Monday evening at the appointed time, Toby stood outside Clanfield House scratching his head. “What do you make of this?”
Jonny Stewart eyed the board which listed the occupants of the building, then he too scratched his head. “There’s no firm called Herbert and Chapman on there.”
“Correct. No floor three listed, either.”
“It’s definitely the right building. Perhaps the name plate fell off the board.” Jonny shrugged. “Strange start to the evening, though.”
“Quite.” The temptation to simply turn tail had been growing in Toby since the point the heavens opened, halfway through his taxi journey, when he’d realised he’d forgotten his umbrella. He’d reminded himself that wasn’t the spirit which had helped win the war and steeled himself to get wet. The clouds, however, while at present threatening, had temporarily finished dumping their contents on London. Toby peered through the glass of the door. “I think there’s someone we could ask inside. After you.”
Jonny led the way into the foyer, where a rather bored looking man sat at a desk. He rose and gave a desultory salute. “Can I help you, gentlemen?”
“We’re here for a meeting. Offices of Herbert and Chapman , on the third floor, only the name plates outside don’t help.” Jonny held his hat rather like a schoolboy might when visiting a sweet shop and enquiring after the availability of bulls-eyes.
“Oh, them.” The porter rolled his eyes, then peered at Toby. “Are you that actor?”
“I’m an actor, yes.”
“We get plenty of them here. Visiting the theatrical agents on floor two or dropping into where you’re going. I could name names, but I won’t.” He pointed to the stairs. “Anyway, it’s up three flights and turn to your left. There’s one of the crew there already, although not his nibs.”
“Mr Conway?” Toby asked.
“That’s the one. And here he is.”
Toby turned, to see a well turned-out, middle-aged gentleman—with an air somehow suggestive of a solicitor working in a small town—coming through the door.
“Mr Bowe! Such a delight to meet you in person.” Conway thrust out his hand. “You’re taller than you appear on the screen.”
“Thank you. People usually say that it’s the other way round.” Toby gave him his most practiced dealing with the public smile. “This is Jonny Stewart, by the way. I’m afraid the powers that be at Landseer didn’t want me trotting off into the unknown without accompaniment, especially when we’re so close to a premiere.”
“Oh. How do you do?” Conway, after a brief look of puzzlement, annoyance, or both, shook Jonny’s hand. “Yes, we should have expected you wouldn’t come alone. You’re welcome, Mr Stewart.”
“It’s a pleasure to be here.” Jonny flashed a grin as charming as his great uncle’s. “Although we’re not entirely sure what this is about.”
Conway waved his hand, airily. “Oh, you’ll soon find out. Come along. Thank you, Fred.”
“Delighted, Mr Conway,” the doorman replied, in tones that conveyed anything but pleasure.
Toby and Jonny followed their host up the stairs, to a dimly lit corridor on what—by counting—must have been the third floor. To the left was a door bearing the words Messrs Herbert and Chapman , through the glass panel of which a light shone.
“I have to confess that this made me smile.” Toby indicated the name. “Touch of ‘Come on the Arsenal!’”
“Billy Chapman’s my cousin and he lets us use their premises for our meetings.” Conway smiled. “He gets plenty of football jokes thrown at him, given his partner’s name, which is galling because he can’t stand the game.”
“I bet that annoys him.” One apparent peculiarity appeared to have a mundane explanation.
“So, you came.” Toby jumped as a female voice sounded behind him. He spun round to face a pretty, dark haired woman, perhaps in her mid-thirties, who was wearing black slacks, a red jumper and a tentative smile. “Sorry to have startled you, Mr Bowe. I’d been off powdering my nose. I’m Moira. And this is…?”
“Jonny Stewart.” Toby waved a hand at his companion. “I can’t be allowed out on my own, according to the studio.”
“Are you that vulnerable? Lucky the RAF didn’t think the same.” Moira grinned, then turned to Jonny. “Stewart as in one of the main characters in Mr Bowe’s upcoming film?”
Jonny bowed. “The very same. We have a habit of poking our noses in, the family Stewart, so I’m keeping with tradition.”
“Ignore him,” Toby said. “He’s also here to provide moral support as I had no idea what kind of meeting I was agreeing to attend.”
