The Hunt for Sonya Dufrette (10 page)

Payne smiled. ‘He might have been. He was known for his penchant for “chubby chicks”. That’s how somebody in the department put it.’

‘He had a Rubens in his study . . . Well, Sir Michael died the following year - or was it the year after?’

‘He died in 1982,’ Major Payne said. ‘I remember reading his obituary and talking to someone in the department who had known him well. It was exactly thirty years since he had started working at MI5.’

‘I too read his obituary . . . There was something funny in it - something I thought odd. What was it? Can’t remember now. I did write to Lady Mortlock expressing my condolences. She never wrote back. She sold Twiston a few years later. In 1987, I think. There was an article about it in one of the papers. With pictures.’

‘Who bought it? The National Trust?’

‘A private buyer, I think.’

Major Payne observed that it must have cost a packet.

‘A couple of million or so. A fortune in the eighties . . . Where Lady Mortlock went to live after that, I have no idea, but it shouldn’t be too hard to find out.’ Antonia paused. ‘I suppose I could phone Twiston and ask if they have a contact number or address.’

‘You’ve written the number here,’ Major Payne said, tapping the last page of Antonia’s typescript.

‘So I have. Twiston 207452. They may have changed it of course. I’ll check. Lady Mortlock may still be abroad. That would complicate matters.’

‘How old did you say she was? Eighty-seven? You sure she is still alive?’

‘I’d have heard if she’d died. There’d have been obituaries, even if she’d died abroad . . . I wonder if she’d agree to see me. Or if she did, whether she’d be willing to talk about the past,’ Antonia said thoughtfully.

‘She might not be, if she had something to hide,’ Payne pointed out.

Antonia shook her head. ‘I can’t believe Lady Mortlock had anything to do with Sonya’s disappearance. I can’t. It makes no sense . . . Even if she did hate the idea of a mentally deficient child being under her roof, she wouldn’t kill her. The idea’s absurd. Unless she was mad - which I don’t think she was.’

Payne leant across the table. ‘She told lies twice. Of course the lies might be unrelated to the disappearance. Still, it’s strange, you must admit.’

‘Oh it
is
strange. I won’t rest until I know the reason. I must see her.’

‘That’s where we start then.’

There was a pause, then Antonia said, ‘She never left the drawing room that morning. She couldn’t have done anything to Sonya. She couldn’t have phoned the nanny either.’

‘Why not? She could have done it from some extension. Don’t tell me there were no extensions at Twiston.’

‘Well, there were. But Lady Mortlock’s voice would have been instantly recognized by the servant who took the call - Mrs Maloney - even if she had tried to disguise it.’

‘Perhaps Mrs Maloney was in it too? Squared - her silence bought? Or maybe the caller was somebody else - an accomplice. Maybe Lady Mortlock was just the brains behind it. The mastermind. You look unconvinced ... The other lead is of course the nanny. I can follow up that one. Find where she is, contrive to meet her, then try to trick her into some sort of confession. I’ll have to think of the best way to set about it,’ Payne mused aloud. ‘Miss Haywood . . . Where is she? What happened to her? If we are right and she did receive a fortune in hush money, she became one very rich young lady in the days that followed the royal wedding. I wonder if she suffers pangs of guilty conscience . . . You thought she looked anxious, didn’t you?’

‘I wonder if she was a Catholic,’ Antonia said suddenly. ‘She wore a crucifix round her neck.’

‘Might have been just a fashion fad,’ Payne said. ‘The nanny wasn’t pretty, was she?’

‘No. Not at all. Plain, actually. Poor complexion. Earnest-looking. Her hair had been dyed blonde and she had one of those unfortunate fringes girls in the early eighties sported in the hope it would make them look like the future Princess of Wales. It didn’t suit her at all.’

‘A Diana fringe suggests a romantic streak - or an idolatrous one.’

‘Or that she wasn’t happy in her own skin and wished to be someone else. The simple explanation of course would be that she was trying to be fashionable.’

‘What was her first name?’

‘I have no idea. Wait. It was something unusual and un-English, I think.’

