Sarah Caudwell - The Sirens Sang of Murder

“Dirty work at the crossroads,” said the Colonel. “We’d better get over there and put a stop to it.”

Left to myself, I am bound to say, I should not have thought of so energetic a course of action, but I would not have liked the Colonel to think — nor indeed would I have wished to think it of myself — that if Cantrip were in serious danger I would be deterred by mere indolence from doing anything to assist him. I reflected, moreover, that the Colonel, by virtue of his profession, had long experience of what to do when people are trying to kill people, whereas I had the good fortune to have none, and accordingly it was right that I should defer to his judgment. I pointed out, however, that the early morning plane to Jersey, even if we could obtain seats on it, was unlikely to arrive in time for us to play any useful part in whatever dirty work might be in progress.

The Colonel spoke dismissively of aeroplanes and said that what we wanted was a helicopter. I at first found this remark somewhat lacking in realism, since I saw no prospect of our being able to obtain such a thing, still less of our finding anyone to fly it.

“Nonsense, my dear,” said the Colonel, “I was flying choppers before you were born. And I know where to get hold of one easily enough — still got a few contacts from the old days, you know. The problem’s getting to it — pity we’ve got no wheels.”

This observation brought to my mind three facts which taken in conjunction seemed material to our dilemma: (i) that since Timothy went away his motorcar had been parked in Lincoln’s Inn; (ii) that the keys to it were in his desk next door in 62; (iii) that the key which gives me access to your room would also provide access to Timothy’s.

I hope that Timothy will not be unduly vexed about the motorcar. It has suffered no damage, apart from one or two scratches, and is really quite safely parked in a field somewhere about an hour’s drive south of London. Admittedly I do not know the precise address of the field, but it can be distinguished from other fields in the vicinity by the fact that it has a high wire fence round it and contains a number of helicopters. It also contains a large shedlike structure proclaiming itself to be a heliclub.

Arriving there shortly after daybreak, we found the place deserted, save for an elderly man sitting in a sort of booth or kiosk beside the gateway. He greeted the Colonel with cordiality and deference — I gathered from their exchanges that the Colonel had at some time been his commanding officer — and admitted us to the field. To my surprise the Colonel made no reference to the urgency of our business or to the helicopter which I understood to be available for his use, but implied that our expedition was for the simple purpose of my amusement — a notion to which my still being in evening dress no doubt lent a certain credibility. He enquired what chance there was of my being able to enjoy the spectacle of a helicopter actually taking off, and was told that one of the members of the heliclub would be arriving shortly and flying to Le Touquet.

Evidently pleased by this information, the Colonel led me into the shedlike structure and asked me if I would care to powder my nose. Having acted on this suggestion, I returned from the cloakroom to find him in conversation with a tall man whose face was vaguely familiar to me from the financial pages of the newspapers — his name, if my memory serves me, is frequently mentioned in connection with takeover bids and so forth. The Colonel was showing a friendly interest in the technical details of his flight to Le Touquet — the amount of fuel he would need and the kind of equipment he was using and matters of that kind — and being unable to make any useful contribution to such questions, I took no part in the conversation. After a few minutes the financier withdrew to the cloakroom and the Colonel followed his example.

The Colonel was the first to reappear, saying briskly, “Time we were on our way, m’dear.” Taking me by the arm, he led me outside and across the field towards one of the helicopters. He assisted me into it with his usual old-fashioned gallantry, and himself then climbed into the pilot’s seat. Various knobs and levers were twiddled and pressed, the blades above us began to rotate at ever-increasing speed, and we rose rapidly into the air.

Turning my head for a last look at the building we had left, I saw the financier waving to us from the window of the cloakroom and thought it courteous to wave back.

The flight so far has been, I suppose, uneventful, save that from time to time the machine gives a sort of hiccough and descends, before recovering itself, to within twenty feet or so of the waters of the Atlantic. I am still attempting, since I know of no other way of coping with the situation, to sustain my imitation of my Aunt Regina, and this precludes any overt display of nervousness; but the phrase “Whoops, sorry, m’dear,” which is the Colonel’s habitual comment on such occasions, does not altogether serve to reassure me. I do not doubt his assertion that he was flying helicopters before I was born; but you will perhaps think that it would have been prudent to ask him whether he has flown any since that date. It may be, of course, that flying a helicopter is one of those skills, like swimming or riding a bicycle, which when once acquired is never lost; on the other hand, it may be that it isn’t.

My mind is at present anxiously divided between the following questions: (i) is Cantrip really in danger? (ii) does the Colonel know how to land the helicopter? (iii) why did the financier remain so long in the cloakroom? There was something about the way he waved at us which somehow — but surely not even the Colonel…

We are approaching a coastline which the Colonel believes to be that of Jersey — I suppose, therefore, that my doubts on all these matters, if not indeed others of a more eternal nature, will shortly be resolved. In the meantime I remain, dearest Selena,

Yours, as always,

Julia

It would have been sensible, no doubt, if at least one of our number had remained at the Grand Hotel to explain to Cantrip and Gabrielle, should our misgivings prove ill-founded, the reasons for our sudden excursus. Patrick Ardmore’s motorcar, however, was of sufficient size to accommodate five passengers, and none of us, not even Darkside, least of all Lilian, could resist the compulsion which drew us towards St. Clement.

“There are several places that they might have started from,” said Ardmore as we drove eastwards along the coast road out of St. Helier. “I’m afraid we’ll simply have to stop and see if there’s any sign of them at any of the places one can park a car. I suppose Gabrielle has hired a car? She usually does.”

“She told me on the phone last night that she’d hired a little Fiesta,” said Clementine. “But I don’t know the registration number or even what colour it is.”

“Patrick,” said the Count, “you will go quickly, won’t you?”

“As quickly as I can, Giovanni.”

He continued eastwards, with neat granite houses and colourful gardens to our left and to our right an expanse of damp brown sand, scattered with rocks and seaweed, stretching down to a deceptively smiling sea. Once or twice we stopped at what seemed a possible parking space but found no sign there of those we were seeking.

“Clementine,” I said, struck suddenly by a discrepancy in what I had been told, “didn’t you say earlier that it was Cantrip who had invited the Contessa rather than vice versa?”

“That’s what she told me on the phone last night,” said Clementine. “She said he’d left a message for her at her hotel.”

“But I understand,” I said, “that it was she who invited him — by telex from Monte Carlo.”