A Death for King and Country (5 page)

Chapter Eight

In which I am grateful for having a womanly
figure

Bertram Stapleford is not a tall man, nor is he particularly broad in the shoulders, but he has the tenacity of a bulldog. Against the odds he was waiting for me in the lobby at the appointed hour. I thought the least said about our intended destination the better. I smiled at him very brightly, as if there had never been a cross word between us, took his arm, and marched out into the morning sunlight. I thought I had got it away with the deception. Bertram was silent for a while, but when he reached a place where the passers-by had lessened he finally spoke.

‘I thought it would be better if we stayed in the hotel for another night. I know you have somewhere else you wish to visit and I felt it was better not to attempt too much in one day. I have little idea of what the roads will be like beyond London, but I suspect very bad.’

‘Oh,’ I said.

‘The desk clerk was extremely helpful and not only accommodated us for tonight, but also the night on the way back to the Mullers. Though I do wonder if we should also break that journey, as it’s so very long.’

‘Possibly,’ I said cautiously, ‘I am unsure how long the appointment after this will take. My information indicated it would be a three-to-four hour drive, or two hours if we took the train.’

‘Do you want to take the train, Mrs Fitzroy?’

‘Ah, the desk clerk told you the alias I used,’ I said licking my suddenly dry lips. ‘It was the first name that came into my head.’

‘Of course it was,’ said Bertram, achieving an admirable level of sarcasm. I felt myself blushing. But we were almost at the tearoom. Bertram let go of my arm and entered without a backward glance. From the set of his shoulders I knew he was not only angry with me, but hurt that I was intentionally keeping from him my mission. I wanted to tell him that it was not I that did not trust him, but Fitzroy, but if I was to keep to the letter of the will I was denied even this.

I walked up the steps of Black and Hunt, Merchant Bankers, and rang the discreet bell. I took out the flimsy veil I had stowed in my handbag and cast it over my hat and face. An individual with a countenance so devoid of expression he could have been related to Stone opened the door.

‘Mrs Fitzroy,’ he said. ‘We have been expecting you.’

Of course they would have been. Fitzroy would have been nothing but efficient. I imagined there were a variety of events, people, signals, and ploys that he had arranged to be dispersed on his demise. I nodded to the man and stepped across the threshold.

Obviously, I have never been in a gentleman’s club, but I suspect that Black and Hunt had been modelled on one. The lobby area was unusually large. Carpeted in thick red pile, bookshelves lined the walls and leather wing-backed chairs were scattered in small groups. Subtle oil paintings in overly ornate frames hung on the walls, and an enormous Grecian-style marble fireplace was filled with unlit logs.

Except for the two of us there was no one else present. ‘If you will come this way,’ said my escort, ‘I will take you to Mr Grace. He is dealing with this aspect of the estate.’

I nodded again. My voice seemed locked away. This was the first time I had committed such a brash act of imposture and I was irrationally terrified that when I spoke I would give myself away.

‘We are all very sorry for your loss.’

I stared at the man. This was not a sentiment I could respond to with only a nod. My tongue felt thick in my mouth.

‘Of course. Thank you,’ I managed to mumble in what I hoped was a grief-stricken tone. I was given a polite, but without doubt appraising look
[8]
and then ushered into a small office. The door clicked shut behind me.

A gentleman of middle years, with a perfect parting in his oil-slicked hair and a suit so subtly elegant it fairly screamed ‘I am a man of means’, came forward to take my hand. Pale blue eyes gazed directly into mine. His hand was dry and slightly warm, his handshake of just the right pressure.

‘On behalf of the bank may I express my heartfelt condolences,’ said Mr Grace.

‘You are very kind.’

‘Our business will only take a moment. If you would care to be seated, Mrs Fitzroy, I must check your credentials. A formality, I assure you, but there is a great deal of money in this account and even under the most tragic of circumstances the formalities must be adhered to, must they not?’

‘Of course,’ I managed to say, but I was thinking wildly of how on earth could I prove myself to be someone I was most assuredly not. Could I say my passport had been lost at sea?

