.
“Boarding school for infants,” I said. “I suppose you mean a baby farm for illegitimate children. Where was the first murder?”
“Redruth.”
“I’ve been there once. It’s a distance of about twenty miles between them, at least. One’s a schoolmaster and the other a schoolmistress of sorts. You think there is a connection?”
“I think two murders in a week in this part of the country exceedingly rare, but the murder methods are dissimilar. If one has a good rifle, why attack a woman in the street? Women of that profession tend to be hardened old crones.”
“It sounds as if she put up a struggle.”
“No doubt.”
“Inspector Whiteburn has his hands full, but then so do we. I suppose when our duties on the Scilly Isles are finished, if the murders are still unsolved, we might look in, if you have a mind to do so.”
Barker grunted again. I took it to mean “perhaps.”
Back in the first-class carriage, we found Mrs. Ashleigh engaged in conversation with an older gentleman and his wife. It was her way. She was of such a gentle yet vivacious character that people could not help but be drawn to her side. Babies cooed at her, children engaged her in secret-telling, and even gruff elderly men could not help but converse with her. Barker could sit next to a passenger from Brighton to John o’ Groat’s and not think to ask him a question, even if it were to open a window.
We were introduced, rather against Barker’s will, I suspect. The gentleman was Colonel Ross Fraser of the Coldstream Guard, retired. I could have told he was military from across the carriage. There was a crease in his tweed trousers. He had a regulation mustache, and even a regulation wife, reminding me of a bouquet of faded roses, dried and preserved. I know that’s not a valid description of either of them, of course, but that was the impression they left with me.
“The Colonel and Mrs. Fraser are coming to Godolphin House,” Philippa explained.
“Ah.”
“What do you do for a living, Mr. Barker?” the colonel asked, putting out a strong but spotty hand.
“I run an agency in Whitehall. This is my assistant, Thomas Llewelyn.”
“I’m pleased to meet you, sir,” I said, being polite.
“Hulloa, young fella-m’lad. Have either of you been to Godolphin House before?”
We both admitted that we hadn’t. I looked out the window and watched the trees and telegraph poles go by, thinking we would soon be in Wales. Home.
“It’s amazing what they have managed to build on what is essentially a barren rock. They have a marvelous gardener. He’s practically a miracle worker to grow anything there besides coral and sponges.”
“Have you known Lord Hargrave long?”
“Oh, a dog’s years at least. He was my aide-de-camp, don’t you know. The man’s certainly come up in the world since then, but he would have even if he hadn’t inherited the family fortune. A first-class brain, Richard has. One has to in order to do what he does.”
“Which is?”
“He anticipates the next bad business our enemies intend to pull off, in order to throw a spanner into it. Take the French, for example. They can’t dispute our borders in eastern Africa if we’ve just signed a treaty with them, now can they?”
The colonel smiled, revealing a full set of ivory teeth that had looked better on the elephant. I was trying to decide if his appearance as a bluff, average old soldier was genuine, or whether he was holding cards up his sleeve alongside his regulation handkerchief. If there is one thing I’ve learned from Barker, it is not to reveal too much about myself in casual conversation. It was the most difficult thing for me to learn. Five minutes’ conversation and normally you’ll know my hat size. Now, thanks to the Guv, I’ve learned the art of turning a conversation back on itself.
“I suppose not,” I agreed. “How far is the island from Land’s End?”
“Expecting a touch of mal de mer, young fella? My wife gets that. It takes her a full day to get her legs under her again. It’s about thirty miles. It is the most southeasterly of the Scilly Isles. Quite a distance from London, but you know, he goes home once a fortnight just to see Celia. Never misses one, no matter what the crisis.”
“You sound quite proud of him,” I said.
“Always knew he would go far.”
We grew silent and listened to the two women discussing various topics for a good hour at least. From time to time I joined in to hold up the side, but I don’t mind confessing it was rough seas. As soon as I came up with something pithy or worth saying, they had already moved on to another topic of conversation.
It was a long ride to Cornwall, however. Words eventually ran out, and people turned to books and newspapers. The colonel napped in the corner while his wife knitted. Barker and Mrs. Ashleigh seemed to silently commune in each other’s company, while I stared out the window through a light rain, watching the faintly familiar countryside for some sign of recognition. It was a struggle not to join the colonel in Slumberland, but I was able to stay awake. My thoughts turned to the newspaper accounts Barker had mentioned. Who, I wondered, would shoot a schoolmaster? I mean, they are never on one’s list of personal favorites, but I’ve never heard of anyone killing one.
