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  Edward went on to explain that Louise and Jonathan were married the following year and decided to live in France, buying a small farm near Chartrettes, south of Paris. Jonathan had settled happily there with Louise, only returning to London once a year to keep his appointments with this office. Nothing changed in the routine until the recent war. Then, tragically, Louise was arrested and deported. Being married to an Englishman did not preclude her being on a train east in 1942.

  ‘Unfortunate,’ Gunn remarked dryly. ‘Why on earth would a woman living on a farm be of interest?’

  ‘She was Jewish, that sufficed,’ Edward murmured, almost to himself. ‘Still, one thing that remains with me is that Mr Jones told us that the SS arrested Mrs. Jones, not the local gendarmerie, as was the more usual method in France.’

  ‘A little odd, but not necessarily significant.’ Sylvia looked up from her notes.

  ‘Agreed,’ Louis put in. ‘Miss Fordred, Mr Gunn, I will come straight to the point. This firm is – and has been for many years – on a generous retainer from the Jones family trust. Mr Jones was a broken man when we saw him here last summer. It would be most remiss of us not to take action.’

  ‘Money no object then,’ Gunn quipped.

  ‘Sorry, couldn’t resist that!’ Giving him another warning look, Sylvia observed:

  ‘So, in summary, you need us to find out whether he ever made it to London. And if he didn’t, then we need to broaden our investigations into France.’

  ‘Got it in one.’

  Edward seemed to relax visibly. By the time Sylvia and Gunn left the office, bidding a quick farewell to Cathy and Joan, they had a long list of potential leads, including Mr. Jones’s London Club, his favourite restaurants, the manager at Drummonds Bank and his stockbrokers. They affected a polite but studied nonchalance at the cheque Edward had written them, until they got round the corner.

  ‘I almost feel like framing this and putting it on the wall at the bunker.’ Gunn smoothed it at the edges and put it in his pocket. ‘Better pay it in before the bank closes though. Then I’m off for another snifter and dinner with a certain chambermaid. Early start tomorrow – how about I get the first train to Dover, to see if our Mr Jones ever made it to back to Blighty?’

  ‘I’ll go round the hotels then; maybe start with the Club,’ said Sylvia. ‘I suppose he could have changed his plans; might not be such a creature of habit as Edward imagined. Wonder if there was any other family – cousins maybe? They didn’t say. Rather cagey, weren’t they?’

  Turning at a sudden commotion behind them, they spotted Joan moving amazingly fast through a group of excited American athletes who were ready for a night on the town. Like Moses parting the Red Sea, Gunn thought, or a dose of salts.

  ‘Here,’ she panted. ‘Got something for you.’

  She produced a small rusty key; to a mortise lock, Gunn noted. ‘Mr Jones gave this to me last year. Told me to make sure to keep it very safe. Keep schtum, know what I mean?’

  Before they could ask her what exactly she did mean, and why she hadn’t handed the key straight to Edward or Louis, the crowds swallowed her up again. Shaking his head thoughtfully, Gunn pocketed the key.

  Waving to him as he descended into the underground, Sylvia realised she was right by Somerset House, with an hour to spare before it closed for the evening. The sky was turning black and she hadn’t brought an umbrella. She crossed the quad, noticing the great stones blackened by grime and repairs, but it remained a magical place as far as she was concerned. As the first gusts of rain came, she picked up her step and, handbag over her head, dashed to the entrance and bundled through the doors, just as the rain threw itself against Somerset House and London. Shaking her head free of the rain drops that sprinkled her hair, she made her way into the gentle hum of study. She didn’t notice the louche individual slouching out through the foyer, noting her entry as he left, collar up and cigarette firmly tabbed to his lower lip.

  The Search Room contained row upon row of volumes documenting births, marriages and deaths going back to 1837. he marched straight over to the 1880s section, notepad and pencil in hand. By the time the miserable old trout at the front desk had announced that the Search Room would close in fifteen minutes, she had the sketchy beginnings of a family tree. Why did he have to be called Jones, she sighed, as she queued up with her docket to order the certificates she needed.