‘Would you care for some refreshment? A small chilled glass of wine or a cup of china tea? Most ladies and gentleman find themselves in need of something in a situation such as yours, ma’am.’

I asked for a cup of tea, thinking it might buy me a little time. Mr Grace lifted the telephone on his desk and asked for it to be brought in.

‘I am not sure what credentials you require,’ I said nervously. ‘No mention was made of bringing documents when the appointment was arranged.’

Mr Grace smiled. ‘As you know, your husband had an abhorrence of documentation. He had, if you will excuse my saying so, a quite fantastical belief in how such things could be fraudulently manufactured.’ He took a key from his waistcoat pocket and unlocked a drawer in his desk. He took out a file, relocked the desk, and again secreted the key away in his waistcoat. ‘I think we will wait for tea and then we will conduct our business. I’m sure you will agree it will be much better if we are not disturbed.’

Though it is most unladylike to admit it, I could feel beads of sweat forming in the hollow of my spine. I took off my gloves and folded them on my lap. The action allowed me to take my gaze away from the man opposite. My heart was thumping. Fitzroy had done this day in and day out, and often in far more dangerous situations. I assumed the worst that would happen to me was I might end up at a police station. Fitzroy had always been only a few feet from danger and often death. I believe that is the way he liked to live. At the this moment I would have given a lot to be back at the Muller estate, trying to deny Richenda a third slice of cake. That was the level of danger I enjoyed.

A slight knock the door opened and Mr Grace went over to receive the tea tray. I did not even turn round to see who delivered it. He set the tray on his desk.

‘Would you care to be mother?’ he asked.

‘Certainly. Milk or lemon?’

Mr Grace smiled, flicked open his file and ticked off an item. ‘Lemon, if you please,’ he said. He set the cup I passed him down on his desk. ‘Now if you could just complete this, please.’ He passed two sheets of paper across to me and indicated a pen and ink stand on his desk. The first page was a list of persons, including an archbishop, a retired colonel, the spinster sister of an earl, a banker, a vicar who was also technically a baronet, and a lowly official from the Foreign Office. The other page was a blank dining table plan. I sighed.

‘Who is holding this affair? Where is it? What time of day, is anything in particular being celebrated, and are any of the guests currently courting?’ My question was met with a smile and I was given detailed answers that raised the complexity of the plan another level. It took me ten minutes to complete and hand back the plan.

‘A competent butler could have completed this,’ I remarked.

Mr Grace ran his eyes down the page. ‘Perhaps, but there were some tricky elements and also some degree of choice. You have drawn the plan entirely as expected.’

I felt a little sting at that. ‘Entirely as expected’, not necessarily correctly. I bit my lip, so I did not blurt out an enquiry.

There followed a series of increasingly bizarre questions. There were more points on etiquette, particularly how it related to the clergy. Moral decision scenarios were posed where there simply was not a right or wrong answer, but I was still asked to proffer one. A few question in Latin and a couple in Greek – the latter I was unable to answer, but this also appeared to be correct. I was even asked that if I had to murder someone, which out of poison, shooting, or stabbing I would choose! Of course, by now I was entering into the spirit of the thing and I asked a great many details about the situation before giving my final decision.

Finally, Mr Grace closed the file and sat back in his chair. ‘Well done, Mrs Fitzroy. You have answered all but one question correctly.’

‘Which one was that?’ I asked, unable to help myself.

‘I am afraid I cannot say,’ said Mr Grace. ‘But an allowance for two wrong answers was made by Mr Fitzroy.’

‘And if I had made more than that?’ I asked.

‘Let us just say that Mr Fitzroy had certain stringent plans in place should that have occurred.’

I shuddered. Mr Grace’s smile widened. ‘Exactly. I think we both know how diligent Mr Fitzroy was when it came to matters of security.’

