The 2.8 roaring litres of turbocharged V6 Saab 9-3 churned up the gravel outside Peover Hall, a handsome Tudor brick stately home in mid-Cheshire. Ashe stepped out of the Rosso Bologna open convertible to admiring glances from women in black miniskirts, large hats and veils. Admiral Lord Whitmore was not so impressed. Recently returned from France with Lady Nancy, he was not yet re-accustomed to the throb and tension of British life.
Lady Nancy, a radiant seventy-five, stepped nimbly over the gravel to greet Ashe. ‘So nice to see you, Toby. Such a pity about the circumstances.’
‘Yes. A terrible thing.’
‘Save the jaw-jaw, Ashe, we’re walking in procession. Get in line, man.’
Ignoring her husband, Lady Nancy took Ashe’s arm as over a hundred mourners formed themselves into a quiet line that edged its way towards St Lawrence’s Church, Over Peover, one of Cheshire’s fine old chapels, set peacefully in the wooded grounds around Peover Hall.
Soon Ashe found himself nudging a marble sarcophagus. Sir Philip Mainwaring lay recumbent, his armoured hands raised in prayer as they had been since his entombment in 1652.
It had been Loveday-Rose’s special wish to be buried at Peover. One of the late archdeacon’s hobbies had been Cheshire history. The chapel of St Lawrence had always seemed to concentrate that interest in his rich imagination. Loveday-Rose cared about England’s future because he had loved its past. Ashe had imbibed much of the same philosophy; it had been a powerful bond between them.
The service began with a platitudinous address from a Bunter-faced ‘team’ vicar. Ashe started to yawn. A nudge in the ribs from Lady Nancy returned him to the end of the vicar’s vacuous valediction. ‘And now Toby is going to say a few words about his old friend.’
Relief flowed like a wave over the congregation as Ashe got up and made his way past the unctuous vicar to the Jacobean wooden pulpit.
He steadied himself. ‘A great man has passed from us.’ Ashe paused, staring into the lake of distinguished faces melting before his eyes. Emotion was getting the better of him.
‘The silver chain has snapped; the golden bowl is broken. Archdeacon Aleric Loveday-Rose, Military Cross, was the kind of man the Church of England cannot replace. The vitality of the Victorian age provided the mettle of his upbringing, and the fire and fury of wars and revolutions informed his adulthood. Aleric was truly a match for his times.
‘How was it possible for this man, who had witnessed the twentieth century’s carnage at first hand, to say to me that, at the end of this terrible century, Truth, Beauty and Love had survived intact?
‘He could say it because he had survived intact; his integrity still shining.
‘Aleric, my dear friend, you have crossed the bridge – and you are home. And I do not think its light and its furnishings will be strange to you.
‘Farewell, my friend.’
A few members of the congregation began spontaneously to clap, gently and tentatively. But as Ashe’s final words echoed from the stone floor to the vaulted roof, and as the stained glass cast beams of many colours across the nave, the applause became a swell.
Ashe left the pulpit and returned briskly to his seat. Admiral Whitmore nodded in sage approval; Lady Nancy gripped Ashe’s hand while clearing tears from her rouged cheeks. ‘Thank you, Toby.’
The reception on the neat lawns of Peover Hall was a stylish upper-class affair.
Admiral Lord Whitmore, his weathered jowls deeply tanned, approached Ashe. ‘That was a damn fine address, Ashe. Though I’m never quite sure if you’re serious – and, dammit, I never see you shooting! You don’t hunt, and whenever the subject of sport comes up, you disappear.’
‘It’s a dull boy that doesn’t like sport, Lord Whitmore.’
‘There you go again! Are you trying to tell me you’re dull?’
‘That’s enough, Gabriel,’ interjected Lady Nancy. ‘Toby has all the right values – that’s what counts, isn’t it, Toby?’
‘I hope so.’
‘You see, Gabriel, you just have to face the fact that there are different kinds of clever people – and some are a bit cleverer than you.’
‘Tosh! Clever is one thing; useful is another. Ideas need to be applied. I bloody well hope you find who smashed up my Tower! And bring that damned butler of mine to the bar of justice!’
Ashe’s mobile emitted a gentle tone. He made a swift apology and took refuge beneath the boughs of an ancient cedar.
‘Colonel! Where are you?’
‘Hamburg. Visiting relatives in St Pauli. Listen… Is this a secure line?’
‘Yes, but I haven’t much time.’
‘I have that list for you. I’m posting it from here. There will be no cover note and no source references.’
‘Understood.’
‘This call never happened. I can do no more for you. Good luck!’
Ashe felt a tap on his shoulder.
‘Hello!’
‘Hello. You must be…’
‘I’m the archdeacon’s niece.’
‘Melissa!’
‘You remember!’
‘What are you doing now?’
‘Publishing.’
‘Lucky publishing.’
‘Lucky me.’
Melissa was attractive. A fountain of deep brown wavy hair cascaded around her rosy face, framing her bright eyes and aquiline nose. She was wearing Ashe’s favourite kind of dress: cotton, with a plunging neckline, buttoned at the front.
‘You know, Uncle was a very good judge of character. He liked you a lot.’
From the corner of his eye, Ashe saw two men in dark suits and black ties. Surely not…? Giles Bagot and Tony Colquitt approached like beagles on a scent.
Ashe put his arm around Melissa and began to walk round the back of the cedar towards a nest of rhododendrons.
‘I say, Ashe! Ashe!’
Ashe tried to ignore them. Melissa looked at him with compassionate eyes. ‘Go on, you’d better talk to them. We can catch up later.’ She squeezed Ashe’s hand and headed off, her full bottom swaying sexily in her breezy dress.
‘Glad to see you’ve recovered, Dr Ashe. Perhaps you’ll feel more communicative today.’
‘Small talk over, Giles?’
‘That’s bloody charming, Ashe.’
‘You want to know who phoned me. And I can’t tell you.’
‘What are you up to, Ashe?’
‘I can’t tell you the name. It was a Turkish journalist. Anonymous source. Said he had a contact in NATO. Said he’d heard about the explosion at the Tower and believed it was linked to something in Istanbul.’
‘Nothing else?’
‘Zero.’
Bagot sighed. ‘Why didn’t you get more out of him?’
‘Told him I couldn’t go further without proof of ID.’
‘Good. Proper procedure.’
‘That’s it. Now, if you’ll excuse me.’
Ashe headed back to the reception. The wine was beginning to flow. He caught Melissa’s eye. ‘Are you staying with your family tonight, Melissa?’