He rewarded his secretary with the response she best appreciated: a grin and ‘Attaboy, Jameson!’
A mistake.
Under cover of his approval, she was encouraged to slide in a supplementary question or two. ‘The latest attack in the West End, I take it? That’s what this is all about?’ She pointed to the file. ‘The shooting? Poor General Lansing. He’s a very old friend of Daddy’s. I do hope he wasn’t badly hurt?’
‘Lansing? No. Hide as tough as a cavalryman’s derrière. Er … bullets bounce off him, I should say.’
Four years of war, followed by three of intensive training for the Metropolitan Police and a further year on secondment to the Calcutta Police, had left Joe accustomed to an exclusively male working environment. He didn’t always manage to tailor his language for a female audience. Amalthea Jameson graciously affected not to notice his lapses.
The announcement that he was to be granted, on taking up his post again after his return from India, the services of a full-time personal secretary had been surprising. The two other officers of his rank, uniformed and in the later years of their service, were accorded no such privilege. Even more surprising was the failure of these fellow officers to take offence at the blatant preferment of the young upstart. A knowing smirk and a pitying shake of the head spoke volumes to Joe. They didn’t envy him.
‘I visited the general yesterday in St George’s. He’s doing well,’ he offered in reassurance.
‘I’m glad to hear it. I’ve been following events in the press. With no file available in our office, one gets one’s information where one may …’ She gave an apologetic smile, but her eyes accused him of secrecy.
‘Depressing stuff, Jameson, in the papers, and usually exaggerated. Believe them and you’d be running into a Russian Bolshevik or a Latvian anarchist round every corner. You’d never venture out,’ he reassured her lightly.
‘But that’s three attempted murders now in as many days, I gather. Three attacks on three military gentlemen,’ she persisted. ‘And each with – I wonder if it had occurred to you, sir? – a different modus operandi. Puzzling, that. Don’t you agree? The first, I understand, was no more than an assault with a blunt instrument – a cosh? – the second with a knife and this last with a pistol. And all unsuccessful!’ She gave a scoffing laugh. ‘How much practice can a self-respecting perpetrator need? What a bungler is at work, one might conclude.’
‘Not, perhaps, if a fourth attempt were to come off tomorrow, Miss Jameson. Even I can detect a certain escalation in the level of violence used. And the one vital feature the victims have in common. But thank you for your observation.’
His reprimands usually bounced off the shield of her smiling compliance but on this occasion she did not hurry to agree with him. In a tone which signalled sorrow rather than anger she said simply: ‘They’re here, aren’t they? Here with their bombs and their bullets. Spreading terror among us.’
‘There were over one hundred reported violent incidents in the Metropolitan area over the last week, Miss Jameson. Three of the victims happen to be known to you personally and you draw a dramatic conclusion from this slight evidence.’ He paused for a second before admitting: ‘But I have to say, I happen to agree with you. The editors of our daily newspapers don’t share your social connections and inside knowledge and they haven’t yet put two and two together. I’d … we’d … prefer that they didn’t. Keep it under your hat, will you? With the present undermanning in the force, I doubt we could contain the effects of an anti-Irish backlash tearing through London. Open warfare on the streets? It’s not inconceivable.’
She nodded. ‘Understood, sir. I’ll put this into your in-tray to await your return.’ She made to scoop the file on his desk.
‘No, I’ll keep it. I note they’ve only entrusted us with the flimsies.’
‘Third copies I’d say, sir. A calculated insult. But I can make them out. Would you like me to …?’
‘Thank you, Jameson, I’ll manage.’ He peered at the faint blue letters. ‘There’s nothing here I can’t take away to work on. I’ll slip it into my briefcase to read on the train. I like to have something to set the pulses racing when I’m travelling.’
‘Not taking your diary along for the journey, then, sir?’
It was a moment before he realized his secretary had attempted a joke.
‘I’m no Oscar Wilde, Miss Jameson,’ he said repressively. ‘However, if I were compelled to review the passage of my life between here and Devon, I would agree with Oscar that “each day is like a year. A year whose days are long”.’
He hoped he’d not been too squashing.
‘And the nights? Each one an eternity …’ She lowered her gaze to her immaculate calfskin shoes, sighed, and shook her head gently, hinting at some deep sorrow.
‘Ah! Insomniac are you? It’s these hot nights … we all suffer. I may have the answer for your condition. Wincarnis, Jameson! The Mysterious Restorative. I recommend a slug before retiring. Ten thousand doctors and my mother swear by it, and my mother’s never wrong.’ He glanced at his wristwatch and, alarmed by what he saw, shot to his feet.
‘The Cornish Riviera Express leaves at ten thirty. Do be sure to take one of the slip carriages for Taunton, won’t you? No need to worry – you have a good forty minutes, sir.’ The voice, quite unabashed, dripped honeyed reassurance. It had the irrational effect of irritating the commander beyond reason. ‘I hope you don’t mind, sir, but anticipating that you’d be running late I took the liberty of ordering up a squad car and driver for you. You’ll find it sitting panting down below on the Embankment.’
Joe did mind. He toyed with the notion of making use of the dreaded word ‘austerity’ and wagging a reproving finger at her, but he hadn’t the time. He let the moment pass and here she was, smoothing down the already smooth chignon at the nape of her neck and dimpling.
‘Ten minutes to Paddington as long as you’re not held up in Park Lane … you’ll have time for a cup of tea. You have your ticket, sir? Clean handkerchief?’
Joe suppressed a schoolboy urge to present his freshly washed hands, front and back, and bare his faultless teeth in a ritual snarl for Matron’s nightly inspection. A spurt of mischief pushed him to pat his inside wallet pocket in a theatrical manner. Impervious to teasing, she tilted her head in acknowledgement of his gesture and nodded her approval. The woman was turning herself into his nanny.
If your taste inclined to the statuesque – and Joe’s did – Amalthea Jameson was undeniably attractive. She was a tall, well-shaped blonde from a good military family, a product of Cheltenham Ladies’ College and Oxford. She had had her training with a recently retired deputy commissioner and was eagerly sought after by his colleagues. Sandilands had to agree with them that he was an ungrateful bastard who didn’t deserve her. Sly approaches suggesting her transfer to the department of a more appreciative boss had been made to him. Quite out of order, he thought. Miss Jameson was not a commodity to be traded, and as she seemed happy – suspiciously happy – to serve the office of commander in spite of the apparent demotion, there was little he could do but grind his teeth and try to appreciate her undoubted qualities.
Ah, well … perhaps she would find some poor soul, marry him and leave? And then he could put in for a male secretary who wouldn’t sigh in his ear and concern himself with the state of his handkerchief. Trivialities! Joe reproved himself for being distracted by them. Time he followed his guns to the country.
He was under no illusion as to the style of entertainment on offer: an all-male gathering, the other guests being stars from the government and the military. A general flown in from Ireland, an admiral snatched from his battlecruiser, the flamboyant head of the Secret Service lured from the Savoy Grill and a press baron: all these featured on the list Commissioner Horwood had himself written out for him in pencil. It had concluded with the name of the head of the diplomatic service. And perhaps this outspoken mob would be needing the active services of a diplomatist before the weekend was out. The presence of Max Beaverbrook, leader of what he himself called ‘the Press Gang’, promised to be somewhat inflammatory when another name on the list was that of Winston Churchill, the man he had seriously annoyed with his articles in the Daily Express.