I gave him a slight smile, but said nothing. For all I knew I was still being tested. I had no doubt that should I have failed to answer two or more questions in the way that had been predicted Mr Grace would have politely shown me from the bank, returned to his office, and placed a telephone call to a number Fitzroy would have left him. Mr Grace would only have passed on a message that a person had tried to obtain access to the account at a certain time, but I imagine he would have suspected the trail of action his communication would set in place. For all I knew
all
the OS officers used this banking establishment.

My legs were a little jelly-like as Mr Grace showed me to the vault. It struck me that this whole test revolved around Fitzroy predicting what I would answer to his questions. Not if I would get them right, rather that he knew me well enough to predict what I would say. This meant either that he knew me far better than I was comfortable with, or that he’d ensured I would have had to anticipate what he thought he knew about me. I was glad this thought had not occurred to me earlier. My head reeled with the implications. I could not help remembering that in his farewell letter to me, Fitzroy had described me as a puzzle. The man was, to my mind, a chancer, but on this occasion he had been playing fast and loose with my life. If he had not been dead I would have had strong words with him about it.

In the vault, a large, steel-caged affair with foot-thick doors that sprouted locking bars in all directions, Mr Grace, very properly, left me alone with a key. On one wall stood a bank of locked and numbered boxes. I located the one that matched my key and inserted it into the lock. Once the door was open there was a further, smaller box to pull out. It fitted so snugly into its place that I was forced to take off my gloves once more to pull it out. I took it over to a small table, presumably provided for this purpose, and opened the lid.

I do not know exactly what I had been expecting to find inside. I had imagined passports for various countries, foreign monies, perhaps even secret papers. What I found instead was a large amount of cash in various denominations of notes, none of them new. There was more money here than I would otherwise see in a lifetime. No bag, no note, no nothing – just bundle after bundle of cash.

There was nothing else for me to do but open the bag in which I carried my purse and a few personal items and attempt to stuff the lot inside. It did not fit. I realise I could have asked for a banker’s bag, but that would have been a kin to carrying a sign along the road that said, ‘Rob me!’ I cursed myself for not thinking of bringing something to take away whatever I found, and I cursed Fitzroy for not thinking of investing his wealth in something portable – like diamonds. Although if he had he would surely have sent me to a nefarious shop to exchange them for cash, so I supposed I should be grateful. In the end I was forced to utilise my underclothing as makeshift compartments.

And so it was I walked back alone to meet Bertram in that little café with an enormous fortune stuffed about my person.

[8]
 Yet another!

Chapter Nine

In which my corsetry draws unfortunate
attention

When I arrived, Bertram was sitting with an untouched cheese scone in front of him, glaring very hard at a pretty little milk jug with forget-me-nots on it, as if he could curdle the milk. I sat down carefully.

‘What’s wrong with you?’ he asked rudely.

I leaned over the table and said very softly, ‘I forgot to take a large enough bag with me. I had to –er – do some makeshift stuffing.’

Bertram looked at me blankly. I directed my eyes to my corset. Bertram instantly turned a vivid shade of scarlet.

‘Stop that!’ I commanded. ‘You will draw attention to us.’

‘Good heavens, Euphemia, you mean you have got …’

‘Yes,’ I hissed. ‘Yes. Now pay your bill and we can get out of here.’

Rather like a man sleepwalking, Bertram went up to the counter and paid his bill. I was glad he had not chosen to summon the waitress over, as glancing down I had detected the edge of a pound note poking out of my cleavage. I shuffled sideways (trust Bertram to choose a window seat), and with more difficulty than dignity managed to realign the stray bill. It both tickled and itched. Unfortunately Bertram arrived back at the table as I was completing my task and his face turned a deeper shade of scarlet.

‘Fresh air,’ I said quickly, ‘before you have a heart attack.’

The cold air did do wonders for Bertram’s complexion, but it cause other problems.

‘I fear you will need to hail a taxi,’ I said.

‘I did not take you for such a frail creature,’ said Bertram, trying to lighten the mood. ‘It is no distance.’

‘Things are … shifting.’

For once Bertram caught on quickly. He hailed a cab most efficiently. However, when we reached our destination I insisted on paying the fare, and the place from which I produced the bill brought Bertram near to fainting.

