Diana's Altar Read online

  “Well, Pertinax must have been listening. He rushed in and shouted at her. Clarice went for him! In front of us girls. Couldn’t help herself.

  “‘Bloody foreigner!’ she yelled. ‘You’re betraying the nation that took you in! You come over here, grab everything you fancy, then kick us in the balls! You coward! You didn’t even fight for us in the last lot! Somebody should’ve stuck a white feather up your bum! You’re a traitor and I’m not standing for it!’

  “I think, honestly, that was the clincher. Ouch! He went pale and very quiet. Then he grabbed her with those great hands of his . . .” Beatrice shuddered. “He bundled her out of the room and into the study next door. Never heard anything like it! He slapped her loud enough to hear clear through the wall and shouted and stormed. Then the noise stopped and that was worse. Jennings came back in and told us to just get on with it as normal. Mrs. Denton wasn’t feeling herself. She’d gone for a lie-down and a few aspirins. That’s the last any of us saw of her.

  “In the laundry van on the way back we were all warned to keep our mouths shut and stay on at number 50 until someone else came to take over the business.”

  “Beatrice—the girl who drew the short straw—do you happen to know . . . ?”

  “That was Clemency. No, I can’t tell you how she got on with H. Or even if she got on with H. She didn’t come back with us. ‘Got a lift back to London with one of the nobs, lucky girl!’ is what the butler told us.”

  “How likely was that?” Joe pushed her further.

  “Not impossible. It actually happened to one of the girls. A client was so taken with Honoria he smuggled her out and down to London and married her. No—straight up! We’ve seen her in the Tatler! She’s a lady now. But on this occasion . . . ? No chance!”

  “Ah. And that’s when you decided to flee, Beatrice?”

  “Wouldn’t you?”

  “Death and disappearance at the Court—it’s not the first time you’ve encountered it, is it?”

  “No. Pertinax has previous. That’s why the girls are all so scared.”

  “Were you here in August?”

  “I wasn’t, but my friend Marie was. She told me about the footman who got shot. Jeremy, I think. Is that what you’re talking about? A really handsome bloke, she said. What a pity.”

  “Did Marie have any suggestions to make about the cause of his death?”

  “You bet she did! It was one of those weekends when the girls weren’t really required, if you know what I mean. A gents-only swing round. Jeremy was new and a bit clueless and hadn’t rightly understood what Pertinax sometimes required of a footman. And he was a bit full of himself, Marie says. Bad combination. He was heard being stroppy with Jennings, saying as how he’d never signed on for stuff like that. What did they take him for? Someone, and it might well be him, ought to report it to the police. You can get jail for that. Well, no one threatens Jennings.”

  “And someone mistook the poor reluctant Ganymede for a wild boar and put a bullet through his hide?”

  “Right! That’s what they said. Look—your driver’s finished his first cigarette. Woodbines! They don’t last two minutes!”

  “Beatrice, I’m thinking that you know or have worked out more than it’s healthy for you to know about the Madingley mob.”

  “I’ve figured that out for myself, thanks very much,” she said with scorn in her voice. “They don’t like loose ends. Why do you think I have a ticket to London?”

  “Listen. I may be a bit over-careful but—had you thought that leaving a suitcase with a name and address on it for all to see is a pretty ropey way of taking off incognito? They’d only have to ask at the house, and someone would recite it for them. They could even be waiting at Cambridge station to push you under a train to stop you telling me what you’ve just told me. It’s a Friday—there’ll be a milling crowd of young gentlemen fighting to get aboard the ‘Fornication Express’ as they so charmingly call the afternoon train down to the flesh pots of the West End.”

  She turned to him with a smile, weary and knowing. “Look, mister, my name isn’t Beatrice and the address I’ve put on the label is the address of my auntie’s local police station. Seemed a safe enough place to direct my things in case I get lost en route. Give me your notebook and I’ll write down my real name.” As she scribbled her details, she commented, “I’ll have to take my chances at the station. I’ll hang about in the ladies’ waiting room until the train’s ready to leave.”

