He hadn’t expected the young officer to spend many months under his roof. He was a professional all right, meticulous and driven you might say, but—single? Sandilands didn’t have the look of a bloke who’d stay unmarried for long. Yet twelve years down the road, and here he still was. Odd that, Jenkins always thought. It wasn’t as though he was uninterested in females. He never brought a floozie back, of course. The man was a gent, after all, but he did sometimes come rolling home late smelling of brandy and exotic perfume, collar melting and tie askew. Late? Sometimes early. Dumping the milk bottles at his door with a cheeky grin. Plenty of time though. Most men with a career to build waited until they were into their forties before they settled down. And the Captain, as his oldest mates who’d known him in the war years still called him, was on the right side of forty. Still looking around. Plenty of time.
Alfred decided he’d wait until ten o’clock before he went upstairs to check with Miss Lydia that all was well.
THE DERRY AND Tom’s van passed his parlour window just after eleven, and Alfred made his way into the hall to greet the messenger.
The smart young man was holding a package and looking around him, getting his bearings. “Delivery. It’s for Sandilands. Top floor? I’ll take it up. That lift working is it?”
Cockney accent, Alfred noted. “Hold your horses, mate! Deliveries have to be recorded. Give me a minute to get the book, will you?” Alfred made his way back into his parlour, and found his record book on the sideboard. When he emerged, he found the man had followed him and was looking eagerly over his shoulder into the room. Pushy blighter.
“Train set is that? Electric? Cor! Gentleman’s hobby, would that be? Bet the kids love it!”
Alfred understood his interest and responded warmly to a fellow enthusiast. He smiled his pleasure and opened the door wider to allow the friendly young man a view of the room. “I keep it here for my three grandsons. Their ma leaves them with me every morning while she does her charring.”
Three small boys in check pinafores were squabbling gently over the train track. They all looked up on hearing the stranger’s voice at the door but turned back at once to the railway. A delivery man was no distraction from a derailed Flying Scotsman.
“Now then, Sid and Ian—you little ’uns better listen to your big brother,” Jenkins directed firmly. “Do what Andy says while I deal with this gentleman, will you? I don’t want to hear any quarreling when I’ve got my back turned. Or I’ll pull the plugs,” he finished with cheerful menace.
He waited for the automatic acknowledgements of “Yes, Grandpa” before turning back to the visitor. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind signing just here? Oh, and thank your Mr. Peacock for being so prompt with the order, will you? It is still old Peacock in outfitting, is it? Or has he retired by now?”
“Still there, sir. Bit doddery but he gets by.”
“Know the feeling! You can leave it down here with me, if you like.”
“Naw! Thanks, but I have to make sure it’s got into the right hands. I’ll use the lift.”
“Right-oh, then. Oh, Sandilands has nipped out, but it’s all right—his sister’s up there. She’ll see to you. Watch out for the lift—it can be a bit temperamental. Well, if you’re sure.…” And, as the Derry and Tom’s man walked off with jaunty stride towards the lift, he called after him helpfully: “Just press button 3, mate.”
CHAPTER 6
Joe took a taxi to the government offices at Whitehall. He got out on King Charles Street and turned in to a courtyard lined by architecture of an Italianate flavour. Sir Gilbert Scott was responsible for the ornate Victorian grandeur, Joe remembered, and he paused to get his bearings and admire. There could be no doubt that he was approaching a temple to Britannia.
Chilly and echoing, the building Joe entered had the feeling of a busy space suddenly deserted. Without the animation of the usual swarms of bowler-hatted men jousting about with briefcase and brolly, he was feeling more keenly conscious of the grandeur of the surroundings. And more out of place. He looked down at his feet. Gumboots had seemed the obvious choice this snowy morning, looking purposeful and proper with the ancient tweed suit he’d put on, mindful of the journey into the country.
Lydia had thought to question his choice of get-up. “Is that going to be quite right for Whitehall, Joe? Will they let you in or hand you a spade and send you off to clear the pavement?” The kind of comment that roused a growling contrariness in Joe. Now he watched regretfully as dirty gobbets of melting snow oozed from the runnels of his boots and settled on the Minton tiles. Gold fleurs-de-lis, he noted, on a background of magenta and blue. Tiles so sumptuously heraldic deserved to be dripped on by nothing less than a pair of Lobb’s best, he thought guiltily.
The civil servant in attendance cut short his anxiety. He was expecting Joe and with one stately finger directed a footman to take his hat and overcoat. Joe was reassured to be greeted by title. “Assistant Commissioner? We’ll go straight up. Sir James fought his way through from Albany half an hour ago and is waiting. Commissioner Trenchard is with him. And one or two others. This way.”
Sir James? The Commissioner? One or two others?
Joe kept his surprise to himself and followed his guide in silence. In his flurry of calls and returned calls after breakfast he’d simply tried to set up an informal meeting with his chief superintendent, Ralph Cottingham, and one other: “any bright bloke from the Department of Education, if that’s not an impossible request … and if there’s anyone at home.…” he remembered saying. The final message had come through an hour ago, fixing “a meeting with interested parties” in one of the government offices in Whitehall. A courtesy to the Education bloke, Joe surmised. Statesmen of any rank in the rumour-mill that was Whitehall preferred to avoid the indignity and possible stigma of a trip down the corridors of Scotland Yard. But why such a gathering? Early in February grandees of this political type ought to be away holed up on their wide country acres or skiing in Zermatt. Had Ralph overreacted?
Mind racing, Joe was chilled by the thought that the series of phone calls he’d instigated must have got out of hand, rolling along gathering substance like a snowball. And who the hell was Sir James, anyway? He could think of at least five Sir Jameses in the upper ranks of public life.
He was ushered into a carpeted and well-lit first floor reception room that was already occupied by some half dozen people sitting, it seemed casually, around a low table. His first glance took in a preponderance of sober grey pinstripe and even a uniform. All eyes lifted to him as he approached.
“Thank you, Spencer. That’ll be all.” The voice that dismissed Joe’s guide was unknown to him. It was low, authoritative. The speaker rose to greet Joe, indicating with a crisp movement of the hand that the others were to remain seated. “We’ve kept you a place over there at the end opposite me, Sandilands. Help yourself to coffee, will you? We’re all enjoying a certain informality this morning, you see. No clerks, no tea-ladies. Glad to note you’ve dressed—like me—in keeping with the weather. Harris tweed and galoshes! The only possible riposte to an unscheduled summons to the work place in the middle of a blizzard. Good man!” His voice dropped to a level of confidence: “Now, your boss will never admit it, but I do believe Trenchard still has his pyjamas on under that Savile Row outer layer.”