Inspector Bliss Mysteries 8-Book Bundle. James Hawkins
ripped vinyl seat – Stanley knife, he guessed.
“I wouldn’t call it secrecy, Inspector. It’s just not good form for the press to be seen feeding information to the police – though it can work in both directions, if you get my meaning.”
Bliss leant back in the chair, keeping his distance. “So you want to scratch my back, do you ...?”
“Well, I must admit, when I heard they’d brought in a top Scotland Yard detective to lead the investigation, I realised there was more to this than just the death of an old Major.”
Bliss basked in the misplaced notoriety feeling no compunction to disillusion the scruffy little man. “And you are hoping for a scoop I take it.”
“Actually, no ...” he paused to remove his spectacles for an enthusiastic clean, revealing a heavily drooped left eyelid that gave his face a lopsided appearance. “I say,” he continued, “I hope I haven’t given you the wrong impression.”
“Two full breakfasts was that Mr. White?” called a robust, amiable voice, above a cacophony of kitchen sounds. “Tea or coffee?” she demanded, taking the reply for granted.
“Coffee for me,” answered Bliss, deciding he’d wait until he saw the breakfast, and the state of the cook, before committing himself to eat anything. “And what would the wrong impression be Mr. White, and how did you get my name by the way?”
“I was making enquiries in the Black Horse on Monday when you closed it down,” said White after ordering tea. “And I can assure you I’m not here to pump you for information.”
“Good – you won’t be wasting your breath then,” said Bliss, harsher than intended.
White turned cool, but replaced his spectacles and pressed on. “My editor asked me to prepare a biography on Major Dauntsey to run the day of the funeral. It seemed simple enough, although, to be truthful, I would have preferred to run it today.”
“Why today?”
“The date, Inspector ...” he said peering over the top of his spectacles.
“6th of June – Oh, I see. The anniversary of D-Day – I’d forgotten.” But then his nightmare of dead men and grey battleships suddenly had meaning, and he found himself questioning what had occurred as he had looked out over the dark sea during the night – the same sea that had swallowed thousands of screaming souls a generation ago. Was it a nightmare or had it been something more? he wondered; and his mind wandered, thinking of the ships and men steaming through the long night, arriving off the coast of France at dawn. Then what? A single shell from a strafing Stuka, or a burst of shrapnel from a mine or artillery shell, and it would all be over. Years of training, thousands of miles from home, for what – dead before you even got to the beach.
“Inspector?”
“Sorry ... Yes, please go on.”
White took off his glasses again and gave them a long and thoughtful polish before taking a photocopy of a newspaper cutting from his pocket. “This was what I found in the archives,” he said, handing it over.
Westchester Gazette and Herald
Thursday, July 23rd 1944
Local Major – Battlefield hero
by P.W.Mulverhill
Major Rupert W. Dauntsey,
Royal Horse Artillery, of The Coppings,
Westchester, Hampshire
A spokesperson at the War Office has confirmed to this correspondent that Major Dauntsey has been nominated for an award for gallantry, although could not confirm that a D.S.O. was in the offing.
Details are still sketchy about the action, but early reports suggest that Major Dauntsey’s troops were caught in murderous crossfire as the beleaguered Hun fought a desperate rear-guard action somewhere in northern France. All reports suggest that the Bosch are running faster than rats from a sinking ship, but some are still determined to take as many of our boys with them as they can.
Major Dauntsey’s wife, Doreen, (21 yrs.), married only days before “D” Day, was unaware of her husband’s heroic action when contacted by this newspaper, but she stated that she was not surprised to hear of his bravery – “It is just like him,” she said. “Putting other’s first.”
Unconfirmed reports suggest that Major Dauntsey was himself wounded in the action, but we are certain he will be pleased to learn that a hero’s welcome awaits him on his return. Well done, Major Dauntsey, and God speed your return.
This correspondent will be the first to congratulate the Major and bring our readers a full account from the Major’s own lips on his return.
“Sounds fair enough,” said Bliss handing the cutting back. “And what did the Major have to say when he got back?”
“Nothing.”
“Well, he had difficulty speaking I understand.”
“He may have done – but that isn’t the reason he didn’t say anything. I’ve spoken to Patrick Mulverhill, the reporter, he’s well into his eighties now, but he’s no fool. He went to Oxford with the Major and remembers the day he came back from the front – trussed up like a mummy, he said, and that was the last he ever saw of him. According to Patrick, Doreen Dauntsey kept her husband locked away tighter than a duck’s ass for the rest of his life – however long that may have been.”
If the implication in the journalist’s words left little doubt as to Doreen’s involvement in her husband’s demise, his tone spoke volumes. But Bliss refused to be drawn. “Thanks for your assistance, Mr. White, I appreciate it. Obviously I shall need to speak directly with Patrick Mulverhill ...”
“You could ...” he cut in, then left Bliss hanging.
“But?”
“Patrick is sort of old-fashioned about the independence of the press. He still clings to the notion that we can claim legal privilege. He probably won’t tell you anything, although he can be ... shall we say undiplomatic ... he’s just as likely to tell you to get lost.”
“I’ll take a chance,” said Bliss as the kitchen door burst open and the cook, as fat and friendly as she’d sounded, fought her way through with a groaning tray. “There we are, ducks,” she said. “This’ll put hairs on your chest.”
They ate in silence for a while, the steaming food fogging the reporter’s spectacles until he removed them and looked uneasily across the table. “There is something else, Mr. Bliss,” he began, then betrayed his nervousness by ferociously polishing the spectacles with a handkerchief. “I also came across this,” he said eventually, taking another cutting from his pocket.
With one quick glance Bliss felt his face greying, felt himself sliding back into the miasma of concern.
“You must have trodden on some pretty important toes,” continued the reporter unaware of Bliss’s discomfort, quoting snippets from the cutting. “Bomb explodes at detective’s home – Death threats – Underworld hit-man ...”
“I know what it says,” fumed Bliss. “Where’d d’ye get it?”
White swallowed, “London Evening Post ...”
“I know that. I meant why ... who gave it to you? Who set you up?”
“Set me up ... I don’t understand.”
Calm down ... calm down. How can I calm down? He’s tipped off the local press. He knows he’s got me cornered – I bet he thought they’d just carry the story then I’d be on the run again. “What was it, an anonymous phone-call, or did he mail it?”
“I’m sorry ... I really don’t know ...”
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