‘Bobby Bunton’s a maverick, and when it suits him he’ll turn his guns on the Marine – accuse them of being snobs. Then we’ll have an all-out battle in Temple Regis, and just when the local economy was picking up nicely.’
The editor picked up a box of matches and turned it over in his hand. The room smelt of old dogs, though it was probably his overcoat which hung on the coat-rack winter and summer. The sun’s heat was coming through the window and Miss Dimont realised why in general it was better to leave the door open.
‘Don’t think I hadn’t considered this,’ he said weightily. ‘It was a mistake letting Bobby Bunton into town and I’ll be frank – but this must go no further – I saw Hugh Radipole at lunch today. He warned there were likely to be severe repercussions if Bunton steps out of line.
‘He was telling me something of Bunton’s past – d’you know he carries a cut-throat razor in his top pocket all the time? – and unless Bunton calms down and stays out of the Marine there’ll be some howitzer-fire going over the fence. Radipole’s not a man to take things lying down.’
‘Good Lord, Richard,’ said Judy happily, ‘I think you’ve got yourself a scoop there!’
Auriol Hedley sat waiting for her friend on the back deck of the Princess Evening Tide, an old but beautifully turned-out yacht whose sheets were white, whose brass was polished, and whose prow was sharply elegant.
Evening Tide occupied a space against the harbour wall from where Auriol could see all the way down the estuary to its mouth, while over her shoulder she could keep an eye on her place of business, the Seagull Café. It was her habit in summer to come down here for a gin and tonic, usually in the company of her dear friend, Judy Dimont, on a sunny evening.
‘She’s late,’ said Auriol to the elegant gentleman sitting across the deck, shoes twinkling in the sunlight. His eyes were half-shut.
‘Good Lord!’ said the old boy, stirring from a half-slumber. It was hot. ‘That the time?’
‘Are you going to say something to her before you go?’
‘Not if she doesn’t hurry up. I’ve that train to catch.’
‘It’s been going on too long, Arthur, this campaign to keep her mother at arm’s length. If Madame Dimont finally carries out her threat and pays a visit, we’re all in the soup.’
‘Not me,’ said Arthur, chuckling. ‘I’m off!’
Just then the sputtering and clacking which usually proclaimed the arrival of Herbert pierced the early evening air. Meandering gulls on their evening stroll scattered to make way for man and machine, lifting off into the gathering haze. Miss Dimont clambered aboard.
‘Ginger beer, no ice,’ said Auriol, shuddering as she proffered the customary glass. ‘What kept you?’
‘Tell you later,’ replied Judy, offering a cheek to the old boy. ‘Hello, Arthur, what a surprise, how lovely!’
‘Just passing,’ said her uncle lightly, though this could not conceivably be true. ‘Auriol’s gin fizzes – what a miracle!’
‘Your glass is empty.’
‘Just going.’
‘But I’ve only just got here!’
‘Taking the Pullman to London. Been here all afternoon. Hoped I’d see more of you before I went. Must dash, though.’
He was old but still had a schoolboy bounce about him. ‘I say, Huguette, will you come up to town and have lunch with me at the club? Your mother’s coming. You could help out.’
‘Bit busy at the moment,’ said Judy, guardedly. ‘Been a murder over at Buntorama.’
At the mention of the word ‘murder’, the old man’s face lengthened in a mixture of disbelief and resignation. There was a pause. ‘I do not know,’ he said, slowly, ‘even after all these years I cannot understand, what brings one man to want to do away with another.’
Miss Dimont was hoping he might go on – he usually had something very useful to say after all those years of experience – but he was eager to disembark.
‘Train to catch,’ he said. ‘If you won’t come and have lunch with Grace and me, you know she’ll come down here. I thought you wanted to avoid that.’
‘When she comes, uncle, she straightens up my house. Goes through my drawers. Reads my correspondence. Looks down her nose at the neighbours. Dislikes intensely what I do for a living. But still she comes and sits in the Express front hall every lunchtime expecting to be taken out. She absolutely despises Terry and…’
‘You often have a word or two to say about Terry yourself,’ chipped in Auriol. ‘And not always complimentary, Hugue.’
‘She’s your mother,’ sighed the old man patiently. ‘Be kind, Huguette.’
‘If only she could be kind to me!’
All three stepped onto the quayside and Auriol wandered back to the café, leaving uncle and niece together by the waiting taxi.
‘Auriol sent for you, Arthur.’
‘I say, that sounds a bit accusatory!’
‘To do her dirty work for her. She’s been on at me for months to have Maman come and stay.’
‘Wouldn’t it be better? Get it over and done with?’
Miss Dimont shook her curls impatiently. ‘She’s your sister, uncle, can’t you do something about it?’
‘You know how odd she is. Running away to the Continent all those years ago, insisting even after your father died she should still be addressed as Madame Dimont. Talking in that affected Frenchified way.’
‘Still you named your daughter after her.’
‘She made me,’ said the old boy with a conspiratorial smile – they were in this together. ‘Come to the Club. Get me out of a hole.’
‘Oh – all right then.’
‘Don’t sound so dashed. It’ll save her coming down here and rifling through your things.’
They embraced, and the taxi sped away up Bedlington hill towards the station. The reporter walked slowly back to the Seagull Café to rejoin her friend.
‘A shame you missed him,’ said Auriol, cracking eggs into a bowl. ‘He was on wonderful form, telling me lots of things about the old days. Really, some of his adventures!’
‘Permanent schoolboy,’ said Judy.
‘Your mother has him under her thumb.’
‘Did you get him to come all the way down here just to tell me I must have Maman to stay? That seems a bit steep.’
‘He was passing through on his way from Dartmouth. Bit of a reunion, by the sound of it.’
Auriol turned to face her friend. She was still gloriously attractive, thought Miss Dimont, almost unchanged since their days in the underground corridors of the Admiralty building all those years ago. Everyone from able seaman to Admiral of the Fleet had been stunned by Auriol’s dark hair, coal-black eyes, perfect deportment and beautiful figure. Moreover, in a branch of the armed services almost completely peopled by men, she had the commanding presence to issue orders which they were happy to obey.
More than that, Auriol was the perfect sounding board – you could throw facts at her and she would size them up, turn them round, look at them upside-down and deliver them back to you in such an orderly fashion they were almost unrecognisable.