Armitage flushed with embarrassment and anger. He left the half crown on the table, grabbed Julia by the waist and propelled her to the door. He’d done enough pussy-footing around. This girl was playing with him like a monkey on a stick. He’d take her somewhere quiet and make her answer a few questions. Like, who was she really working for and what was her business with a criminal outfit in Harley Street? That would do for starters.
Seducing girls for information might be the Sandilands way, all lobster, champagne and oily charm; Armitage had discovered a smack across the chops produced quicker results.
“Toodle-oo, Billy boy!” Sam shouted after him. “Goin’ on somewhere, are you? Well—have a nice time, me old son! Don’t do anything I wouldn’t!”
CHAPTER 14
The butler flung wide the door a second before his mistress came scurrying down the hall to join him. Unperturbed, Pearson launched into his usual speech: “Welcome, sir. Mr. Kingstone. You are expected. I hope you had a good journey down. I’ll get your things and put the motor away in the garage.”
It was all he had time to say before Joe was enveloped in a Chanel-scented hug. He freed himself from the layers of floating yellow chiffon to perform the introductions.
“Lydia, may I present Cornelius Kingstone … Senator Kingstone of the United States? Senator—this is my sister, Lydia, Mrs. Dunsford.”
“Mrs. Dunsford, I’m pleased indeed to be meeting you and sorry it has to be in such difficult circumstances,” Kingstone began courteously.
He was swiftly interrupted by Joe’s sister. “Senator Kingstone—Cornelius,” she said. “Please call me Lydia. We’re surprised but delighted to meet you. And don’t be concerned—my brother’s guests are usually suffering circumstances. Goodness you’ve made good time! My husband, Marcus, will be down directly—he’s upstairs helping to make up your room. He’s putting out the essentials for an unscheduled weekend in the country—a pair of pyjamas, a toilet bag and a shotgun under the bed.”
She seized the senator by the arm and led him down the corridor. “You’re looking awfully pale—that’ll be Joe’s driving I expect. Most of the visitors he brings me call weakly for a glass of water the moment they stagger over the threshold. Can I offer you a drink? I find brandy works best.”
“Ma’am, the journey was just fine and the welcome much appreciated. I would eye a glass of whisky with favour …”
“Joe will see to it. Come through into the drawing room. There’s a log fire going in there. It can turn quite chilly and these old houses need a bit of cheering up after dark even on a summer evening. When you’ve got your breath back—perhaps you’ll have a bite to eat?” She turned to speak to her brother. “I’ve had supper laid in the small dining room, Joe. We’ve just had the Lord High Sheriff to dinner with his lady wife, which is why you find me still in my glad rags, over-wound and chattering like a magpie. They only left half an hour ago. They talked a lot but didn’t eat much so there’s lots left over. There’s pea soup, half a game pie, a good ripe stilton and a dish of strawberries and cream. I could offer a trout or two that Marcus caught this afternoon but perhaps not for supper—I’ll offer them again at breakfast. Do you fish, Cornelius?”
“I do indeed, ma’am … Lydia. You have a lake hereabouts?”
“Yes we have. Teeming with rainbow trout. But better than that—we have a river full of cunning old browns half a mile away. The river’s running with some colour after the rain we had last week but the beats are fishable again. I’m told we’re experiencing an excellent mayfly hatch at the moment and Marcus has a selection of spare rods.”
Lydia had captured Kingstone’s total attention. Joe left the senator in his sister’s hands and went to pour out two large glasses of scotch.
“OH, GOOD MORNING, Joe!” Marcus and Lydia looked up in surprise from the breakfast table. “You’re up with the larks. It’s only six o’clock. What will you have? There’s bacon and eggs, kedgeree, porridge, honey and cream off the estate and the first of the season’s strawberry jam. Cook’s standing by with the frying pan for the trout but perhaps you’d like to wait until your friend comes down for that?” Marcus got up and bustled about with a coffee pot to minister to what he knew would be Joe’s first requirement.
“Your guest is still in bed, fast asleep. Mary went in ten minutes ago with a cup of early morning tea but she left it at the foot of the bed and came away. Snoring like a grampus, she reports,” Lydia told him.
“Good. That’s what the man needs. He’s been having a rough time of it. I’ll have some of that coffee, thanks, Marcus. In fact, just pass the pot over and rustle up another, will you? This is going to be a two-pot story.”
They were finishing their second before he’d got to the end.
“Poor feller!” Marcus said. “I shall take him fishing—he’s quite an expert. He’s more or less the same size as me so I’ll get Pearson to lay out some old corduroy and tweed, fresh linen and a pair of gum boots. That’s my prescription for a touch of mental dyspepsia—comfy old clothes and the tug of a hard-fighting eight-pounder on the end of the line. Take his mind off things. The practicalities are easily dealt with.”
“Compared with most of the strays you bring us, Joe, this one’s outstanding. He’s a wonderful guest. I’ve quite fallen for him! I’m hoping he can stay on. Good old-fashioned gentleman and what a life he’s led! Do you know—he was telling me he actually knows the president’s wife, Eleanor? And he rather hates J. Edgar Hoover? He’s been on safari with Theodore Roosevelt and flown with Charles Lindbergh!”
“Ah. But has he danced with Fred Astaire?” Joe asked.
Lydia opened her mouth and closed it again on hearing her husband’s warning growclass="underline" “Lydia! Heel, my love!”
“Now, let’s have this straight, old man—are you saying he’s in some actual physical danger beyond his mental stress?” Marcus wanted to know.
Joe nodded. “In London, yes. His life is under threat every moment. Unless I can discover who and what and where the menace is. I think he knows but he’s not telling. I’ve brought him out here for a bit of a break but, above all, to get him away from the hired killers that come so freely to hand in London. No one followed us here and I told no one we were coming. Should be okay.”
“Mmmm … All the same, I shall stand well clear when we’re out and about in case of snipers.”
Joe didn’t quite like to see the passing gleam of excitement in Marcus’s eyes.
“Although …” His brother-in-law sighed. “Early June. The rhododendrons and the azaleas are jungle-thick in places. It’s like Burma out there! Sight lines not good but cover for any malefactor excellent. I’d go for a knife at close quarters rather than rifle. Better prepare for the worst, I always say. I’ll alert the men. They’ll have any intruder into the estate located and immobilised in seconds.”
“That would be good,” Joe said. He knew “the men.” Gamekeepers and stewards, most were local boys; some reformed poachers, some veterans of the trenches, they were all excellent shots. Hard, practical men who’d graduated to a position of trust under Marcus’s kindly but strict concern.
Joe’s brother-in-law was a respected and effective Justice of the Peace in his county and his own land tended to be given a wide berth by the local villains. These—such as they were—were well known to him and to the men he employed.
“They like to know what’s going on. I shall tell them we’re protecting an agent of Uncle Sam from a German death squad.”
“That should do it,” Joe said.
Marcus hurried out to plan a day that, for him, was shaping up splendidly.
Lydia came round the table and pulled up a chair close to Joe. “Joe, before we get started, I think you’d better tell me a little about our guest—Uncle Sam’s agent. You smiled when Marcus said that. One of your annoying smiles. Is that what he is? I like to know these things. How did you ‘break his cover’—isn’t that what your Intelligence friends say? How did you catch him out?”