Chapter One #2
‘Oh, he got out of the Robber Baron game, but he kept the money. I believe it’s all held in various trusts – you know what rich people are like with their tax avoidance wangles – but it’s all available to him whenever he wants it.
He certainly has enough to spare to invest in this new venture.
A crisis of conscience didn’t extend to his becoming some sort of medieval ascetic. ’
Dymond laughed again. ‘And who is this partial paragon? Might I have heard of him?’
‘JB McIntyre,’ I said.
Dymond goggled. ‘I’ve definitely heard of him. Good gracious. Well, that sounds like a splendid adventure indeed.’
At that moment, Pearson arrived at the table, as if from nowhere. How do waiters do that?
‘Are you ready to order?’
‘I’ll have the terrine, please, and then the Dover sole,’ said Lady Hardcastle.
I had barely glanced at the menu when we sat down and hadn’t looked at it since. ‘Er . . . I’ll have the same.’
Mr Dymond clearly hadn’t looked either, and followed my lead. ‘And for me, please.’
‘An excellent choice,’ said Pearson. ‘We have a rather nice Chablis to go with that, although I can also recommend a German wine from Mosel if you’re in the mood for something a little different.’
Lady Hardcastle noticed our uncertainty and tried to hide a smile. ‘Actually I was thinking of champagne. Unless either of you would prefer the Chablis. I find the bubbles go well with a cream sauce.’
Mr Dymond seemed even more uncertain now but not, I felt, because he couldn’t make up his mind. I wondered if he was worried about the price. ‘Well . . . I . . . er . . .’
‘My treat,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Let’s have the champagne.’
Pearson retreated with a smile and a bow.
‘That really is most generous,’ said Mr Dymond, ‘but I can’t—’
‘Nonsense,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘I was going to order champagne anyway, and Miss Armstrong and I can’t possibly drink a whole bottle on our own at lunchtime.’
This was a charmingly reassuring lie. We’d downed two bottles of champagne between us at many a lunchtime, though that was usually by way of maintaining our cover while on missions for the Crown.
That’s what we told ourselves, anyway. But it made us look less like drunkards to gloss over that unflattering truth, and it gave Dymond the opportunity to accept Lady Hardcastle’s generosity without feeling uncomfortable.
‘Well, thank you very much,’ he said. ‘I don’t often get the chance to drink champagne, so it’s much appreciated.’
Conversation turned away from bears and rich Americans as the train trundled on, and lunchtime passed in a pleasing blend of good company, good food, and at least one additional bottle of champagne.
Dymond seemed to enjoy himself, too. Eventually, though, the ever-attentive Pearson came to the table to tell him that we would soon be arriving at Exeter. He said his goodbyes and returned to his compartment to gather his belongings in time to get off the train.
We carried on to Plymouth.
The journey continued, seemingly for ever.
We changed trains at Plymouth and a small branch line took us almost to the coast, where we were met at the tiny station by a man with a cart.
Lady Hardcastle introduced us and he said, ‘Ar,’ before loading our luggage on to the cart and gesturing for us to climb up on to the bench beside it.
The only other words he uttered as we clip-clop-creaked along the Devonshire lanes were to the horse – whose name, we learned, was Jemima.
Ere long, as the poets say, we arrived outside a small fisherman’s hut at the bottom of a cliff. Our taciturn driver unloaded our bags, adding them to the pile of luggage that squatted near the hut, and then made use of the large cobbled area to turn Jemima and the cart.
He gave us another heartfelt ‘Ar’ in response to our offer of thanks, accompanied by a polite nod when Lady Hardcastle pressed a few coins into his hand.
Having checked that all was still well with Jemima and her harness, he heaved himself back to the driver’s seat and resumed his conversation with the horse as they trundled back up the lane.
We finally turned our attention to the stone jetty that stretched out from the turning circle, and the battered old fishing boat moored alongside.
We were not alone.
Our fellow guests were standing on the jetty, but were keeping well clear of the fishing boat. They had watched our arrival in silence but, once the cart had gone, a short, plump man with a beaming smile half hidden by an impressively luxuriant moustache came over to us.
‘What ho, ladies,’ he said. ‘You must be Lady Hardcastle and Miss Armstrong.’
‘I suppose we must,’ said Lady Hardcastle with a smile.
‘Ha,’ he barked. ‘Well, you don’t have to be. You can be whomever you wish. Of course you can. I, however, am afforded no such luxury. For my sins I am forced forever to be Granville Bridgewater. Come. Meet the others.’
We how-do-you-do’d and followed him a few yards along the jetty to where the rest of the party were milling about in the limp sunshine.
