Charters and Caldicott (10 page)

‘Sorry, old chap. I'm afraid my foot caught your ankle. Pleasant spot, Hong Kong,' said Charters in what he thought to be an offhand manner.

‘You know the place?'

‘Oh, yes. Bustle, that was my chief impression. Do you have business interests there?'

‘I have business interests wherever I chance to be, you know.'

‘A cosmopolitan,' said Charters, with a faint sneer.

‘As you say, a cosmopolitan.'

Having, as he imagined, approached the subject in a roundabout way and allayed suspicions, Charters, to Caldicott's disgust, leaped in with both feet. ‘And what precisely is Josh Darrell's connection with Hong Kong?'

St Clair turned to Margaret. ‘By the way, you must know he began his career with the Zazz Corporation in the Far East?' Margaret hadn't known it but she nodded. ‘One imagines he likes to keep a toe in the water, you know.'

‘If you were doing business in Hong Kong you must have come across a friend of ours. Colonel Beevers,' said Caldicott.

St Clair started nervously at the name but made a quick recovery. ‘I believe not.'

‘Of the British Trade Commission,' said Charters.

‘No.'

‘One would have thought your paths might have crossed,' Charters persisted. ‘Beevers. Ruddy-faced, shock of white hair, Colonel James, otherwise Jock, Beevers.'

‘I didn't know him,' said St Clair woodenly.

‘Hm,' Charters grunted.

‘Hm,' Caldicott echoed, equally dissatisfied.

Margaret decided to take a hand. ‘But you knew he was dead?'

‘Excuse me?'

‘You spoke in the past tense. Not I
don't
know him, but I
didn't
know him.'

‘My colloquialisms leave much to be desired. I didn't know your Colonel Beevers when I was in Hong Kong. That is not correct?'

‘It's correct.'

‘I don't know that he is dead. Am I still on the straight and narrow?' ‘More or less.'

‘Then we have no problem.'

‘No problem.'

‘By the way, I am sorry your friend is dead,' said St Clair to Charters and Caldicott. ‘And now who will have a piece of apple?' He held out a slice speared on his knife blade.

Charters and Caldicott shook their heads at the apple but Caldicott exclaimed, ‘I say, St Clair,
that's
a knife and a half.'

‘The Swiss Army knife, Caldicott. You know it has a blade for every purpose.'

‘
Every
purpose?'

‘Except scrimshaw,' said Margaret gravely. ‘For that you need a Swiss Navy knife.'

Caldicott guffawed but St Clair said seriously, ‘You know, I am afraid someone has been pulling your leg, Mrs Mottram. Switzerland is landlocked and thus has no navy.'

Margaret exchanged a long-suffering look with Caldicott and tried to exchange one with Charters. ‘He's right, you know,' said Charters.

Percival St Mary, a small country station, actua11y ran to a porter. Obligingly, he piled all the luggage onto his trolley and pushed it towards the ticket barrier.

‘If Darrell's sent his car, as you say, where's his driver?' Charters asked, peering past the ticket collector to the road outside.

‘Probably took one look at your luggage and zoomed off,' said Margaret. ‘Never mind, we'll borrow that station parcels van.'

At the barrier, Charters and Caldicott hesitated, eyeing each other, while Margaret waited resignedly.

Caldicott opened the batting. ‘Tickets, Charters.'

‘
You
have the tickets, Caldicott.'

‘If you will excuse me, I will look for the car,' said St Clair, handing in his own ticket and making his escape.

‘
You
have the tickets, Charters.'

‘No,
you
have the tickets, Caldicott,' said Margaret.

‘There, you see!' said Charters triumphantly.

‘That is, you have your ticket and my ticket,' Margaret went on, adding to the smug Charters, ‘You have your own ticket.'

‘Do I?' Charters began a panic search through his waistcoat pockets.

While Charters and Caldicott were arguing and dithering, the porter, helped by the uniformed chauffeur, had been loading the luggage into the waiting Jaguar. When the other three finally emerged from the station, they found St Clair hovering by the open front passenger door. ‘Shall I take the seat by the driver?' he said to Margaret. ‘I think you will be more comfortable in the back, you know.'

‘Fine,' said Margaret, climbing in and taking a seat in the middle.

‘Take care of the porter, old man, would you?' Caldicott said to Charters, patting his own pockets ineffectually.

‘Oh, very well!'

