Bright Hair About the Bone (7 page)

Esmé rummaged in her bag and produced a clean handkerchief. He did not refuse or make a fuss but took it gracefully. “Ah, yes. It seems I resisted arrest! Unconsciously—literally—for I was sleeping when they came upon me in the Saxon graveyard. Oh, no need for concern, Miss—I managed to roll with the punch. The nose was broken many years ago.”

“What on earth were you doing in a graveyard?” Letty asked.

“Lying in the sun on an ancient tombstone, amid the wild grasses, sheltered by the old walls of Peterhouse. It brings peace to my bones and is much to be preferred to a hammock in the Mill Road shelter. But I must not detain you from your meeting with the Inspector.”

“Oh, I think I can say we've decided to put that off for the moment,” said Esmé with some confidence, sensing her friend had been distracted from her purpose. “Miss Talbot and I are actually just off to the Fitzwilliam to look at loom weights, aren't we, Letty? We'll walk back with you to St. Mary the Less—it's on our way. If we run into any more predatory policemen, I'll unleash Letty again.”

He gave her a smile which managed at once to convey sadness and a sense of humour. “Then I will be proud to accept. But may I suggest the slightest detour? If you will follow me—I suggest a good few paces behind…being downwind of me is, I admit, most challenging—we will walk through Petty Cury and I will find the means of repaying your contribution to my welfare.”

As they walked along behind him, Letty remarked to Esmé. “Old soldier, wouldn't you say? The minute he started to walk in front of us his back straightened, did you notice? What on earth do you suppose he's planning to get up to in Petty Cury? Rob a bank?”

He stopped and waited for them to draw level with him outside the bookseller Heffer's shop. Then he pointed to a box containing a job lot of mixed secondhand books on display on a trestle table by the door. “Have you got a shilling in your purse, Miss?” He spoke to Esmé.

“Yes, I have,” she said, producing one.

“Then pick up that leather-bound book—yes, that one—and check that the price pencilled on the front page is indeed one shilling.”

“Yes, it is.” Esmé inspected the dull brown book with its spare gold lettering with misgiving. “
Walden? Thoreau?
Which is the author and which the title? It says
1854
on the spine…can this be of any interest?”

Catching the concentrated look of longing on the tramp's face and a quickly controlled twitch of his dirty fingers towards the book, Letty decided to compensate for her friend's ignorance. “Certainly, Esmé. Henry David Thoreau—the truest American who ever existed, according to Emerson, and I suppose he would know. The author spent some time living a rough life and a solitary one in the woods by a lake at a place called Walden…somewhere in the wilds of New England, I believe…and this is his account. My father was very taken with it. He was inspired by the book to go off camping in the Lake District, muttering, ‘Our life is frittered away by detail…Simplicity, simplicity.' He was back within a week seeking out complexity.” She glanced at their escort. “The solitary life has appeal only for a very particular sort of person.”

He did not rise to her bait but said to Esmé, “Take it inside, Miss, and buy it, will you?”

Shrugging and uncertain, Esmé did as he asked. She returned moments later with the book in a brown paper bag.

“Good. Now, has either one of you got a pencil eraser?”

“I have one,” said Letty, producing her diary and tiny eraser-tipped pencil.

“Rub out the one-shilling marker. Now, put it in your handbag, Miss Laetitia, go upstairs to the first floor, and ask to see Mr. Hilton. He is the buyer of antique volumes. Hand him your card and say you wish to offer this book for sale. It is from your father's library and is surplus to requirements as he has another. Mr. Hilton will ask how much you want for it and you will say five pounds. After some well-mannered huffing and puffing on both sides, you will emerge with two pounds and ten shillings.”

         

Ten minutes later Letty came laughing from the shop holding out three pound notes. She handed one to the old soldier, and the other two to Esmé. “There! I did well, don't you think? A wonderful return on your investment!”

But Esmé was scandalised. “This is not right! It is not honest! I shall take it straight back inside!”