  Deciding that was quite enough for one day, she made her way to the bus stop through the rain and then home, which had been, for the past year, a room in a Georgian house in Tufnell Park, owned by two parsimonious doctors. The house was dark, so tall that it cast a gloomy shadow, even in the summer, over what passed for a garden. The other houses cast equally large shadows, making the road look forbidding, even on a sunny day. A doodlebug had scored a direct hit opposite, which let a little light in, but it was getting quite overgrown.

  Basic hardly began to describe Sylvia’s room. Last winter had been so cold that her window had frozen on the inside. The bunker almost seemed warm and palatial by comparison. There weren’t even any curtains when she moved in. A supercilious young stockbroker had the other room downstairs. She knew he smuggled his girlfriend in for the odd overnight stay; rather a sourpuss. Apart from the odd terse run-in about the kitchen and bathroom (why did they think she would want to steal their milk and where else was one meant to dry one’s nylons?), their paths scarcely crossed. She preferred it that way. It would do for now. It was a roof over her head. That mattered more than anything. A few more cases like Mr Jones, she thought, as she walked towards the house, smiling at the gaggle of children playing in the street and the ginger cat that always waited for her return.

  A figure emerged from the shadows on the opposite side of the road and disappeared nimbly into the bombsite, releasing a strong scent of buddleia. He looked vaguely familiar, Sylvia thought, but you got all sorts of strange people wandering past nowadays. She let herself in through the door, its rather grand stained glass panels belying the Spartan interior.

  Gunn, meanwhile, had had a snifter too many with the chambermaid, whose name, he had discovered, was Dolly, and was already late for dinner at an old friend’s bistro on Greek Street. Still, he could count on Dimitri to work his charms on young Dolly. After the usual scolding and the flurries of self-deprecating apologies, dinner was good and the wine, for London, was drinkable. Then Gunn escorted a tipsy Dolly down to Piccadilly Circus, found her a cab, unbuckled the proverbial silver and sent her happily on her way.

  Satie, one of his musical heroes, liked a stroll in the rain, or so Gunn had once read. He approved of that. Declining a cab, he decided to head for his digs in South Kensington on foot. A good stride away, but it would give him time to clear his head in time for the busy day ahead in Dover. He made his way back to his lodgings just as the pouring rain redoubled its efforts. This was getting personal now, as was the front door being locked and the lights out. Gunn sighed, and hoisted himself up via the porch and drain pipe to the first floor. He slipped his fingers in beneath his window and twisting his shoulders heaved the heavy sash open and rolled headfirst into his room, bumping up against the sagging wardrobe which contained his other suit.

  So much did not stack up about Jones but he was in desperate need for some shuteye right now. Tired though he was, sleep did not come easily to Gunn. Thoughts of the war fluttered through his head, juxtaposed uneasily and bizarrely with lines of poetry he hadn’t thought of since boyhood –something about a promise.

  More than once, he retreated from his bed to his armchair for a cigarette and an abstract gaze into the night beyond his window. Giving up altogether on sleep at around 5 am, he washed, dressed and let himself out of his lodgings the same way he had come. He saw no need to disturb the slumbers of the rest of the house, which consisted of Mrs. O, a sharp-tongued landlady with arms like ham hocks (her stentorian and self-righteous snoring could have woken the dead, he thought irritably, during his vigil), a retired veteran of 14-18, a spinster who
had lived in China in the thirties (some said she had been a missionary before succumbing to gin) and a cellist at the Royal College. Gunn had always been a man who enjoyed a mixed crowd. Some might say he took it a little too far sometimes. Hands in pockets, raincoat slung over his shoulder, he sauntered down the garden path, hopped over the gate and set a course for Victoria Station and Dover, the lock and key of the kingdom. He would see if he could penetrate it.

  Chapter 3

  By the time Gunn was making his way down to Dover docks, the white cliffs towering above him, seagulls busily flying to and fro with their harsh cries, Sylvia was enjoying a welcome cup of tea with Albert, concierge at Claridges. What he didn’t know about his ‘regulars,’ as he liked to call them, was scarcely worth knowing, but Albert was the soul of discretion. He did have a soft spot for Sylvia though; dating back to her childhood days when she was taken there for tea as a ‘special treat’ by her aunt. A small child, even one on its best behaviour, had been an unusual sight in those magnificent surroundings. In any case, he had started work early; the place was heaving, and he welcomed the chance to take the weight off his feet.