‘That’s interesting. Don’t tell me la Haywood was Russian too. Lena’s Russian, isn’t she, also that other woman, her cousin? Could there be some
Russian
connection?’

‘No, not Russian - Greek. Yes. The nanny was Greek. Half Greek, actually. English father, Greek mother. I remember Lena talking about it. Something to the effect that Greek women made the most motherly of mothers but that they were also very crafty. I can’t remember the context . . . What
was
her first name now? I am sure it was mentioned . . .’

‘Ariadne? Cassandra?’

‘No. . .’

‘Pandora? Pandora would be particularly appropriate since by leaving Twiston the nanny opened the box of all evil.’

‘You are making it worse.’

‘Penelope? Sorry. Melina?’

‘It was something rather unusual. It made me think of butterflies, for some reason . . . No, I can’t remember.’

‘An exotic first name will certainly help if I have to choose between, say, twenty Haywoods in the directory. Though she might have changed it, got married and assumed her husband’s name or gone ex-directory in the manner of the rich and famous. But don’t let’s waste any more time in idle speculation. Let’s get our teeth into something more definite first, shall we?’ He reached out and touched Antonia’s hand. ‘Let’s plan our respective campaigns and have another get-together later on, so that we can compare notes. How about tonight?’ Major Payne added casually. ‘Perhaps we could dine together and

‘No, not tonight.’ Antonia pulled out her hand. ‘I am baby-sitting tonight. My son and daughter-in-law are going to the theatre and leaving my granddaughter with me.’

‘Granddaughter?
You are joking, aren’t you? You haven’t got a granddaughter?’

‘I have. Her name is Emma and she is three.’

‘I would never have believed it.’ He had opened his eyes wide. Antonia knew he was overdoing it, yet she couldn’t help feeling flattered, foolish woman that she was. ‘Never mind. Tomorrow then. Let’s get busy today, get down to brass tacks, and we’ll compare notes tomorrow at eleven at headquarters. I mean the library. Is that all right?’

Antonia agreed and, as she did, experienced a sense of unreality. Partners in crime? A detective duo? An investigating tandem? Sleuths on the scent? Great fun in detective fiction, but did it work in real life? Well, they were going to find out.

Another thought occurred to her. Was Major Payne really as enthusiastic about it as he looked, or was he doing it because he was intent on spending as much time with her as was decently possible?

11

A Change of Ownership

That afternoon, at half past two exactly, Mrs Cathcart arrived. Antonia had expected someone tall, imperious and galleon-like, that was what her voice had suggested. But Mrs Cathcart turned out to be just the opposite - short, inclined to plumpness and rather untidy in a long cardigan. Her first words to Antonia were about the cab. It was waiting outside the club, she said a little breathlessly, and she didn’t want to be long for she would be charged extra. Did Miss Darcy have the Gresham papers ready? Answering in the affirmative, Antonia called Martin and asked him to carry the two wooden boxes out to the cab.

It was at that point that Colonel Haslett appeared, a racing paper sticking out of his pocket, and shook hands with Mrs Cathcart, whom he addressed as ‘Penny dear’. He told her she seemed in good form. Was everything under control? Shipshape and Bristol fashion? Capital! She was coming on Friday night for a spot of bridge as per usual, wasn’t she, with her lord and master? Splendid!

‘You wouldn’t believe it, Miss D.,’ he said when Mrs Cathcart and the Gresham papers had departed, ‘but the woman’s a lethal bridge player, positively lethal. We lost a fortune the other night, m’wife and I. We always partner each other. No point otherwise, is there, winning each other’s money!‘ He chuckled. ’Stayed up till four ack emma, would you believe? Poor Derek Cathcart had to be revived with black coffee at around three. We have to do that every time, but Penny wouldn’t hear of calling it a day. Derek finds it jolly hard keeping up with her, I must say. When she starts playing bridge, she’s unstoppable. Saw you chewing the fat with young Payne earlier on. In the dining room.‘ He nodded approvingly. ’Good lunch?‘

‘Yes. I enjoyed it very much.’ Antonia took a surreptitious look at her watch.