A particularly large wave hurled itself gleefully at the side of the jetty, causing two of the ladies standing there to shriek as the water splashed their legs.
Bridgewater chuckled. ‘I told them we should be standing up there by the hut where the carts turn round but they insisted on being nearer the sea.’
As we arrived, the group turned towards us.
‘My friends, I have the honour of introducing Emily, Lady Hardcastle, and Miss Florence Armstrong. We’ve all read of their exploits in the newspapers, and now here they are in the—’ He stopped and reddened.
‘It’s all right, Gran,’ said a short, dark-haired woman.
‘You can say “flesh”. Just don’t say “trousers”.
Or “bloomers”. Definitely avoid that.’ It wasn’t a particularly bright day and yet the lady was wearing an extremely stylish pair of very dark glasses.
She was also holding an elegant walking cane in her right hand.
‘Well . . . I . . . er . . . yes. Quite. I suppose I’d better start with Mrs Clarice Everett since she’s the one making all the noise. She’s the musician of our little group. Violin, you know. Make whatever rude gestures you like – she can’t see you. Blind as a bat, poor thing.’
‘Kiss my—’ The crash of another boisterous wave blotted out the preferred location of the kiss, but we were all able to guess what she meant.
Bridgewater seemed entirely unfazed. ‘With Mrs Everett is her long-suffering husband, manager and accompanist, Edgar.’
The tall man, whose arm Clarice was holding, inclined his head but said nothing.
‘Next to them is my equally long-suffering wife, Dorothy.’
‘Call me Dotty, dears,’ said the woman. ‘Everybody does.’
‘Then we have our good friend Robert Sidwell-Plant and his wife, Patience.’
The Sidwell-Plants were standing slightly apart. They were both tall, slender, and exquisitely well dressed. Like Everett, they inclined their heads in greeting but said nothing.
‘Last but not least is the youngster among us, George Wilson. Don’t let his youthful good looks fool you. Got a wise head on those young shoulders. Chap knows his onions, what?’
‘How do you do?’ said Wilson. ‘Bridgewater makes me sound like a greengrocer, but I’m nothing so grand, I’m afraid. Still, I suppose I ought to be flattered – always nice to be thought of as a chap who knows his onions.’
Lady Hardcastle smiled. ‘Always. As long as he doesn’t think you a rapscallion.’
Wilson gave an appreciative smile.
Bridgewater, though, was confused. ‘A what? A rap—’ He chuckled as the penny dropped. ‘Oh, I see it now. Very droll, Lady Hardcastle. Very droll.’
She inclined her head in acknowledgement of the compliment. ‘It’s a delight to meet you all,’ she said. ‘But I’m afraid it will take me some time to remember any of your names. You’ll have to forgive me if I completely forget who you all are. I’ll try my best but . . . well . . .’
‘Don’t worry, darling,’ said Dotty. ‘I can’t remember who we all are and I’ve known us for years. Just call everyone “Honey-Bun” and you can’t go far wrong.’
‘Thank you, Honey-Bun,’ said Lady Hardcastle.
This earned her a chuckle from the assembled throng and I began to think we might have quite a pleasant weekend with this lot.
Clarice Everett suddenly turned her head towards the sea. ‘The boat’s coming.’
‘I say,’ said Dotty. ‘How on earth did you—’
‘I can hear it, you idiot,’ said Clarice with a sigh.
‘Oh, yes, of course. So sorry.’
Now that it had been pointed out, I, too, could hear the boat, and I turned with everyone else to look for it. JB’s island, with the old fort perched menacingly upon it, was obvious enough, but it took a while to spot the boat.
Finally, I saw it, and showed it to Lady Hardcastle, who acknowledged me with a nod. It occurred to me that with her famously keen eyesight she’d probably already seen it, but she was kind enough to give me the credit.
The others saw it, too, and even though it was still some way off, they stopped talking and watched it – there’s something about an approaching boat that draws all attention entirely to itself.
It was a magnificent craft. It looked to be more than seventy feet long and the white-painted hull gleamed even in the wan light of the February sun, while the varnished mahogany gunwales and deck positively sparkled.
The sound that Clarice had heard came not from the puff of a steam engine but from the steady chug of a diesel motor.
Sparkling, slender, elegant and very, very modern.
This was clearly the maritime plaything of our host, JB McIntyre.
It took another ten minutes for the launch to pull alongside the jetty, during which time I had the opportunity to size up our weekend companions.
I decided, based solely on our first meeting and the muttered snatches of conversation I was able to hear while we waited for the boat, that Dotty and Granville Bridgewater were likely to be the social heart of the group.