  Albert, Sylvia noted, was worried about Mr Jones and seemed genuinely relieved to pour out his concerns. Mr Jones’s annual visit was a regular fixture in the calendar, throughout the twenties and thirties. Sometimes, Madame Louise would accompany him, and Albert would be charged with finding the best seats in the house at the theatre. This year, his favourite suite had been reserved, but he hadn’t shown up. Albert was adamant about this – if he had decided to stay at his club instead, he would have let them know.

  Her next stop, at Albert’s suggestion, was Rules. Mr Jones had not been there this summer. Nor had there been any trace of him at his club. After a visit to the library to consult Debrett’s, Sylvia wended her way absently back along the Strand towards Clements Inn and the bunker. It was beginning to look as though Mr Jones had never made it over here. Unless Gunn found any clues at Dover, that trip to France was becoming a reality. France was a part of her life she had put in a distant compartment.

  As Sylvia pushed open the door of the bunker, and picked up the post, which was stuck halfway through the letterbox, (not more bills, surely,) Gunn pushed open the door of the Hotel de Brussels in Beach Street. He settled himself in the snug, turning his card rail ticket over in his fingers while he waited for the early morning shift of customs men to trickle in, confident that a few pints would elicit some useful information.

  A couple of hours and more than one dip in the expense account did indeed pay dividends. Gunn returned to Dover Priory station, purchased a morning edition of the Daily Sketch, and hopped back and forth, change jiggling in his pocket while he waited for a ruddy-faced charwoman to finish her conversation on the only functioning public telephone. Shaking his head at the animated discussion of Mrs Duckett’s bunions, he smiled thanks as the charlady finally emerged, holding the door open for him. He put his money in the slot, almost bursting with impatience as the operator put the call through in languid tones. Someone was already queuing behind him but he saw no particular need for any discretion.

  ‘Sylvia, listen, one of the Customs chaps remembers Jones well. Heath, his name is. Been here since the 20s. Decent cove, bit of a fossil though. Anyway...’ Gunn broke off, glaring at the pale, lugubrious man peering right in at him; his facial features scarcely discernible. He looked rather unwell but how incredibly rude. Suddenly, the old adages about ‘walls having ears’ and ‘careless talk costing lives’ flashed through his mind. Grubby telephone boxes probably had ears too. ‘Look – Damn, here’s the train. See you back at the bunker.’

  Gunn dropped the receiver and ran to the train, reaching for a carriage door and swinging up and in without a second to spare, as the locomotive drew out of the station and started building up steam.

  ‘Gunn, are you still there?’ Sylvia had not registered the last comment about the train. ‘I meant to say, could you call in at Simpsons on your way? See if Jones cancelled that meal? Gunn?’

  There was some slightly wheezy breathing on the other end of the line and a discreet cough, before the receiver was replaced. Bemused, Sylvia continued working her way in her usual methodical fashion through the day’s post. A receipt for a quarter’s rent from their landlord (good thing he hadn’t been upstairs lately and spotted Gunn’s dark room, otherwise he might start charging them more.) A decent cheque from some solicitors in Wembley accompanied by a fulsome letter of thanks for their help in tracing a particularly slippery former client, and, even better, finding out that he had ample money to cover his debts. They would appreciate some assistance with a few more cases and suggested a meeting at their offices in September, after the holiday season. Vera would be paying them soon too for Gunn’s jaunt to the Imperial Hotel.

  Things were looking up. The summer was always a little quieter in their line of work, with the courts being shut in August and the holiday season generally. If they did end up having to go to France, this wouldn’t be a bad time. She wouldn’t let Gunn go alone; she trusted him, of course, but this was definitely a job for two. She would just have to try and brush aside the memories it would provoke, and the sadness she had kept locked firmly away for years, and keep her business brain engaged.