  “Well, I’m not taking chances.” Over the summer Joe had learned by heart the timetable of the trains between London and Cambridge. He knew which were fastest and which had buffet cars, having a personal preference for the 11:10 from Liverpool Street, which had both advantages. “You must take this taxi, not to Cambridge but to the next station down the line . . . the other line . . . Audley End, I believe. From there you can get on a train to Liverpool Street station and disappear into London.” He dug in his pocket and took out some notes. “Here. That’ll cover the fare. Ready to say goodbye to Cambridge?”

  “You bet!” She looked about her at the lines of prim houses and clipped hedges and shrugged. “Nobody here I’ll miss! Except perhaps the doc. I’d have liked to say goodbye and thank you to her.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Joe was nonplussed. “What was that?”

  “The lady doctor. It’s her morning for her weekly visit. I was hanging on waiting to see her but she’s running late. Oh, well . . .”

  “Have you been sick, er, Beatrice?”

  “No! Fit as a flea! But—well, you know what I do, and this Pertinax chap has a thing about disease. Fanatical. Can’t say I blame him. The type of client he entertains . . . well . . . wouldn’t want those grand fellers to catch anything worse than a cold, would we? There’d be some explaining to do!” Beatrice smiled with a secret satisfaction at the thought. “He pays to get us all checked over regularly whether we need it or not. The doc they’ve found to do it is a real lady, thank God! Knows her job. Has a laugh. We all look forward to her visits. She’s a touch with real life and she never treats us as though we’re less than human.”

  “Doctor Hartest, would that be?” His voice was controlled. Mildly interested.

  She nodded. “Adelaide. She likes us to call her Adelaide.”

  “I’ll tell her you mentioned her,” said Joe, barely aware of what he was saying. Seeing the cabby putting out his second Woodbine with a Music Hall flourish, Joe took a blank calling card from his pocket and scribbled on it. Passing it to Beatrice he muttered, “Ring this London number if you’re having trouble. You’ll get my deputy or his secretary. Open by saying my name, Sandilands, straight away. Say the message is for me and add that it’s to do with the emperor. They’ll listen.”

  He’d felt a bit theatrical doing this, but Beatrice seized on it gratefully, looked at the number, lips moving, and tucked it away in a deep recess of her handbag.

  “One last thing,” he said. “Tell me the parlour maid’s name, will you? I’m going back to the house and I’ll do what I can for your friends. I know the doctor. Perhaps she’ll be able to help.”

  The driver approached the taxi cautiously, looking up at the sky and whistling a jaunty tune. “Have you two done?” he asked, arching his eyebrows to indicate he knew very well the nature of the business conducted at number 50 and, in some way, was questioning the two cigarette length of the exchange.

  “All sorted out, thank you,” said Joe. “Change of plan. In which you are involved so listen carefully, Cabby Number 5302. Jealous husbands!” Joe rolled his eyes. “What a load of bother they cause! You are to take this young lady to the station but—the station at Audley End on the Liverpool Street line. I said Audley End. Yes, I know it’s outside the city limits and, yes, it’ll cost me! Wait until you see her get safely on the train. If any strange gentlemen approach, ring the Cambridge police. Here’s the taxi fare.” He han
ded over two ten-shilling notes. “That should do it and cover the tip as well.”

  Beatrice had recovered her spirits sufficiently to enjoy the game and, seizing Joe in a fond embrace, she planted a smacking kiss on his cheek for the cabby’s benefit. “Darling!” she breathed, in a cut-glass accent. “You worry too much. I’ll be fine! I’ll give you a ring from Liverpool Street to say I’ve arrived safely. And if you see Gerald before I do—give him a kick in the crown jewels for me, will you?”

  Chapter 18

  The same parlour maid recited the same message when he rang at the door of number 50.

