Quayle had requisitioned a dilapidated Ford and an RAF driver named Corporal Boycott, who turned his mouth down at the sight of the car and assured them in a Yorkshire accent that the vehicle was unlikely to last the sixty-odd miles to Dunbeath.
‘You’re a driver,’ Quayle said. ‘You must know how to keep a car on the road.’
The corporal, who had told them proudly that he hailed from ‘God’s own county’, took a deep draw on his cigarette, then blew out a cloud of smoke and winked. ‘Don’t you worry yourself, Mr Quayle, I’m a mechanical wizard, me. I’ll get you there.’
‘And you won’t be puffing on that thing when you drive. Professor Wilde and I are non-smokers.’
Boycott took another drag. ‘Can’t live long without me smokes.’
‘You’ll do as you’re damn well told.’
After rain in the early hours, the day was hazy but dry. As they bounced along a narrow road, pitted, muddy and winding, Wilde was constantly aware of military installations and army traffic. He and Quayle sat in the rear seat and discussed the air crash. Every few minutes, Quayle took out a large flask of whisky and offered it to his fellow passenger.
‘A little early for me.’
‘You haven’t heard of the skalk? It’s the tradition in these parts – to drink whisky before breakfast. Must observe local customs, professor.’
Wilde waved the flask away, and Quayle continued to drink.
‘What about the others aboard the flight?’ Wilde said. ‘So far, I’ve only heard about the Duke, Goyen the pilot, Wing Commander Mosely and the sole survivor, rear gunner Andrew Jack. Who else died?’
Walter Quayle removed a notebook from his jacket pocket. ‘I’ve got them all here. Pilot Officer Sidney Smith, Pilot Officer George Saunders, Flight Sergeant William Jones, Flight Sergeant Charles Lewis, Flight Sergeant Edward Hewerdine, Sergeant Edward Blacklock, Sergeant Roland Catt, Sergeant Leonard Sweett. That’s the crew accounted for. The passengers were the Duke’s private secretary Lieutenant John Crowther, his air equerry Pilot Officer Michael Strutt and his batman Leading Aircraftman John Holes. As I understand it, that’s the full complement.’
‘That makes fifteen. Fourteen dead, one survivor.’
‘Indeed. Perfectly bloody.’
‘Do you have more information about them?’
‘Scraps. I can tell you that Saunders was down as navigator. And that five of the non-coms, including Andy Jack, were gunners. I’m sure more will come out about all of them in due course.’
‘And the purpose of the flight? The newspaper report said the Duke was on his way to Iceland to visit air bases. But do you believe that? This sounds like an extremely high-profile group for such an unexceptional mission.’
Walter Quayle shrugged. ‘Oh, you know, the royals always like an entourage.’
‘But why fly from the east coast – wouldn’t it have made more sense to fly from Oban in the west? Surely that would have saved fuel and been more direct?’
‘As I understand it, the Duke wanted to visit Invergordon and Alness in his RAF inspection role. That would have been quite logical.’
Wilde wasn’t convinced but he said nothing. He had to keep reminding himself that this was not supposed to be an investigation but a pilgrimage in honour of the President’s friend.
Quayle frowned. ‘So what’s your theory, Wilde?’
‘I don’t have a theory, Quayle. Just wondering aloud because FDR will want to know what his friend was doing and why he died. And I’m the one he’ll ask.’ He left it there and remained silent for a few minutes, trying to work out where else the Duke could have been heading. The tale of the Iceland trip might be true. Or it might not. But then he began to wonder whether he was suspecting conspiracies where none existed. It would not have been the first time; that’s what came of being an authority on the devious workings of the Elizabethan spy chief Francis Walsingham. One tended to see plots everywhere.
The road became worse – damaged by the hundreds of tracked vehicles that had passed this way in three years of war – and the ride was jarring. When they saw a hotel, the Cameron Arms, in the fishing village of Helmsdale, Corporal Boycott took it upon himself to pull in to the kerb outside the entrance. ‘I’ll leave you two gents to refresh yourselves,’ he said. ‘Got to find a garage for fuel and a tyre check. Only twelve miles to go, but these roads don’t half take a toll.’
‘You mean you’re dying for a cigarette,’ Quayle suggested.
‘Now that you mention it, sir, that sounds like a pretty fair idea.’
‘Go on, corporal – sod off. Be back in twenty minutes.’
At the front of the hotel, looking out on to a walled harbour full of fishing boats, Quayle and Wilde settled into two worn leather armchairs and ordered a pot of tea, the only available beverage at that time of day. When their order arrived, Wilde asked the waitress, a motherly woman of about fifty, where he could find a lavatory, then wandered off in search of it. On his way back, feeling a great deal fresher from washing his hands and splashing cold water on his face, he spotted the concierge – if that was the right word for the man at the desk in these untamed northerly climes – and approached him.
‘Can I have a word?’
‘Take your pick, there’s a fair few in the dictionary.’
Wilde smiled, happy to play the fall guy to the man’s attempt at wit. ‘Well, it’s about the plane crash. Everyone around here must feel it very deeply.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Well, yes, it’s a tragic event. The King’s brother, all those others who died . . .’
‘Aye.’
‘What are people saying in these parts? How did it happen?’
‘How did it happen? The plane crashed, that’s how it happened.’