The soldier reached out a staying hand but did not touch her. “Listen to me for a moment, Miss. Who is losing by this? No one. Everyone profits. The book had slipped unnoticed into this unconsidered pile by chance. It should rightly be sold—and no doubt will be before the day is out—to a collector who will recognise its value and be pleased to pay the price Mr. Hilton asks, which will be fair and in the region of five pounds. The buyer will be happy with his bargain, the shop will have profited to the tune of two pounds, and the book will no longer be neglected.”

Esmé looked dubiously from one to the other, trying to work out who exactly had been defrauded by their manoeuvres. The soldier watched her struggle with what Letty interpreted with some surprise as tender amusement.

“And twenty shillings will keep this gentleman out of the clutches of the constables for the rest of the month,” said Letty, demonstrating a more basic understanding of her friend's character.

         

They strolled on, walking together now, a trio of partners in a non-crime. The girls were curious to see where the man had established himself behind the church on Trumpington Street, and entered the graveyard with him through a wrought-iron gate. They were enchanted by the wild garden they found there: Late spring bulbs were flourishing, scrubby, unkempt trees were heavy with blossom, and everywhere ancient headstones leaned companionably together, their inscriptions faded with the years.

Laetitia chose one which looked more secure than most and perched on it. The man invited Esmé to take a seat on a flat tomb and he settled down at the opposite end, looking at the pair quizzically. “I'm sorry I'm not able to offer you tea,” he told them, “I gave my housekeeper the day off.”

Letty dismissed his overtures with an impatient gesture. “Tell us a little about yourself. Who
were
you? How do you come to be in such straits so long after the war? A man of your resourcefulness and address—I would have expected you to be well established. Not leading this somewhat irregular life.”

He scrambled to his feet and stood to attention before her, swaying a little but determined. “Miss Talbot. I have already thanked you for your kindness in detaching me from the grasp of the constabulary. I do so again. Let that be the end of it. Your thoughtfulness, which does you credit, does not entitle you to pursue the interrogation the police themselves had embarked on. I bid you good day and will now continue with my disrupted sleep.”

“Well spoken, sir!” Letty said cheerfully, not at all abashed by his stiff reprimand. “I deserved that! But listen, will you? I have a reason for asking these questions—a good reason. I didn't argue with
you
when you told me how to sell the book—extend to me the same courtesy, will you?”

He glared, settling himself back onto the tombstone. But he replied with no more than a touch of truculence: “I fought in the Great War. I was for four years in Flanders. Twice wounded. I have, as you will have observed, suffered an injury to the left foot.” His chin came up defiantly. “And, as with many of my fellows, I bear unseen wounds.”

“You are a man of some education…” Letty left the sentence hanging between them.

He grunted and swept an arm sideways to the ancient wall of Peterhouse College. “Somewhere in that building you may find a trace, a record of the man I was.”

Letty took a deep breath and came to a decision. “Would you like to have employment? Or are you quite content to mingle your bones with the long dead? To sit here staring, useless and excluded, at the outer walls of a place where once you were welcomed? Esmé, hand our friend those two pound notes.”

Esmé ferreted about in her purse and did as Letty told her with a breathed: “Sorry about this…she can be very bossy, you know…” as she handed him the money.

“I'd like you to use this to smarten yourself up,” Letty told the old soldier. “Get yourself some clothes. The Salvation Army do a good line in secondhand gents' clothing, I understand, but I'm sure you're better aware of the facilities Cambridge has to offer than I am. I would like you to present yourself here,” she handed over a card, “at, shall we say, four o'clock this afternoon to attend an interview with my father. There is a position in the household he is seeking to fill. You'll find there's an omnibus service out to Melchester.”

He took the card and glanced at the address. “Now you know who I am,” Letty persisted. “May I know
your
name?”

When he hesitated, she insisted: “So I may inform our butler whom to expect…”

“William Gunning,” he said, reluctantly.

“Ah. A good, solid English name,” said Letty. “Can you drive a motorcar, Mr. Gunning?”

He nodded.

“Can you speak French?”

Again he nodded.

“Good. That's settled then.”

“Nothing is settled,” he corrected. “Tell me, Miss Talbot, something of the nature of the position. Is Sir Richard looking for a chauffeur…a groom…a steward?”