Back in the safety of my room I disgorged the contents of my small bag and from about my person into a large carpet bag. I shoved this firmly under my bed. Then I locked the door and made my way down to the bar, where I knew Bertram was fortifying himself with brandy.

He spied me as I entered the bar. ‘All … er …’ he began, and blushed again. Really, the man would have no blood left in his body at this rate.

‘Stowed,’ I completed. ‘Yes. Now next I have to deliver the you-know-what to a vicarage in Abbots-on-Field. Do you wish to take the car or the train?’

‘Expecting this, is he, this vicar?’ asked Bertram.

‘I very much doubt it,’ I answered. ‘And I need you on your honour to promise you will not disclose that you know the nature of my errand, nor where I have delivered the items in question. You were never meant to know even as much as you do.’

‘Believe me,’ said Bertram, draining his glass, ‘the less I know about all this the better I will feel. Am I expected to meet the vicar?’

‘No. I would prefer it if you waited with Rory in the automobile. Unless you want to take the train?’

‘Take that amount of …’

I stood heavily on his foot. Bertram made an
ouch
noise that he turned into a cough.

‘I mean, what you have, on the train? I would rather not.’

‘And you are not to tell Rory anything!’

‘Gracious, no,’ said Bertram. ‘He would, saving your presence, give me hell.’

‘He is your servant,’ I said shortly.

‘Hmmm,’ said Bertram. ‘There are times when I wish someone would explain that to him.’

‘Really, Bertram,’ I said. ‘Sometimes you are too soft.’

‘Yes, like when I agree to accompany you on your mad schemes,’ he snapped back.

Being now thoroughly irritated with one another, we agreed to meet by the automobile as quickly as Rory could bring it round to the front of the hotel.

Bertram arrived without any baggage as Rory was loading the last of my suitcases onto the rack.

‘I thought we had decided it was close enough we did not need to stop in the country,’ said Bertram bemused.

‘I felt there was safety in a number of cases,’ I said, glancing at Rory, who I had now established was in a not-speaking-to-me phase of our relationship.

Bertram looked blank, a far too frequent expression on his face of late, then his jaw dropped, ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Ah, um, I see. I had better send the porter for my bags.’

At this point Rory stopped being deaf and said, ‘They’re nae packed, Mr Stapleford. You didnae ask me to.’

I looked at Bertram exasperated. ‘Wait here,’ he said. ‘Won’t be a mo.’

With deep misgivings I climbed into the automobile. Bertram returned in less than fifteen minutes, so the disturbance we caused to traffic, parked where we were, was merely argumentative rather than disastrous. Rory saw off even the most foul-mouthed London carriage driver with a flow of incomprehensible, though obviously violent, Scotch invectives.

Bertram was followed by a young bellhop, who had an expression stating, ‘It ain’t my fault, honest!’ on his face as he lugged a small case, out of which trailed two socks, a sleeve, and what I fear may have been a leg of some long johns. Triumphantly, Bertram bade him place the item on the rack.

‘Packed it myself,’ he said proudly.

‘So I see,’ said Rory under his breath.

One sock escaped entirely as the case was lifted up. I saw it, through the rear window, bowled along by the wind and skittering down the road, making its bid for an escape into the wilds of London.

‘Never liked the pattern,’ said Bertram as he seated himself beside me.

‘At least you will have one to remember it by,’ I said.

Bertram gave me a slight smile. ‘Funny girl. Don’t know what Rory makes all the fuss about. Packing is quite easy stuff. You fling it all in and jump on the lid. When he’s valeting it can take him a whole morning to pack for me.’

Expressionless, Rory started the automobile and climbed into the driver’s seat. Bertram gave him directions and we headed off, leaving the metropolis behind us.

The day was fine and the roads currently good. Bertram was no longer scowling at me. Rory was shut away from us by a thick panel of glass. I began to enjoy the journey and watched the changing countryside around us with interest. Bertram leaned back in his seat and began to snore in a most ungentlemanly fashion. This signified, as nothing else could have done, that Bertram no longer had a romantic interest in me.