Wilde sighed. The man was probably the waitress’s husband and he felt a sudden rush of pity for her, having to live with such an obtuse man. ‘I mean, why did it happen?’
‘I know what you mean, feller. What I don’t know is who you are, and why you think it’s fine to go around asking such questions.’
Wilde put out his hand as a gesture of introduction. ‘My name is Wilde. Professor Thomas Wilde. I’m American and I’m here to pay my respects on behalf of the President. He was a good friend of the Duke, godfather to his new baby.’
The deskman ignored Wilde’s offer of a handshake. ‘Then you probably know a great deal more than I do, Mr Wilde.’
‘This village must be quite close to the crash site, though.’
‘Oh, you’ve got a little further to go, then you’ll have to climb out of your fancy motor car and use Shanks’s pony to get yourself across the moor.’
‘Can I ask your name, sir? Are you the owner of this hotel?’
‘That I am, and the name’s Cameron, just like the hotel itself. Hamish Cameron.’
‘Did you hear the crash?’
‘Och no.’
‘But maybe you heard the aircraft going overhead?’
‘Well, we get a lot of planes around here, as you might imagine.’
‘Did anyone see it?’
‘No one could have seen it. Thick fog all day. Couldn’t see ten feet in front of your nose. And fog will always deaden sound. Look, Mr Wilde, you might be better off talking to the folks up at Berriedale or Ramscraigs. It was a mile or two inland, from what I’ve been told, but those are the closest settlements.’
Wilde was standing at one side of the desk, while old Cameron sat in front of an open register on the other side. As they were speaking, a young woman, small and dark, came down the gloomy and narrow staircase and took her place in line behind Wilde. She was carrying a rather battered valise. Wilde turned and smiled at her. ‘I beg your pardon, are you in a hurry?’
‘I just need to settle up.’
‘Of course, you go first. Don’t mind me.’ He turned back to Hamish Cameron. ‘Thank you for your time.’
The woman nodded at Wilde by way of a thank you, then stepped forward. She leant across the desk, speaking quietly, but Wilde heard her. She was saying that she had lost her wallet and could she forward the money to the hotel later in the day.
‘I’m sorry, miss, we don’t extend credit,’ Cameron said in a voice too loud for privacy.
‘But I’ll be met at the other end and I’ll send the money back with Mr Morrison.’ She was entreating the hotel keeper as though her life depended on it. She gave him a seductive smile that would win over any man, but not Hamish Cameron.
‘Neither a borrower nor a lender be. You’ve stayed the night and you must pay.’
‘But what can I do? My money’s gone.’
‘Then that’s your problem and not mine.’
Wilde stepped forward. ‘Forgive me, miss, I couldn’t help hearing . . .’
She looked at him wide-eyed, either beseeching him or something else. Fear?
‘I have plenty of money. How much is the bill?’
‘Two pounds, two shillings and sixpence,’ the deskman said.
Wilde removed his own wallet. ‘Would you allow me the honour of paying, miss?’
‘I’ll pay you back, Mr . . .’
‘Professor Wilde. And I don’t want the money back. Help someone else when they need it.’
‘I can’t thank you enough.’
‘Think nothing of it, miss . . .’ He waited for her to supply her name, but she didn’t oblige. He counted out the money and handed it over to Cameron. ‘There you go.’
The young woman touched his arm and their eyes met briefly. She mouthed the words ‘thank you’ again, and then she was gone out through the front door.
Wilde shrugged. ‘Well, there you go, Mr Cameron.’
‘I have a business to run, not a charity.’
Wilde returned to the lounge and drank his tea. It was weak and milky, as though the tea leaves had already been used for half a dozen pots.
Through the window they saw the Ford pulling up. ‘Time to go,’ Quayle said.
They paid for the tea and strolled out to the car. Wilde was just clambering into the back beside Quayle, when he hesitated. ‘One moment, Quayle, I just wanted a quick word with the man at the desk, see if he has rooms for this evening. We might need them, depending on the situation further north.’
‘Shall I come with you?’
‘No need, I’ll only be a sec.’
He went back to Cameron and discovered that there were rooms available. ‘Dinner’s at six, no later. Mrs Cameron does the cooking herself. We have soup and fish this evening. Shall I book you gentlemen in?’
‘I’ll call you a little later. By the way, what was the young lady’s name?’
Cameron frowned as though affronted by the question. ‘That would be her business, Mr Wilde. I’m not after tittle-tattling.’
‘Of course not, just curious. Thought she might need a lift somewhere – we have an extra seat in the car.’
‘Well, you’re too late because she’s already gone with Morrison in his taxicab. And in the other direction. Maybe she’ll even find some money to pay him. Who knows with a floozy like that?’
Wilde resisted giving the man a piece of his mind. ‘Well, we may see you later.’
He nodded to the hotelier with a false smile that was not reciprocated and wandered back to the car. Hamish Cameron might not have given him the woman’s name, but he knew it now anyway. He had seen her name in the register: Claire Hart.
The name meant nothing to him, but for some reason he was intrigued. From the few words he heard, he would say she was well spoken, as though the product of an expensive girls’ school. Certainly no floozy. The other thing he could not help noticing was that she was quite extraordinarily good-looking, rather like an unpolished version of Vivien Leigh.