“Ah, yes, sorry. I should have been a bit more explicit in my letter but it’s rather difficult. Still, all will be clear soon.” Conway opened the office door and ushered them into a large, well-appointed room. Several other doors led off from it, including a couple labelled with the names of the principals, although at least three people must have worked in the main room, given the number of desks and the elegantly printed desktop signs that gave their names. Mr J Salt, Miss L Fraser, Miss R Young. Were there any Arsenal connected surnames there? Toby might have to consult his football mad nephew. Nevertheless, indications were that Herbert and Chapman was a genuine firm, although what business they were involved in wasn’t clear.
“I know it’s never easy,” Moira said, “meeting a group of strangers with whom you have little in common, although I suppose you’re used to it in your business, Mr Bowe.”
“Please call me Toby. My mother would never forgive me standing on ceremony.”
“Well, we mustn’t disappoint her. Now, you’ll have to excuse me while I go and make refreshments. Would coffee be acceptable to you both?”
“Splendid, thank you,” Toby replied.
“Rather. Need a hand?” Jonny asked.
“That would be very kind.” Moira inclined her head. “Until I grow another pair of hands, it’ll always be a juggling act.” She and Jonny set off for some inner sanctum, while Toby made a further assessment of his surroundings. A ring of comfy looking chairs, interspersed with the odd small table, suggested they were expecting seven people to be in attendance.
“Will we want another one for Jonny, Mr Conway?” Toby indicated the seating arrangements.
“No need. I always set an extra place. In case of waifs and strays.” Conway chuckled, making the large, hairy mole on the side of his cheek bounce up and down in a manner reminiscent of Alasdair’s eyebrow. “Please call me Lloyd. As you say, no standing on ceremony.”
Toby jerked his thumb over his shoulder, towards the front of the building. “I hope your waifs and strays aren’t as confused as we were when we arrived. There’s no name plate out there for Herbert and Chapman , nor any reference to this floor.”
“The other office on this level is at present unoccupied, I believe. As for Billy’s business, it’s of a delicate nature—they handle the kind of cases that other firms might be loath to take, so they exercise as much discretion as possible and also keep publicity to a minimum. They get plenty of custom by word of mouth.”
Again, a reasonable explanation, although one that didn’t quite answer the question. “While it’s just the two of us here, you said in your letter it was vital I attended one of your meetings. Why was that?”
Any answer Lloyd was about to provide was forestalled by a man bursting through the door. “Am I late?” he asked. “This blasted watch keeps losing time.”
“No, you’re fine, Richard,” Lloyd said. “A tad early, if anything.”
“Excellent. Shall I go and offer Moira my services with the old coffee cups?”
“Three would be a crowd and it’s a small kitchen. She’s got an extremely charming young man helping her out. Mr Bowe’s bodyguard.” Lloyd grinned, slyly.
“Jonny would be amused to hear himself called that, although in essence it’s true. They’re very protective of their personnel, are Landseer.” Toby thrust out his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Richard.”
“The feeling’s mutual.” Richard cast a little-boy-lost glance at the door Moira had gone through. “I’d better take a seat, then.”
“Excuse me while I just…” Lloyd headed for one of the desks, where he began to go through some papers.
Toby, who’d been feeling increasingly wrong-footed since the moment he and Jonny hadn’t been able to find the name plates, wished he’d been the one to offer his help with the refreshments, rather than being left to twiddle his thumbs. He plonked himself in a chair and studied the newcomer for a moment. Richard possessed an air redolent of his having come straight from a rival studio, where he’d been working on a film—black and white, definitely—and perhaps starring John Mills doing something heroic in a spitfire five hundred feet above Kent. Albeit there were plenty of men with a similar air about them, still carrying it from the world war or from the Korean. Then you had to count those for whom national service had left a stamp upon their character, so perhaps Richard wasn’t so unusual. In terms of his age, which Toby would estimate as early forties, he’d would surely have seen active service yet the vague air of artificiality about the man proved intriguing.
Why not ask him? “What do you do, Richard?”
“Eh? Oh, my job, you mean? Nothing glamorous. I’m an actuary.”
“That sounds frightfully clever. Numbers, isn’t it?” And proof that Toby’s deduction had been completely wrong.
“Yes. Using them to assess risk and the like. It keeps me out of mischief.” Richard gave an unexpected—and charming—grin.
“What does?” A deep voice sounded from the door, as another man, of a similar age to the others, entered the room.
“Playing with numbers. Good evening, Jeff.”
