Saturday afternoon (continued)
“Can you believe what we’ve just heard?” Effie fumed.
“Unfortunately, yes,” said Mallard, opening the passenger-side door for her.
“I’m speechless.”
“No, you’re not,” he assured her.
“And we’re supposed to walk away and do nothing, say nothing, with the certainty that our present government connived with the permanent Whitehall Mandarins to keep themselves in power? By callously manipulating public opinion.”
“Isn’t that what ‘spin’ is?”
“Here’s what spin isn’t, Tim,” she stated, pacing along the gravel like a caged tiger, ignoring his invitation to get into the car. “Faking a murder and spending the taxpayer’s money on the cover-up, while accusing union agitators of crimes they haven’t committed. It smells to heaven.”
“There’s nothing you can do about it. Unless you want to lose your job, never work for a public entity again, and probably be prosecuted for treason.”
“Treason?” she yelled. “Winning a general election on the back of a blatant, calculated, deliberate lie, that’s treason! The people should know. The press should know.”
“Not from us.” He grabbed her elbow to keep her in one place. “Like it or not, Effie, when you became a police officer you did indeed sign the Official Secrets Act.”
“So you’re siding with him.” Effie shook herself free from his gentle grip. “With Long John bloody Simon bloody Culpepper. Mr. James sodding Bond and his official secrets.” She kicked the tire on Culpepper’s adjacent car.
“Wrong government department, I believe. Simon wasn’t obliged to be so frank with us. It was perfectly clear he was not in sympathy with the morality of the exercise.”
“Yeah, he was only doing his job,” muttered Effie. “Only obeying orders.”
“That’s a little unfair—”
She spun toward him, eyes blazing. “But remember what he told us—Oliver isn’t covered by the Act. If his amateur investigation were somehow to lead to the truth about this strange eruption to our state, independently of any hints we might drop, I bet we could get it into the newspapers.”
“Leave Oliver out of this. Captain C wasn’t giving us a hint, he was giving us a warning. As far as Oliver’s concerned, this morning we visited Angus Snopp, leprosy sufferer, who demonstrated, beyond all doubt, that he’s innocent of Breedlove’s murder. End of story.”
Effie stared at her mentor. “Where’s the outrage?” she demanded. “You don’t seem shocked at all.”
“Oh, I’m shocked,” Mallard replied. “But I’m not surprised. And I do know that if you use Oliver to channel your anger to the public, you can probably say goodbye to his freedom and possibly his life.”
He walked up to her and hugged her tightly, pulling her head into the crook of his neck and bending forward to whisper through her curls. “Simon’s department doesn’t work with single spies,” he told her. “We’re all going to be under some scrutiny now, because of what we’ve discovered. You and Oliver are both very, very dear to me, and I want to keep you. So for once in your life, Effie Strongitharm, play by the rules. Okay?”
She didn’t answer, but he could feel a slight relaxation of the resistance in her body, and it was enough. He let her go and opened the car door again.
“No, I’ll walk,” she said. He nodded. As he drove away, Effie looked up at the Hall’s bilious brickwork, unsure which of the mullioned windows were Thigpen’s apartment but certain that Culpepper was watching her through one of them. She found a footpath through the overgrown gardens and made her way back to the main road. In five minutes, she was skirting the Square, noting the village landmarks. The Seven Wise Virgins, with its dilapidated dovecote. The post office. The ugly bus shelter. The pointless memorial obelisk. The Square’s single bench, with Oliver asleep on it…
“Are you still cross with me?” was his first croaky response to being woken with a firm shake.
“I’m cross with everything,” she told him. “But I missed you.” She sniffed. “Have you been drinking?”
“A couple of beers with my new friends, the Weguelins,” Oliver admitted through a yawn. “Sat here to think. Must have dozed off.”
“Come on,” Effie said, hauling him upright. “Let’s go for a walk.”
They headed for Synne Common, but this time they kept going along the main road, a single lane between shoulder-high hedgerows. Despite his grogginess, Oliver was still riding on the elation at his success—finally—in getting to the truth about the Weguelins. The unrelieved sexual frustration, the variety of bruises, rashes, and muscle strains, the prospect of three hours of amateur Shakespeare directed by a nitwit that evening…these things shall pass. The next day would return them home to London, the panacea, the remission of Synne.
Effie was only half-listening, her mind still privately festering with anger and frustration over Reg Thigpen, and to Oliver’s relief, she barely reacted to hearing about the intercepted phone call from Tyler. By the time he finished, they were approaching the bend in the road where the workmen were digging.
“And so we have our complete set, at long last,” he concluded. He became aware that the workmen had paused to study him.
“Look who’s back!” he heard one of them say.
“Including number five?” Effie asked him at the same time.
“And look what’s he’s brought back with him!” The speaker gave a low wolf-whistle.
“I had convinced myself it was Toby,” Oliver said, trying to ignore the workmen’s comments, “but what could Breedlove threaten him with? Closing his dig a day or two early? There’s no long-term source of revenue in that. And I still don’t get that ‘family secret’ reference. Toby couldn’t possibly have a family secret—that kid’s been an open book to me since he was born.”
“You reckon Crystal Tipps there’s his girlfriend?” asked the third workman.
“And Toby denies knowing anything about blackmail?”
“Nah, he’d never get a looker like that,” said the first workman who had spoken. “She must be his nursemaid.”