“All those. Oh, and yes…a bodyguard.”

“A
bodyguard
? Is your father's life at risk?”

“Oh, no. It is not Sir Richard who is to be the object of your attentions,” she said evasively.

“I must ask—then who exactly
is
the object?”

“I am.”

Without a word, he solemnly handed back the two pound notes.

CHAPTER 6

A
halfhearted game of croquet was in progress on the lawn behind the house when the doorbell rang. Letty checked her watch. Five minutes to four. Although she and Esmé hurried inside, they were too late to catch a glimpse of the visitor being shown into Sir Richard's study. The butler was just closing the door behind him and, though longing to stop and question him, Letty knew better than to interrupt Dawkins in the execution of his duties. His face was inscrutable as usual, giving away no comment on his master's guest. St. Michael or Lucifer appearing on the doorstep would have been greeted with the same measure of courtesy, provided he had an appointment.

They loitered nearby, engaged in the self-imposed task of sorting out decaying gum boots in the boot room until, an hour later, Dawkins returned bearing a tray of tea things. The girls looked at each other in surprise as, through the open door, they caught a blast of hearty male laughter.

“That can't be him,” said Esmé. “Your father's with a
friend.
He didn't come after all and it's your own fault, Laetitia. You insulted him with all that ‘who
were
you?' and ‘get yourself smartened up' business.
I'd
have jolly well refused your money, too!”

“Ah, there you are, Miss Laetitia,” said Dawkins, catching sight of them. “I was confident I'd find you somewhere nearby. Sir Richard asks that you join him directly. And Miss Esmé's presence also is requested.” He opened the door again and announced them.

“Come in, girls!” boomed Sir Richard, leaping to his feet. “Don't hover over there. Come and join us. Esmé, why don't you pour out some tea? I don't need to present William Gunning, as he is here at your invitation.” His tone was jovial, amused.

Letty gaped in dismay at the man who had risen at their entrance and turned to acknowledge them. She could find no word of welcome that could survive the tide of astonishment rushing through her. This had somehow gone disastrously wrong, and she had most probably ruined forever any chance of gaining permission to take up the job in Burgundy. Her credibility, her judgement, her common sense, were, at a stroke, put in question. And her father was clearly enjoying a joke at her expense.

Esmé was the first to recover from the surprise and, with a whispered, “Mr. Gunning,” and an embarrassed nod, she busied herself with the teacups. Letty went to poke the fire to hide her grim expression.

What could she do? Declare to her father that the man with whom he had spent the last hour was a charlatan, a deceiver, a rogue, and should be ejected summarily? Hardly possible in the circumstances. She would have to find another way of getting rid of the fellow. The man standing by her father's desk could, she thought, have been anyone. He certainly wasn't William Gunning. Or was he? She peered at him again. Tall, spare, and upright, as she had anticipated, when stripped of the blurring outline of the greatcoat, and, yes, grey-haired, but this thick head of neatly barbered hair had clearly been dark and that not so long ago. It seemed out of keeping with the face it framed. Gaunt and weather-beaten certainly, but, freshly shaven and with a neat moustache, that face now revealed a strong bone structure. She had guessed his age, setting his decrepit appearance against the fact that he had taken part in the recent war, as being about fifty, but she now saw that she would have to revise this estimate by about ten years. Surely this man could be no more than forty? She sighed. Far too young to meet her father's requirements. It had all been a waste of time, her time and his.

Through her irritation she felt a twinge of pity for the man and guilt at raising his hopes. The tramp had spent all the money he had in the world, which she remembered to have been one pound, two and sixpence, on bath, barber, and suit. Men's secondhand clothing was easily and cheaply come by but he had chosen well, she thought. The three-piece suit of good Harris tweed in a dark grey blend was well judged for the occasion. The soft-collared white shirt was just formal enough and the tie an odd flourish of scarlet silk. Her father's second requirement:
De aspecto horribile?
Her heart sank. Far from it. William Gunning was far from grotesque. He was failing all the tests. And scuttling all her prospects.

