‘Brookfield, my lady. You’re doing it on purpose now, aren’t you.’
‘Brookfield, yes. But since his promise of adventure has come to nought, we shall have to find our own fun. What say we plan that relaxing getaway we’ve been talking about for so long. The coast, I think. Sea air, buckets and spades, and a pint of winkles.’
‘Splendid, my lady,’ I said. ‘We can take our own pins.’
‘Bring me Bradshaw’s and one of our winkle pins, then, and we shall let fate choose our destination.’
‘Or we could just go to Torquay. I like Torquay,’ I said.
‘Or that,’ she said. ‘But we shall still need Bradshaw’s so as not to miss the train.’
‘It’s in your study, my lady,’ I said. ‘I shall fetch it at once.’
The morning newspaper usually prompted little more than disapproving tutting and an occasional “Oh!” of pleasant surprise from either of us. But the edition which landed on the doormat on the morning after yet another brandy-fuelled card game (which had seen my debt of three shillings and sixpence ha’penny converted into winnings of some one thousand, two hundred and forty-three pounds, twelve shillings and fourpence three-farthings thanks to some intemperate and ill-advised wagering on Lady Hardcastle’s part) was considerably more exciting than usual.
The headline read “LADY BICKLE KIDNAPPED” and the story went on to recount the alarming events of the previous afternoon which had seen Lady Bickle, wife of the Managing Director of the Bristol Electric Tram Company, seized at gunpoint by masked men as she walked her dog on Durdham Down. Her lady’s maid, who had been accompanying her, had been beaten by one of the men as she tried to raise the alarm and was being treated at the Bristol Royal Infirmary for her injuries.
I was reading the story as I walked through to the kitchen to rejoin Lady Hardcastle at the breakfast table.
‘Anything interesting in the news, pet?’ she asked.
‘Have a look for yourself,’ I said, and passed the newspaper across the table. She carried on with her egg and bacon as she read.
‘Crikey,’ she said. ‘Well, that rather removes any doubt.’
‘Doubt, my lady?’
‘Any doubt that there’s skulduggery afoot in the world of electrified trams.’
‘It has certainly moved well beyond the realms of possible coincidence, even among those without your disdain for the coincidental,’ I said.
‘Quite so,’ she said. ‘I’m blowed if I can see why the tram company might be under attack, but I’d wager you double-or-quits on your cards winnings from last night that it is.’
‘It certainly seems that way.’
We sat in silence for a few moments while she reread the short article until the silence was broken by the ringing of the doorbell.
‘Probably the post,’ she said as I rose from the table.
‘Probably,’ I said and went to the hall.
The doorbell rang again as I reached for the key to unlock the door, and I was very proud of myself for not saying anything curt about our caller’s impatience. Once the door was opened, I was somewhat surprised to see not the postman, but a middle-aged gentleman wearing an expensive-looking overcoat and top hat.
‘Miss Armstrong?’ he said.
‘The same.’
‘Miss Florence Armstrong?’
‘Even she,’ I said, trying to suppress the faint trace of impatience in my voice.
He reached into his coat pocket and produced a calling card. ‘Purcell. Home Office,’ he said, handing it to me. ‘May I come in? I need to speak to you and your mistress.’
I looked at the card which appeared to confirm that his name was Clement Purcell and that, if the insignia and other identifying matter were genuine, he was employed by the Home Office.
I stood aside and ushered him in, then took his hat and coat and led him to the drawing room where I bade him wait while I informed Lady Hardcastle of his visit.
‘What’s going on?’ she asked when I returned to the kitchen.
‘There’s a gentleman in the drawing room who knows my name and wishes to speak to both of us. He claims to be from the Home Office and has a convincing-looking calling card.’ I handed her the card. ‘I should have a silver tray for occasions like this, my lady,’ I said.
‘You should, yes; standards have been slipping lately,’ she said as she took the card and inspected it. ‘Well, it looks like the real thing. I suppose the only way to find out more is to go and talk to the chap.’
Mr Purcell was standing by the window, looking out across the fields on the other side of the lane, and he turned as we entered the room.
‘Lady Hardcastle,’ he said, extending a hand. ‘Purcell. How do you do?’
‘How do you do,’ said Lady Hardcastle shaking the proffered hand, but regarding him with faint suspicion.
He noted her glance. ‘Perhaps you should read this,’ he said, and took a letter from the inside pocket of his exquisitely tailored jacket.
She read the letter. ‘Well, Mr Purcell,’ she said, ‘my brother speaks very highly of you.’
He inclined his head slightly and smiled.
‘Please sit down,’ she said, gesturing to one of the armchairs. ‘Would you care for tea? Coffee? You must have had a very early start, would you like some breakfast?’
‘I ate on the train, thank you, but tea would be most welcome.’
I hastened to the kitchen to prepare a tray, and when I returned they were chatting amiably about wild birds.
‘Mr Purcell is a birdwatcher, Flo,’ said Lady Hardcastle.
‘Plenty of opportunities for that out here,’ I said, setting down the tray and taking a seat beside her on the sofa. I leaned forwards and poured three cups.
‘So, Mr Purcell, what can we do for you?’ asked Lady Hardcastle once we were all settled again, tea in hand.
‘It’s a delicate matter. I’m rather afraid that we need to recall you both to the active list.’ He held up his hand to forestal our joint protest. ‘I appreciate that you have both retired, and that for you, Lady Hardcastle, your most recent involvement in Crown business ended badly–’
‘Badly?’ I said, crossly. ‘She nearly died.’
‘I’m well aware of the events and their outcome, Miss Armstrong, and it is not my intention to make light of them. I should not be making this request if it were not a vital matter and one which the two of you are uniquely placed to deal with on behalf of His Majesty’s government.’
‘I see,’ said Lady Hardcastle, politely, but without warmth.
‘Have you seen today’s newspaper?’ he went on, seemingly unfazed by our ambivalence.
‘It happens that we have,’ she said. ‘The Lady Bickle kidnapping?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It has caused a great deal of concern in my office.’
‘And why’s that?’
‘I work for Section W,’ he said, as though that were sufficient explanation. We both looked at him in silence. ‘Section W,’ he continued when it became obvious that his pronouncement hadn’t had quite the dramatic effect he had anticipated, ‘deals – among other things – with subversive organizations and secret societies. I believe you encountered one of my predecessors during your time in Bengal: Colonel Mussellwhite? Dickie?’