‘So did I. Top-notch nosh, but then that’s how it should be. Poached the chappie from the Savoy Grill. I mean the chef . . . Good company too. My niece and her young man. Dentist. Made me laugh, the things he said. Can’t remember what they were, but damned funny. As a matter of fact I knew young Payne’s father jolly well at one time. Alex Payne. What was young Payne’s name now?’ Colonel Haslett tugged at his moustache and looked at her.

‘Hugh, I think.’ Antonia tried to sound as casual as possible. She felt loath to give grounds for tittle-tattle by showing that anything remotely approaching intimacy might have developed between the club librarian and one of the club members.

‘Alex was a crack polo player. In his first season in 1939, I think it was, before the war anyhow, he won the junior regimental tournament in Poona. Marvellous chap. Then we got stationed in the Sudan together. I don’t suppose you’ve been to the Sudan?’

‘I am afraid not. Sorry, Colonel Haslett, but I am afraid I’ll have to -’

‘What upset me most about the Sudan, Miss D., was seeing a model colony turn into a complete and utter shambles through the inefficiency, sloth and the sheer inertia of the inhabitants who took over. I know people are jolly careful these days, saying things like that, but there it is. Decent chap, young Payne. His father worried that he always had his nose in a book and didn’t care enough about horses. You wouldn’t believe this, but apparently, when young Payne was a boy, he called his dachshund puppy Apollo and his kitten Daphne. When he was asked why, said because dog always chased cat. Got the idea from some poem or other, that’s what he said. His father
was
worried about him.’

Antonia suddenly laughed. ‘Marvell.’

Colonel Haslett cupped his ear. ‘What’s that?’

‘Apollo hunted Daphne so Only that she might laurel grow,’
she quoted.

‘So there
was
a poem about it? Ah, that’s why I suppose he wants to talk to you!’ Colonel Haslett’s face lit up. ‘I mean young Payne. Have bookish conversations and all that? You seem to fit like hand in glove. Perfect match. Hear you’ve written a novel?’

As usual, she was overcome with shyness. ‘Yes.’

‘A mystery, that correct? Well done. Hate mysteries. All that business of fair play. It’s never fair, if you ask me. Conjurors’ tricks, that’s what detective stories are. The moment a clue is dangled before you, hey presto, your attention is distracted by something that’s
made
to look like clue, but isn’t. Call that fair? Who wants to read stuff like that? Shall I tell you what my favourite book of all time is?
The Wind . . .
um ...’

‘The Wind in the Willows?’

‘Gone with the Wind.
That’s it. Skipped an awful lot of course. Only read the bits where Scarlett puts in an appearance. That Civil War was a bore, don’t you think? But Scarlett - what a girl! Oh well. You shouldn’t keep me talking, Miss D.!’ Colonel Haslett chided her. ‘Pleasure of course but must go now. Awful lot to do. You too. The Gresham papers are off your hands now and I’m sure you can concentrate on your filing system without any more distractions.’ He gave her arm the usual bracing pat and walked out of the library.

But Antonia wasn’t going to work on her filing system today. In fact she didn’t feel like working at all. The bug of the hunt had got into her. She sat down at her desk and reached out for the telephone.

Her call was answered almost at once. ‘Twiston House. Mrs Ralston-Scott’s secretary speaking,’ a woman’s voice said.

Ralston-Scott. Must be the new owners.

‘My name is Antonia Darcy. I do apologize for bothering you, but, you see, I used to know the people who lived at Twiston before you -’

‘You knew Mr and Mrs Sandys?’

‘No, no. Sir Michael and Lady Mortlock. That was back in 1981.’

‘Oh yes?’ the friendly voice continued after a pause. Had a note of caution crept into it or was Antonia imagining it?

‘I was wondering whether you had any contact number for Lady Mortlock or for her stepson? It’s Lady Mortlock with whom I’d like to get in touch. It is a bit urgent, so I’d be extremely grateful if -’

‘I believe I have a number for Mr Mortlock - Mr George Mortlock. He pays us occasional visits. I have never met Lady Mortlock, but let me see - yes, I have a number for her too. It is - have you got a pen?’ The secretary read out the number.