“Shift those dogs off the sofa and sit down, girls. Letty, do leave off! The fire was doing very well by itself. Oh, Esmé, my dear, William might like some shortbread.”

Letty was uneasy at the intimate use of his Christian name, uneasy also to see the haste with which her friend went to ply the stranger with biscuits. The girls settled themselves and waited for the blow to fall.

“Well, I have to say, just for once, one of your ridiculous schemes seems to have been rather well judged, Letty,” Sir Richard said. “I'll put you out of your misery at once and tell you that we've reached an agreement. William will accompany you to France. He will remain there for the duration of your digging enterprise. We'll hammer out the details all in good time. We've exchanged as much information as is possible in an hour but there must be much more you want to tell him, Letty, so we'll arrange for you to spend some time together to formulate your plans.”

Gunning spoke in his clear voice: “Is Miss Esmé not to join us on this jaunt, Sir Richard?”

“No, no. Esmé is here for a short holiday only. The two are close friends and have not seen each other for months—Letty's been away in Egypt. No, Esmé returns home to London next week…well, you tell him what you're up to, my dear…”

“I am to go up to the University next term, Mr. Gunning. University College, London.”

“Ah. My congratulations and best wishes, Miss Esmé. And is Miss Laetitia also to pursue an academic career?”

“Er, no.” Sir Richard broke the girls' embarrassed silence. “Laetitia
was
up at Cambridge for three years. Bit of a bluestocking, in fact, though you'd never guess it to look at her. But she was, I'm sorry to say, sent down…sacked—”

“For bad behaviour,” explained Letty sweetly.

“I see,” said Gunning, nodding his understanding. “A tattered bluestocking?”

Letty didn't quite like to hear Esmé's suppressed gurgle of laughter. “My friend has a good deal of reading to do in preparation for her coming course. We won't detain you, Esmé, should you wish to return to your books.”

“And
you
must prepare yourself, Letty,” said Sir Richard. “Some rather contrapuntal arrangements to be made, which I insist on helping you with. If your project is to go smoothly it must be run with military efficiency. Now, we're envisaging a hostile scenario, I understand. Villains lurking round every corner, innocent young girl at risk…” Letty caught the amused glance he exchanged with Gunning. “I'm thinking that perhaps it would
not
be a good idea if the two of you appeared to know each other. Our notion was that you should travel together as far as Paris. There William will deliver you to your aunt Genevieve, where you will spend a week while he motors on to Fontigny. We can arrange for you to put up in the same guest house. You'll arrive later by train, Letty, as befits a student.”

“And how is Mr. Gunning to occupy his days?” asked Letty. “He surely cannot spend them observing me dig.”

“This is the beauty of it! He will be playing no part. No need for subterfuge or local colour. He will merely be
himself.
”

“I'm sorry, Father, you will have to explain.
Which
of Mr. Gunning's selves does he propose to show to the world?”

“William tells me he is a passable artist. Who will look twice at a wandering English clergyman working his way round the French countryside, busy with little pencil sketches, preparing perhaps an illustrated monograph on the ecclesiastical architecture of Upper Burgundy?” Sir Richard roared with laughter at his suggestion. “Might even get Peregrine to publish it, eh, what, Esmé?”

Gunning's slightly lifted eyebrow involved Letty in a conspiracy she did not wish to acknowledge, silencing her protest. Esmé opened her mouth to speak, considered for a moment, then sipped her tea.

“Clever of you, that, Letty! The retired policeman who was on your shopping list—a deliberately unattainable requirement—might have stuck out like a chapel hat-peg in those surroundings, but a man of the cloth! A pastor! Ah yes, he will have a certain consequence in a country like France, though he be a Protestant. William is prepared, of course, to equip himself with the customary attire—dog collars and so on. I'll make a few phone calls. I may be able to open a few doors, arrange visiting rights, an inter-clergy reception or two…. Now, he tells me he hasn't driven a car for some years and will need to put in a bit of practice. Why don't you take the Reverend off to the stables, Esmé—you'll find she's an excellent driver, William—and give him a lesson? You may use the second car. It's got a hand gear-change system you may find more convenient. And what about a horse, while you're at it? I hear they're thick on the ground in Burgundy…Never been myself…Yes, reacquaint yourself with horses—we keep one or two old hunters out there. Oh, by the way, Letty, William tells me he is able to stay with us here until someone fires the starting pistol…Esmé, tell Dawkins to have another place laid for dinner, will you, and a room got ready? Right then, off you go and I'll see you all again for sherry. Letty, a moment of your time, please?”