“So do the Weguelins, for that matter,” Oliver replied. “That’s their prerogative.” He noticed that Effie seemed unconcerned by the background observations. Perhaps she had long ago accepted this humiliation as the common lot for any young woman passing road works or a building site.
“Or his nanny.” The workmen laughed raucously.
“The deadline for your investigation is looming,” said Effie. What are you going to do with the information?”
“She can sit me on her naughty seat anytime!”
“Hand it over to Simon Culpepper and tell him to pick the killer,” Oliver said. Should he say something to the workmen and be prepared for another fight? He should probably wait for signs that the boorish running commentary was bothering Effie. “Maybe I’ll hold Toby’s name back.”
“Miss! I need a good spanking, Miss!”
“I wouldn’t worry about Toby,” said Effie. “Simon doesn’t think Breedlove was done in by any of his blackmail victims.”
“Miss, did you put too much starch in my nappy or am I just pleased to see you?”
“I know,” said Oliver. “He still believes it was suicide.”
“Miss! I need to sit on your naughty seat, Miss!”
“No, I meant he does now think Breedlove was murdered, but that it had nothing to do with blackmail.”
“I already did that one. You never pay attention when we’re harassing women.”
Oliver frowned. “This is new. Simon didn’t say anything about that last night. Was he visiting your vampire as well this morning?”
“Is it me now, or did Kevin miss a turn?”
“No, no, he wasn’t there.” Shut up, Effie, she said to herself, don’t let Ollie connect Culpepper to Snopp, alias Thigpen. “We passed him on the road,” she improvised. “Stopped for a quick chat. Simon says he thinks Breedlove was murdered because of his connection to some peculiar secret society. The Priory of Synne or something like that.” Good, get him to bite on that.
“Yeah, you can cut my bread and butter into soldiers and dip them in my soft-boiled egg any day. Sorry, that one didn’t make sense.”
“How cheerfully on the false trail they cry,” said Oliver, with another nervous glance toward the braying workmen. “How did Uncle Tim take to the Vampire of Synne?”
“Hey, sugarlips, kiss this and make it better. Oh, by ‘sugarlips,’ I meant the girl.”
Bugger, he’s back on the vampire. “There’s nothing to tell you,” she lied. “Tim and I both agreed that Snopp couldn’t possibly have murdered Dennis Breedlove. Excuse me a second.”
She turned from Oliver and walked a few paces toward the digging crew, who, having finally gained her attention, resorted to delighted, nonverbal animal impressions. She stopped and studied them for a moment. The noises ceased abruptly, and each man became oddly obsessed with his feet.
“Now tell me one more thing about the Weguelins,” she said, returning to Oliver’s side as if nothing unusual had happened. “They’re identical twins, right?”
“Yes. Just like my mother and Aunt Phoebe.” He glanced over at the workmen, puzzled.
“And identical twins are always the same gender?”
“That’s right.”
“So when they’re playing Sidney and Lesbia, one of the pair has to drag up and one doesn’t.”
“Exactly.”
“Which?”
“What?”
“Which one is in drag, the one playing Sidney or the one playing Lesbia?”
“The one playing Lesbia, of course.”
“So in real life, they’re male.”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Oh, they’re male, all right,” Oliver said with confidence. “I saw them both without their disguises.”
“And how could you tell they’re male?”
“They had Sidney’s short hair. And I’m pretty sure that Robin had to add the boobs to become Lesbia.”
“Women can have short hair, or so I’ve heard. Women can be flat-chested, too—I’m not far beyond that state myself. Certainly, Geoffrey isn’t going to be telling any jokes about my cleavage walking into a bar. And Lesbia’s the plump one, so wouldn’t she have to wear extra padding anyway?”
“Yeah, but their names—Robin and Kim—they’re…oh.” He thought back over the earlier meeting. “They…they use masculine pronouns to refer to each other. Or wait, do they?”
Oliver stood still in the road, baffled. That should take his mind off the vampire, Effie thought and kissed him on the cheek. There was only respectful silence from the audience in the hole. “Call yourself a detective?” she said wickedly. “Come on, let’s go and prepare for this evening’s entertainment.” She walked away, heading back toward Synne.
“They have to be men,” Oliver called after her desperately. He was about to follow, when he felt a hand plucking at his sleeve. One of the workmen had sidled up to him.
“Er, is that lady your girlfriend?” the man asked, clutching his cap tightly.
“Yes.”
“Ah. Good for you, John. Then on behalf of the lads, may I offer my profoundest apologies for our dreadful behavior. I am sick at heart. We truly appreciate your considerable restraint in not setting to and giving us all a damn good thrashing, which is no less than we deserve.”
“No problem,” said Oliver, making to leave again.
“No, no, fair do’s. You’re a gentleman, Chief, that’s plain as a pickle. Anyway, me and the lads had a bit of a whip-round, and we’d be grateful if you’d use this money to buy her some flowers, on our behalf.”
He handed over some dirty pound coins, keeping his head lowered so that he wasn’t tempted to look at Effie walking away from them in her tight jeans, as if he feared the seductive vision might turn him into a pillar of salt.
“I’ll do what I can,” Oliver promised. “Now, if you’ll—”
“Duchess, is she?”
“What?”
“Is she a duchess? Or some member of the Royals? Because they’re different, aren’t they? We all felt the magic when she looked at us.”
“Ah,” Oliver responded, understanding. “No, she’s not a duchess. She’s a police officer.”
“A police officer?” repeated the workman, brightening. “Maybe she can help us with our stolen hole.”
Oliver stopped. “Your what?”