‘After all, you've had the most use out of him.' Caldicott followed Margaret into the car and closed the door.

The chauffeur banged shut the boot lid on the last of the luggage and went round to open the other passenger door. Charters tipped the porter and, as he climbed into the Jaguar, caught sight of the chauffeur's face for the first time. It was Helen Appleyard's accomplice. Caldicott noticed Charters' uneasy expression, looked past him and also recognised the chauffeur. The pair exchanged anxious looks across Margaret who, never having seen the man, was quite unperturbed. The chauffeur slammed the passenger door, climbed into the driver's seat and drove off, his face impassive throughout.

No one spoke as the Jaguar cruised up the long drive and stopped outside Josh Darrell's country retreat, an impressive pile with enough towers, turrets and battlements to do credit to a fair-sized castle. Two servants emerged and began to unload the luggage, a butler hovered by the main entrance in a supporting role and the chauffeur, inscrutable as ever, opened the door for Charters to get out.

Charters thanked him coldly. ‘I still don't have your name.'

‘Gregory, sir.'

‘We seem to be seeing a lot of one another, Gregory.'

‘Don't we just? I expect we'll be seeing a lot more,' he said, suddenly menacing, and went to help the servants with the cases.

A shot rang out as Caldicott, Margaret and St Clair strolled round the car to join Charters. They started nervously and looked about them. ‘The butler did it,' Margaret joked. Then she froze, staring at two large, well-muscled men who appeared round the corner of the house and took up positions, sentry-style, on either side of the path. Their host, carrying a gun and followed by dogs, strode between his bodyguards and came towards them. Margaret, reassured, called, ‘Don't shoot. We're on your side.'

Josh Darrell was American, youngish for his powerful position, and very attractive, a man who carried his responsibilities with an easy confidence. He embraced Margaret and shook hands with St Clair. ‘Glad you could make it.' St Clair clicked his heels. Margaret began to make introductions but Darrell brushed formalities aside. ‘And you're Messrs Caldicott and Charters.'

‘Charters and Caldicott, we're usually known as,' said Charters, apologetically.

‘Like Morecambe and Wise,' said Margaret.

‘It's just something that's become established,' said Charters.

‘How've you been?' said Darrell.

‘Quite well, thank you,' said Caldicott. ‘What do you shoot here?'

‘Anything that moves. Come along in. If you like guns, I have a whole museum of them.'

Gregory watched thoughtfully as the party moved into the house.

It was the custom,
chez
Darrell, to dress for dinner. Caldicott had donned an old-fashioned boiled shirt and red braces and was knotting his bow-tie when Charters came into his room. Charters had taken up the sartorial option of a cummerbund and was having trouble with his own neckwear.

‘You might tie my tie, Caldicott. I'm a little out of practice.'

‘Oh, it's like riding a bicycle. Once learned, never forgotten.' Caldicott took hold of the ends of Charters' tie. ‘Now let me see. Right over left.'

‘No, no. Left over right.'

‘
Your
left over right, but my right over left.'

‘Nonsense,' said Charters impatiently. ‘My right over left, your left over right.'

Caldicott made a few practice passes. ‘Which are you calling left?'

‘Look here, Caldicott, get behind me and do it in the mirror. Then tie it as you would your own.'

‘Easier said than done, old boy.' Caldicott moved behind Charters. ‘Ah, got it. Right over left.'

‘Precisely what I said.'

‘No. What I said.
You
said left over right.'

‘Just get on with it, Caldicott. Has Gregory been in touch with you at all?'

‘Who Gregory?'

‘The chauffeur.'

‘Oh,
your
friend. I'm surprised he hasn't been in touch with you. You're the one he holds up with Smith and Wesson .38s. Gives one a certain rapport, I would have thought.' Caldicott gave the tie a twist. ‘Is that too tight old boy?'

‘Not if your object is strangulation.'

‘Sorry, old chap. I suppose he
will
make contact as soon as he gets the chance. I only hope he doesn't do it with a blunt instrument.'

‘I'm quite sure friend Gregory is as anxious to talk to us as we are to talk to him. Odd that he turns out to be working here, wouldn't you say?'

‘Not if he and Josh Darrell turn out to be pieces in the same jigsaw.' Caldicott made a final adjustment to the tie. ‘How's that?'

‘It'll have to do, I suppose. What do you make of Darrell?'

‘Too early to say. Seems open and above board so far.'

‘You think that, do you?'

