Background
Charles has been enjoying a brief interlude in his Wiltshire cottage, but is now on his way up to London for a meeting with Sir David.
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continued from Chapter 42:
I had just finished washing up my breakfast things when the phone rang. It was Brockenhurst.
Chapter 43
"That you, Brandon? Silly question - who else would it be, buried away in a backwater, tapping away on that typewriter of yours?" He paused, but not long enough for me to marshal a witty response. "Pots of work to catch up on, I expect, after your holiday in Paris. Nose to the grindstone, and all that."
"If you say so." My answer was accompanied by a universally recognised finger gesture. Telephones have that compensation.
"Look, something's come up, old chap. Rather urgent. Can you meet me at my club in Piccadilly this evening? Short notice, I know. Terribly sorry - but these things happen. Can't be helped, I'm afraid."
I took a deep breath. "Suppose you tell me what this is all about."
"'Fraid I can't. Telephones have ears. All terribly hush-hush, don't you know."
For a moment, I thought I was going to puke. Which Bertie Wooster novel was this idiot getting his script from? I made a mental note to contact the Old Etonian Association and check up on Sir David's credentials. Perhaps I should also take a look in the latest edition of Debrett's Peerage.
That aside, I was determined to follow through with my plan - particularly after what Kayla had told me about Alain's run-in with Gaston Arnoux - so I bit my tongue.
"Of course, Sir David. I understand perfectly. No time to be lost, eh? I shall leap like a rocketing pheasant and be on board the next train to London." I touched an imaginary forelock.
"Leap like a what?"
"A rocketing pheasant." Clearly, Sir David wasn't as familiar with P. G. Woodhouse as I imagined. I paused to reflect on the appropriateness of the simile. Some poor old cock being flushed out from the woods so that a member of the baronetcy could take pot-shots at him with a 12-bore. What was I letting myself in for, I wondered?
"Splendid. I'll expect you around six for a sundowner. RAF Club - 6, Pall Mall - just down from Hyde Park Corner. Call me when you get there, and I'll come down to Reception and meet you."
"No need, Sir David. I'm a member."
"Really? I didn't know."
There was a click as the line went dead.
Really? He didn't know? A likely story! My short service commission more than twenty years ago had a few compensations. Apart from learning to fly, I now had access to a cheap bed in Central London whenever I wanted it.
The only thing that was puzzling me was how Sir David came to be a member. I couldn't imagine him surviving in the average squadron crew room for long without having that appalling arrogance knocked out of him. I wondered what kind of a nickname he'd have been given. Probably Gimlet (a small boring tool).
As soon as he rang off, I called the club. "Have you a room for tonight? Just a single. Flight Lieutenant Brandon." It seemed strange putting the rank in front of my name after all this time.
"Not usually at such short notice, sir, but you're in luck. We've had a last-minute cancellation." I heaved a sigh of relief, grateful to have somewhere to stay the night.
I gave the receptionist my membership number and other details, before adding, "I'm meeting an acquaintance, name of Brockenhurst. Do you know if he's signed in yet?"
"Just a moment, please." There was a longish pause before she came back on the line. "I'm sorry, sir. We don't have anyone of that name staying."
"Really? Are you certain? Sir David Brockenhurst. I believe he uses the club quite often when up in town."
I could hear a muted conversation going on in the background. "Just a minute, sir. We're double-checking."
I started to hum the tune of La Vie en Rose while I waited, and I found myself gently tapping the rhythm on my knee. I thought that love was just a word they sang about in songs I heard... What was it that was drawing me back to Paris? A letter? A painting? Or was it love, perhaps? Perish the thought!
I wondered what the delay was, not that I was in any hurry. The sun was out again and the plum tree in the front garden was glistening. A blue tit flew across and landed on one of the smaller branches, unleashing a crystal shower. It hopped onto a ripe plum, straddled it with its claws, and started to peck. Why not, I thought? I wasn't likely to be around to eat them.
Eventually, a voice interrupted my reverie. "Sorry to have kept you waiting, sir. You did say Brockenhurst, didn't you?"
"Yes, that's right. Sir David Brockenhurst."
"It's just that I asked George to check on the computer. There doesn't seem to be anyone of that name on the membership list. Are you sure he didn't mean the Army and Navy Club?"
"Yes, quite sure, but thanks anyway." I was puzzled. There had to be a simple explanation, though I hadn't a clue what it was.