“Bonjour, Richard.” Jeff made a bow in his direction and then in Toby’s. “Bonjour, esteemed guest.”
“Pleased to meet you, Jeff.” Toby returned the bow. Here was another slightly theatrical character: if Lloyd and Moira hadn’t appeared to be normal—meaning not putting on an act—Toby would have believed he’d walked into something resembling a play rehearsal. Still, perhaps Richard and Jeff were simply nervous, which could make people behave in a peculiar way.
Before the conversation could continue, Jonny backed into the room bearing a tray laden with steaming cups. “Here we are,” he said, “although I can’t take any credit for this, other than acting as a pack mule.”
Another round of introductions followed, then a distribution of coffee and biscuits, with Lloyd returning from whatever he was doing and people settling into their seats to drink. Toby still felt perplexed, even if Jonny—who’d clearly hit it off with Moira—looked completely at home, as if he’d been coming to these meetings for ages. Maybe when Toby had got a biscuit or two inside him he’d feel a bit more upbeat, the therapeutic qualities of a custard cream being well known.
“I think we’re all here, so we can crack on,” Lloyd said, glancing around the circle and pausing briefly when he came to the vacant chair. “Mr Bowe deserves an explanation about what we do.”
At last . “As I keep saying, call me Toby, please. I’m not royalty.”
“Toby. Let me start by saying that we’re not anything obvious, such as a set of film buffs with a particular interest in Landseer, nor a group of people who spend all their time trying to explain away the contradictions in the Sherlock Holmes books.”
“You must be a mind reader, Lloyd, because that’s two of the options I’d considered.” Toby took a bite of biscuit, aware that his quip had produced an oddly discomforted reaction in the group.
“None of us have that particular facility, alas. We do, however, each have special qualities. Skills, one might say, that slightly sets each of us apart...” Lloyd waved his non-cup holding hand to take in the whole group. “That’s our connection and why we meet, because nobody else understands. I’m sure you, as an actor, appreciate that no-one could, for example, comprehend the challenges concerned with making a film unless they were in the industry.”
“That’s very true. I suppose it’s like those who served in a certain undercover capacity during the war. Beyond the comprehension of those who weren’t at the heart of it.” Toby hadn’t just used the analogy to show his agreement: he was hoping the reference might bring a reaction, a shared experience of such work within this group would make sense of what had been said. No reaction came, apart from nods, although perhaps his drawing a bow at a venture hadn’t been such a clever idea. Folk who were involved in undercover work would have been adept at keeping it undercover.
“I feel I should clarify what Lloyd means,” Moira said, earning herself an annoyed glance from him, “when he says that we’re all a bit different to the norm. I know that every person is unique in both personality and abilities—I could never produce the magical effect on the screen that Miss Marsden seems to have—but our uniqueness is…well, unique.”
Toby and Jonny shared a bewildered look, before the latter asked, “You’ll have to be more explicit. Are we talking about being scarily clever, like my famous great uncle and his pals?”
“Good lord, no!” Richard said, probably more fervently than he’d intended to, given his subsequent embarrassed expression. “Nothing as handy as being highly intelligent. In fact, the skills we’ve got are practically useless.” That didn’t quite go with being an actuary, although that might be English self-deprecation in action.
“They’re not useless skills.” Moira gave him an encouraging smile. “We just haven’t yet found the best application for them. There’s nothing we could have used them for during the war, Toby. Not like the combination of hand, eye and sheer nerve that would have helped make you such a good pilot. Didn’t I read somewhere that an ex-Luftwaffe officer said you’d developed a reputation among them?”
“I believe so. I don’t think that was the studio publicity machine making hay. I have to say it’s my parents who should take the credit for supplying me with the qualities you’ve mentioned and I’d add a healthy dollop of luck to that listed. Better men—better pilots—than I was didn’t have the success or make it through. Perhaps it was the twelve-sided threepence my mother sewed into my uniform that acted as a lucky charm.” Toby took a sip of what was surprisingly good coffee. Maybe Moira’s special skill was being a dab hand in the catering department, although that would hardly be unique, even in Britain.
“But you’ve been able to use your abilities to serve your country twice over, Toby,” Richard said. “Defending the skies and then raising spirits post-war. I have my facility with numbers, which did prove useful when I was in logistics, because planning’s vital to the war effort, but I wish there’d been some way to use my other skill.”
“Which was…?” Jonny prompted, evidently fed up with not being given any detail.