  “Sarah! It’s me again! And you’ve got me for longer this time.” He stepped in and handed her his hat. “I’m waiting to see Doctor Hartest, who is due to visit any minute now. In fact I’m sure I saw her cycling down the road a moment ago. Now, Sarah, show me to the room where she conducts her surgery and I’ll make myself comfortable. When she arrives just tell her she has a visitor, will you?”

  The small room at the back of the house was freshly painted and furnished with a modest set of chairs and a table. East-facing, it must once have been a breakfast room, he guessed, as it was still lit by a late-morning autumn sun. The centrepiece of the room was an incongruous chaise longue, capacious and recently reupholstered in a dark green, plush velvet fabric. Joe had time to open up and check the contents of the two cupboards built into alcoves on either side of the chimney breast. Freshly laundered sheets in piles, towels, enamel bowls, jugs and medical paraphernalia. Within seconds, this unexceptional room could have become a working surgery.

  Hearing the bell ring, he went, with a grin, to stretch himself out on the chaise longue.

  The door was flung open and a breathless Adelaide shot into the room. Red hair windblown and flaring aggressively around her head, she bristled with anger. Or was it fear? A combination, Joe decided.

  “What in Heaven’s name? Joe! How? Who . . . ?”

  “Darling! Hello!” Joe shot to his feet. “You just missed young Beatrice. I told her I’d say hello and pass on her gratitude and warm wishes. Sensibly, she’s just on her way to London. I expect the rest of your little nest of patients won’t be far behind. I do hope they all make a safe retreat. I’m doing my best to facilitate it.”

  Adelaide opened her mouth to speak. “Well, bully for you!” she finally managed. “Why can’t you mind your own business, Clever Clogs?”

  “Helping an innocent girl—well, a girl undeserving of any violence—to escape this vicious net and get safely back home is any gentleman’s business,” he said stoutly. “I’m only surprised that their doctor was not able to be of more practical help. I do wonder that you, Adelaide, feminist that you avowedly are, did not take steps to lance this particular boil weeks ago. Why, have you condoned—I’m trying not to think connived—at it?”

  “Come off it, Sir Lancelot! You’re supposed to be hand in glove with MI5, in the pocket of the commissioner, dangling from the watch chain of the home secretary—if one of those didn’t tell you, you ought at least have been able to work it out.”

  “That my fiancée is a thirty-bob-a-week spy? What do they pompously call them . . . ? A ‘penetration agent’! Is that what you are, Adelaide? Can you be sure which faction you’re working for? Can I be sure you’re not a double agent?”

  “Wrong on all counts! I’m not your fiancée and it’s not thirty bob a week! Is that the going rate? What a nerve—they offered me twenty! And they haven’t paid up yet! It goes straight to charity if they ever do. The Cambridge anti-rickets campaign is . . .”

  Evasion. Joe cut it short. “Who recruited you?”

  Her lip curled. “You don’t seriously expect me to give you a name? I’m hardly a professional spy, but I’m not stupid. I’ll tell you what I can, though you have no right to ask. You remember the state I was in when you met me last June? I was out of work, desperate to join a practice and being turned down in favour of men I knew to be worse qualified and less able than myself. I even toyed with the notion of joining young Alexander Truelove in his mad scheme to go to Africa and impose himself on the Africans. Luckily, in the nick of time, I was invited to a meeting in London by . . . an old army friend of my father’s. Over tea and cakes at Fortnum’s, he slipped onto the table the lure of a plum posting to Cambridge, which he somehow knew was my first choice of location . . . Halfway between you in London and my father in Suffolk. There was a condition. A specialist was required to”—She stretched her arms out, encompassing the room— “to check and guarantee the healthy condition of this group of women. Of course, my first instinct was to square up to the chap who briefed me and say, ‘How dare you treat your countrywomen—or any woman—like this? Set them free from this disgusting slavery at once! How can you tolerate it? Worse—exploit it?’”