  She pulled out the sketchy notes she had made at Somerset House on Jonathan Theophilus Weston Jones. Born in 1884 to Henry Theophilus Jones (that’s where it came from) and Olivia Harriet Weston. An older brother, Clarence Walter Weston Jones, born in 1881. Killed at the Battle of Loos. A lieutenant in the King’s Royal Rifle Corps and he hadn’t married. Henry, their father, died in 1908, confirming what Edward had outlined, and Olivia in 1919. So that would have meant that Jonathan was the sole heir. Not much on the Joneses in Debretts, but a full entry on the Westons; probably where the money came from. Both parents were only children. Louisa Vogel was noted in Debretts as Jonathan’s wife. Daughter of Samuel and Cecilia Vogel, of Vienna and, more recently, Paris. They hadn’t yet updated the entry to record her death.

  Gunn folded his paper. He could not concentrate and in any case was not overly concerned with the Olympics, which London had somehow been foisted with, despite the privations of what remained a wartime economy. That cove at Dover Priory had rattled him a little. Something definitely did not sit right. A cold hard dash of logic had it that there would be no reason for anyone to be keeping tabs on him or Sylvia. They were, after all, on a private commission, and the circle of knowledge was pretty tight from what he could tell.

  All the same, he decided to wander the length of the train on a just in case basis, making his way along the corridor. As an American GI had observed to him in ’44, ‘no harm, no foul, bud.’ As the train chugged along underneath the cliffs of England, normally a part of the journey he loved, Gunn suddenly came face to face with old ‘Lilychops’ from the telephone kiosk, sitting in an empty compartment. ‘Blimey, he must have got a move on to catch the train,’ thought Gunn. Lilychops seemed startled to be confronted directly and made to get up, but Gunn had him in a choke hold.

  ‘What the hell do you think you are doing?’ hissed Gunn.

  Before Lilychops could respond, the ticket collector appeared at the end of the corridor. ‘Tickets please, ladies and gents,’ he called cheerfully. Lilychops took advantage of a momentary loosening of Gunn’s grasp to duck under his arm and flee.

  ‘Folkestone Central,’ called the guard on the platform. Lilychops pushed the door open and got out. Gunn let slip a resounding ‘Bugger!’ as Lilychops tore down the ramp towards the exit, to the horror of the mother with three children in the next compartment. ‘I do beg your pardon, madam,’ he apologised. Realising he had become one of those people his own mother had always instructed him to avoid, Gunn gave a rueful chuckle and tried to focus on his paper again. Old Lilychops would now have at least an hour to wait for the next London train and the tea at the little station cafe was, from what Gunn could recall from his schooldays, going backwards and forwards to P
aris, pretty vile.

  Well, that had shaken him off, but then there were bound to be more where he came from. He started to feel a little uneasy about Sylvia being alone in the office. If that ticket collector hadn’t happened along just then, he might have got something out of him. They might have to talk to that shower at Cumberlands about a higher budget at this rate. It certainly seemed that Jones had not made it to England this year, and they were not the only people interested.

  Gunn was first off the train when it pulled into Charing Cross, and sprinted up to Clements Inn, taking the steps several at a time. Sylvia was quietly writing up the accounts ledger. Over a much-needed coffee, Gunn recounted the day’s happenings; the confirmation from Heath that Mr Jones came to England once, and very occasionally twice a year. It tended to be in the early summer and he had not been through this year. Sylvia told him about her findings at Somerset House and at the library, and at Claridges and Rules.

  ‘Oh, did you manage to get to Simpson’s? I wasn’t sure if you heard me; line went a bit funny.’

  Gunn told her about Lilychops outside the telephone box and on the train. Sylvia frowned. ‘Funny, but I think someone was lurking outside my house last night; just caught a glimpse out of the corner of my eye.’

  Locking the door to the bunker with more care than usual, observing their strict ‘clear desk’ policy, they went their separate ways – Gunn to check out Simpson’s and Sylvia to meet Edward and Louis and suggest a retainer for this new phase of the investigation. Simpsons confirmed, after the usual to-ing and fro-ing and the passing of a ten shilling note in the passing handshake that Mr Jones had not arrived and indeed they had had no word from him ‘whatsoever.’ Gunn turned that over as he strolled back along the Strand towards Aldwych.