"Will you still be requiring a room, sir?"
"Yes, I'll come up to town anyway. I'll be with you around six. Can you reserve me a table in the Dining Room for ... shall we say, seven o'clock?"
"Of course, sir. A table at seven o'clock for one person."
"Thank you. You'd better make that a table for two, just in case."
I looked at my watch. Still half an hour shy of noon and such a glorious day. It would be a pity to waste it.
I rang Ian. A funny old cove, but I loved him like a brother. "Hello, Bisto, you old bastard. Fancy a pub lunch at The Old Bell? Or has Jenny got you on a tight leash this afternoon?"
"Charles? What a surprise. I thought you were in France."
"Long story. I have to be back there soon, but it'd be great to catch up before I go."
"I'd like that. You know I would."
"Oh, and another thing. I was thinking of taking the MG out for an airing. Any chance I could leave it in one of your garages overnight? I've got to be in London this evening." I paused for a moment to let my request sink in. "You'd be able to drop me off at the station in Reading later this afternoon, wouldn't you?"
Bisto hesitated for a few moments. I could hear the cogs turning. The lads on the squadron had nicknamed him Bisto because he was rich and thick - just like the gravy. A bit unfair really. But once you get a moniker, it sticks.
"Yes, that'd be fine," he said. "I have to be back by four thirty, but I could drop you at four, if that's OK."
"Perfect! You're a gem. I'll come straight to The Willows and we can go on to the pub in your car. Be with you in an hour and a half." I waited for his grunt of approval before adding, "See you soon." Then, as an afterthought, "You wouldn't like to dive into your copy of Debrett, would you? See if there's a chap called Sir David Brockenhurst listed?"
"Brockenhurst? Isn't that a place down in the New Forest? What is he - the local squire, or something?"
"Probably Comptroller of the New Forest ponies."
"You're pulling my leg."
"Yes," I said with a smile, as I hung up.
I had the dust cover off the MGB convertible in no time. What a beauty she was! British Racing Green, sleek as a lynx, and my pride and joy. Within quarter of an hour, I'd reconnected the battery, topped up the fuel, and wiped away a few imaginary specks of dust.
Cruising down the M4 with the wind in my hair, I wondered if it was possible for life to get any better. I fell to thinking about Flying Officer Ian "Bisto" Kidson as I headed for Henley-on-Thames. We'd served together in East Anglia and formed an indestructible friendship. Now he was what most people would call a gentleman of leisure. The Willows was a grand old Victorian property on the banks of the river and built on very much the same scale as Toad Hall.
"Poop! Poop!" I muttered dreamily, as the needle hovered around 70 m.p.h. Not that the police would have had the slightest interest in me for that was my top speed or, more accurately, it was as fast as I dared push the old girl.
Author Notes
List of characters:
Charles Brandon - the narrator, a well-known travel writer.
Jack and Nancy Wilkins - a Wiltshire dairy farmer and his wife.
Ian 'Bisto' Kidman - an ex-RAF friend of Charles's.
Sir David Brockenhurst - a chance acquaintance, met at St Pancras Station
Helen Culverson - a woman of some mystery, also a travel writer, whose relationship with Charles is complicated by her relationship with Jeanne Durand.
Kayla Culverson - her older sister, who disappeared somewhere in Bangkok.
Madame Jeanne Durand - a French magazine editor, who was involved in a serious accident, and seems also to be involved with international drug trade.
Mr Bukhari - a Pakistani businessman
Madame Madeleine Bisset - Helen's landlady in Paris
Monsieur Bellini - a denizen of the French Underworld.
Dr. Laurent - a veterinary surgeon in Versailles.
Father Pierre Lacroix - vicar of the Versailles Notre Dame church.
Madame Lefauvre - an old woman living in Versailles - the town gossip.
Francoise Gaudin - an intellectually disabled woman living in Versailles.
Alain Gaudin - brother of Francoise, a gardener at Monet's house in Giverney
Estelle Gaudin [deceased] - mother of Francoise and Alain, a prostitute
Mademoiselle Suzanne Gaudin [deceased] - Alain's grandmother, to whom the mysterious letter of 1903 was addressed.
Colonel Neville Arnoux [deceased] - of whom we may hear more later.
Gaston Arnoux - an unknown quantity at this stage, a dilettante. Owner of an art gallery in Paris.
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