‘I think so,' said Caldicott, uncertainly. ‘What do you make of him?'

‘I'll tell you what I make of him, Caldicott. I took a walk outside before dressing. Now I use my eyes, as you know.'

‘Well?'

‘Everything is not what it seems in this house, Caldicott.'

‘In what way?'

‘Polystyrene gargoyles.'

Margaret, elegant in silver and black, paused in the doorway and glanced around at those of her fellow guests who were already assembled in the great hall. Spotting Cecil St Clair seated at the grand piano, playing light, cocktail-hour music, she strolled over to do a little sleuthing of her own.

She listened to a few bars, then said, ‘Ever since we met on the train, I've had this feeling I've seen you somewhere before.'

St Clair stiffened but continued to play. ‘Is that possible?'

‘You didn't used to work in the music department at Harrods, did you?'

‘I regret no.' St Clair scowled down at the piano keys.

Josh Darrell, smart in a restrained tartan jacket and cravat, joined them. ‘All right, break it up, you two. I want Margaret and a champagne cocktail to myself before this place starts to look like the Concorde departure lounge.' He took a drink for Margaret from one of the waiters and led her towards the terrace. ‘You're looking great, do you know that?'

St Clair's eyes, as well as his music, followed them. He too wondered where he and Margaret had met before.

‘So we got you at last,' said Josh. ‘Where did I go right?'

‘I haven't been playing hard to get, Josh. I've
wanted
to come down for ages.'

‘But your chaperones were busy. Do those two guys take good care of you?'

‘When I want them to.' Margaret nodded to where Josh's bodyguards were hovering in the shadows. ‘Do yours?'

‘Rocky and Rocky II. They come with the job.'

‘You mean you get them off tax.'

‘Kidnap, hijack, they're as much executive risks as a coronary these days. Now, tell me about your two. What do they do?'

‘Not a lot,' said Margaret laconically.

‘What did they used to do when they did it?'

‘Oh, they were sort of abroad a great deal.
You
know.'

‘Foreign Service?'

‘Not quite.'

‘Colonial types, what?'

‘You're getting warmer. I don't know quite what the department was called. It was a sort of overseas branch of the Civil Service where they posted well-meaning chumps to stop them making even bigger chumps of themselves at home.'

Darrell laughed. ‘Oh, we have that. We call it the Diplomatic Service.'

Charters and Caldicott, veterans of many a country-house weekend, had provided themselves with a hip-flask of whisky with which to launch the evening. Caldicott topped up their toothglasses and asked, ‘Well now, what's our plan of action?'

‘Keep our eyes and ears open, do some discreet pumping and evaluate Darrell's taste in friends – for example, that fellow Sinclair, or Saint Clair, as he chooses to style himself.'

‘Yes, rum customer. Mark you, he
is
foreign.'

‘A foreigner of the worst sort, I'd say – all that heel clicking. But there's more to him than mere foreignness, Caldicott. Look how he wiggled and shuffled when I asked him if he'd known Jock Beevers. It was as plain as the nose on your face he knew who we were talking about, yet he pretended he didn't. Why?'

‘Natural shiftiness, probably. Still, he did tell us one thing we didn't know – that Josh Darrell had strong connections with Hong Kong.'

‘I wonder if
Darrell
knew Jock Beevers?'

‘Doubt it, or Jenny would have mentioned it. Still, we can always drop the name into the conversation and see how he reacts.'

‘Casually, mind.'

‘That goes without saying, Charters,' said Caldicott with quiet dignity. ‘Shall we go down?'

Charters picked up the empty glasses. ‘I'll just rinse these out. It's a poor guest who leaves his toothglass reeking of whisky.' 

Caldicott called him back. ‘Just tie my tie, would you, old chap?'

The subdued roar that greeted the pair as they reached the top of the grand staircase indicated that the party was already in full swing. The great marble hall, hung with tapestries and surrounded by arched galleries, made a spectacular setting. Charters and Caldicott paused and looked down on the scene. Hell would have made a more inviting prospect. Darrell had chosen to fill his home with rich trendies and photographers, advertising executives and models, pop singers and show business personalities, chat show habitués and hairdressers. Leopardskin leotards vied with silk dungarees, punk zips and pink hair bayed at glittering ballgowns, scarlet legwarmers shrieked to purple satin shorts, technicolour jockey outfits gossiped with split leather, near-topless little black frocks crowed at camouflage-grey suits.