Left alone with her father, Letty was uncharacteristically silent. She wished he were not so obviously enjoying her predicament. He hauled himself to his feet and, scattering dogs as he went, crossed the room to give her a hug. “Silenced you at last, have I?” he asked, the joviality evaporated and replaced by affectionate concern. “Now, I've heard from
him.
Why don't
you
speak to me? Why don't you start by telling me where you met this chap?”

“At the church…St. Mary the Less in Trumpington Street,” she replied guardedly.

“Ah? Won't quite do, Letty! Not quite a lie but not quite the truth either, I think. But let me tell you, girl, that you needn't cover up for the man. He told me all. Openly and honestly. He told me how the pair of you rescued him from the clutches of the constabulary and ensured he was solvent. You accompanied him back to the church, curious, no doubt to establish his, um, circumstances.”

“If I'm in the confessional, Daddy, I might as well admit I was not aware that he was a clergyman. I took him for a man of action. He told us he'd served in the war. He walks like a soldier…he said he'd been wounded and that much certainly is evident. You're a military man—you must have seen it, too? How certain can you be that he was…is…a clergyman?”

“Of course I'm sure! Letty, how could you think me so careless? I take no chances with my daughter's safety. Too many vagabonds and rogues roaming the streets these days. Gunning gave me the telephone number of a bishop—a man I happen to know quite well—and invited me to phone him directly. Embarrassing, what!—with the chap there in the room with me! Can you imagine the conversation? ‘I say, Humphrey, old man, you'll never guess who I've got with me at the moment!…Yes, sitting right opposite…' I heard my awful old voice braying on. Though, in the end, it wasn't in the least awkward. Humphrey remembered him well. Told me your Gunning had been missing for years and he feared the worst. He was delighted to hear the chap had surfaced again and insisted on having a word with him there and then. A touching telephonic reunion! Apparently, Letty, your bloke was indeed involved in the war. Saw four years of action. He was a chaplain. An Army chaplain.”

Letty jumped up and began to walk distractedly about the room. “I'm so sorry, Father! This won't do. I've wasted everyone's time. Can we find some way of sending him away, do you think, without hurting his feelings? Give him a tenner and have him driven back into Cambridge?”

Sir Richard sighed. “Now what is it? I give you permission—against all my instincts—to follow up your crazy idea, only to find that you've changed your mind? I'm getting pretty fed up with all this!”

“But a
chaplain,
Daddy! I can't go to France with some elderly Woodbine Willie in tow!
I'll
have to look out for
him
! If things should get sticky—not that I'm expecting they will, mind!—what will he do? Whip a prayer book out of his knapsack? Fall on his knees?”

Laetitia had rarely seen her father angry, but she flinched now in dismay at his bellow of rage. His expression was thunderous. “There speaks the younger generation! Are four years of sacrifice to be so lightly dismissed? Your own half brother paid the ultimate price, Laetitia. I would have expected you at least to show some understanding!” He reined in his emotion and continued in a more controlled tone: “William Gunning was one of those fighting padres who were right up there with the front line troops! The only difference between those men and the soldiers they served was that they went into battle unarmed. They faced enemy fire shoulder to shoulder with the soldiery: shelling, machine-guns, snipers, but without the comfort of a Lee-Enfield in their hands. The only protection these men had was their faith. Many died. Gunning survived—no one knew quite how, in view of the risks he took. Twice invalided out but each time he went back. Nothing he wouldn't undertake, Humphrey says, from stretcher-bearing to acting as surgeon's assistant. I don't suppose he told you he was awarded the Military Cross? No? Well, he wouldn't, of course. Had to hear about his exploits from Humphrey.”