  Joe cringed, wondering which poker-faced smoothie MI5 had fielded to counter Adelaide in full flow.

  “Some silver-haired smarm merchant, heavy with years and honours, was persuaded to put down his Wisden Cricketers’ Almanack long enough to invoke King and Country, the British Way of Life and all that.” She looked sheepishly down at her shoes for a moment, then raised defiant eyes. “He didn’t actually have much of an uphill task in getting me to agree. You know as well as anyone, Joe, that if ever called on to go into battle again, I’d race you to the trenches. Any fool can wave a flag and sing the national anthem, drink a pint on St. George’s Day . . . I had a useful talent to offer up. I could do something valuable towards averting a national crisis. I signed on the dotted line. They convinced me that I would be working towards a goal that would, in the end, be the saving of many more than this small group. Even here, I could do some good. They hadn’t made provision for that of course but I was in a position to extract a few concessions.”

  Joe flinched at the thought of night watchman Knightly put in to bat against Adelaide’s bouncers.

  “I protected the girls as best I could. Issued them with the latest birth control equipment . . . At State expense!” she added with a nasty grin. “I reckon they earned it. I helped one, who was particularly distraught and missing her home, to get away. Safely and without reprisals, I do believe. The girls, in turn, fed me with quite a lot of valuable information about the Hellfire Club, which was the point of the exercise. Names of members, when they knew them, dates of forthcoming parties. I did my job. Better than anyone had expected.”

  She looked at her wristwatch pointedly. “And now I’d like to get on with it, if you don’t mind.” She looked with suspicion at the sofa. “Have you had your feet on this? Make yourself useful. Go and fetch me two sheets from the cupboard over there.”

  “Adelaide, how did you get this information back to your handlers? Was Aidan involved?”

  “Good Lord, no! I’d no idea he existed until I came across him dying in church.” She gave him a calculating stare then shrugged. “It was the church that was involved, not a person. All Hallows. A contact point. I handed my messages over to the vicar. If he’s not there I leave them tucked into that big Bible that’s always lying open on the lectern. I can’t stand Sweeting, but he does what’s required of him. He has a stinky sort of past, and the Intelligence Service got hold of this and required him to perform certain services to save himself from being unfrocked or whatever it is they do to dispose of the clergy. They tut about blackmail and coercion but—my goodness!—they could teach Pertinax a thing or two, those old goats in Whitehall!”

  “Mrs. Denton?” Joe asked as he helped her throw and tuck and smooth, turning the sofa into an examination couch.

  “I could never be sure how loyal she was to the organisation. I was told that she was Pertinax’s willing lieutenant and I worked on that assumption. It seemed safer. She kept her distance and was always cool with me. When they killed her, I decided that—let secrecy go hang—someone ought to know. No idea why she had to die but I told you and Adam exactly what happened. I even brought you clues,
for God’s sake! Samples of bodily fluids . . . the tag from her dress . . . I couldn’t believe how slow the pair of you were being! If they’d trusted me further than they did I could have had the whole nasty business exposed so much sooner! How many more must suffer while our security services play hopscotch with each other?”

  She elbowed him out of her way and began to set out her instruments on a table.

  Joe looked at her face, spirited, defiant, scornful and bright. Oh, Lord! He had a feeling that he would always find himself a large, ungainly presence coming between Adelaide and her tasks. But worse than that—not only did he now have to overcome the distance between them, the demands of his job, the demands of her profession—he was faced with a woman who had tasted excitement, the dark pull of undercover work. Work which she knew she was at least as well suited to as Joe. He understood why, though claiming to love him, this lively girl had turned aside all his suggestions that she should marry him. She had once light-heartedly conjured up the trite but truthful picture of a house in Hampstead which they would share with two retrievers until the children “came along,” as the phrase was in the women’s journals. “As though they just toddled in through the garden gate one day. House-trained and shoes shined,” Adelaide had said scornfully. He had always known that her plans had never meshed with his.