The Grange Trilogy – The Philip Rayke Mysteries

Moffat

Chapter 1

Niggling

The Honourable Patricia Vastings rolled over and, still half asleep, reached out an arm to find nothing but bedclothes. She opened her eyes. He was already up and dressing.

‘Hmm, going so soon?’ she asked in lazy disappointment.

‘It’s almost dawn, my darling, and it will do us both more credit if I am not discovered in your chamber or, indeed, on the premises. Even if I am here at the expressed wish of the daughter of the house.’

‘Very “expressed”! Daddy won’t mind. You know what he’s like. He’s very broadminded. You only have to look at his latest.’

‘Perhaps,’ he agreed, turning up his shirt collar. ‘However, the Honourable Frederick will be less than thrilled. I’d prefer to avoid pistols at dawn.’

‘Oh, Freddy. He’s just got delusions of grandeur. Sees himself already as the next Baron Vastings.’

‘Bit premature,’ he observed, completing the half Windsor knot of his tie.

‘Well, Daddy hasn’t been feeling too well lately.’

‘Really? Is it serious?’ He put on his jacket, leaned down and kissed her.

‘Shouldn’t think so. Wait,’ she implored as he reached the door. ‘Aren’t you at least going to tell me your first name? I mean, now that we .…’

‘You know my name.’

‘Oh, come on, that’s your surname. Can’t I have something special to call you?’ His smile glimmered, and he shook his head.

‘Moffat.’

*****

Detective Inspector Henry Parkhurst poured his friend a generous glass of fine cognac and passed it over.

‘Ah, a treat. Thank you. However, I dare say I shall be expected to sing for my supper,’ said Philip Rayke cheerfully.

‘Not obligatory old chap, I promise.’ Grinning, Henry returned to his chair by the fire. ‘It’s just that you were so helpful with the last case.’

‘Something odd again?’

‘Well, you know what it’s like. Or perhaps you don’t?’

‘Well, I’m just a paper shuffler really,’ demurred Philip Rayke modestly, passing a hand over the back of his brown hair and stretching his long legs out towards the fire.

‘Yes, in Whitehall,’ scoffed his friend amiably.

Philip refrained from correcting him. The address of the MI6 building was, in fact, in another part of Westminster, but his employment there was a secret from all but a very few. Not that his work was of the glamorous sort. In fact, his sub-department was, if anything, an embarrassment to the majority of his fellow workers there.

It was something he and Marion had just sort of fallen into. Himmler’s obsession with the occult had come to the attention of the Ministry before the end of the war. Although its potential to aid the Nazi war effort was in serious doubt, nevertheless, an understanding of the matter did have value. It was at times of assistance in locating or deciphering certain documents and in the pursuit of Hitler’s fellow war criminals.

Philip, most likely because of his peculiar talent for ‘having a nose’ for things that were rather more than ordinary, had somehow found himself something of a specialist in this area. Marion’s linguistic talents had soon brought her on board, and now they occupied side-by-side offices in an obscure part of the number 54 Broadway building. They operated under a Mr Varndish who seemed both answerable to and answered to by a formidable lady known to the staff, in an open secret, as ‘Matron’.

Although the exact nature of Philip’s work was unknown to Henry, Philip’s reputation had somehow filtered down through Scotland Yard. Consequently, his friend was now insisting,

‘But you must have been in circumstances where you just had a gut feeling that there’s more to a situation than meets the eye, but there’s no evidence.’

‘But you’ve a well-deserved reputation for being thorough and getting to the bottom of things,’ remarked Philip evasively.

‘Yes, but it means a backlog builds up and my boss keeps reminding me that extra hours on a case that should be closed is squandering the taxpayers’ money. Not to mention the family making a fuss, and then, of course, there’s the press.’

Philip nodded and put aside his glass. ‘So how can I help?’

‘A young woman, drowned in the lake at Gorford Park.’

‘Gorford? Isn’t that …’

‘Yes, Lord Vastings’ estate.’

‘Bedfordshire?’ guessed Rayke.

‘Hertfordshire.’

‘Ah. Suspicious?’

‘The brother thought so. But nothing turned up. She was found early one morning by the gardener’s dog. The family claims she was depressed following the announcement that Lord Vastings was not, after all, going to propose marriage.’

Philip raised his eyebrows. ‘Seems rather an extreme reaction.’

‘You’d have thought so, but apparently she was a very passionate young woman, prone to extremes.’

‘Does the brother back that up?’

‘Well, that’s just the thing,’ replied Henry. ‘He left home at an early age and barely knew his sister. Went off to war and was missing presumed dead. Saw the report in the papers and turned up. Chip on his shoulder the size of the rock of Gibraltar about the “ruling classes” and insisted right be done by his sister.’

‘Can’t blame him. Things do get covered up by those with influence,’ Philip observed.

‘Well, the press has got hold of it and it’s too late for that.’

‘It was a little while ago, wasn’t it?’

‘True,’ agreed Parkhurst, ‘and no more photographers or journalists outside the gates. Just a small paragraph on an inside page of one of the scandal sheets that pass for newspapers in this country. Oh God, I’m starting to sound like my mother.’

Philip smiled. ‘Not entirely a bad thing, surely.’

‘You only say that because she thinks the sun shines out of your eyes,’ retorted Henry.

‘She is always very kind.’

‘Well, getting back to it. The brother demanded a thorough investigation, and I like to think I’ve given it all I’ve got. But something is just niggling ….’