The Spanish Memorandum

By Guy Southwick

In Christmas 1936, the Falchion family is entertaining a houseful of fascist sympathisers, golddigging women, bright young things and bewildered old buffers. The party goes badly wrong when a guest is found murdered and secret files are stolen. The Police, British Intelligence and a lady sleuth are all on the trail - but things are rarely what they seem at Synburn Priory.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Sep 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781483536880

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Chapter One – The Party Assembles

Busy as beetles, lorries and vans had been travelling all morning along the black tar-macadam road which snaked its narrow way up Syndale. As the day faded into the dull, washed-out afternoon of a wet December, they began to be joined by cars; low, lean coupes and convertibles, hoods muffled up against the drizzle; stately limousines in black or dark blue or rich burgundy; even occasional Austin Sevens and Morris Eights, buzzing like little flies. No matter what the vehicle was, when it reached the Gothic gate lodge of Synburn Priory it would, as though sensing some chemical trail, turn and rumble over the cattle grid into the grounds of the old house, following an estate road that roamed over wet, wind-lashed pasture. The route passed grim elms and scowling clusters of yew, skirted a gunmetal lake guarded by a granite boat house, its eaves and doors picked out with white fretwork, and then finally divided into three. One lane, ignored by almost all the traffic, led to a large and forbidding block a hundred yards to the left of the main house, which housed the garages, stables and kennels. The second made its way around the left side of the house and ducked through an archway into a service yard. All of the vans took this route, as did most of the cheaper cars. The third route led into a large circular gravel drive which passed under the heavily ornamented porte-cochere of the Victorian Gothic house. This was the route that most of the cars took. An observer up on Drab Fell would have seen them roll to the door, pause to discharge their guests, and then move around the drive to the service yard to drop luggage. From there, they would either make their way to the garage block or start off again on the long haul to the railway station at Synburn Bridge. Those vehicles driven by their owners were parked along the front of the house to be moved to the garages by chauffeurs later on.

Inside the Priory, two distinct worlds existed side by side. Below stairs, all was frenzied bustle and activity, its purpose dictated by the calm instructions of Mr Ampersand, the butler, or the abrupt orders of Mrs Dottle, the cook. Maids of various gradations and responsibilities came and went, some tripping lightly with a tea tray or vase of flowers, others returning from guest rooms laden with cleaning boxes and brushes. The latter were chivvied for their lateness by Mrs Buckling, the house keeper. A constant stream of movement passed from the service yard into the house: valets and maids bearing luggage through the back hall and up the echoing service stairs to the guest rooms; delivery men with foodstuffs for the kitchen, gardeners carrying in cut flowers from the hothouses and vegetables from the kitchen garden, chauffeurs trying to cadge a cup of tea, the coal merchant arriving to present his bill - and an untimely and unlucky salesman keen to display vacuum cleaners, who was dismissed in short order. Upstairs – by which we mean of course the infinitely less utilitarian rooms where the family and guests were accommodated, furniture shone, silver and brass sparkled, fires crackled cheerfully in grates and everywhere was peace, and comfort and tranquillity.

Well, perhaps not everywhere. Certainly in one room of the house, tranquillity was in short supply, if not actually absent.

I cannot believe said Lord Synburn "that Major Synge-Russell has arrived for Christmas in the country wearing a morning suit and a bowler hat."

What did you say, dear? said Lady Synburn, running her eye, for the fiftieth time, over the table plan for that evening.

My Word! said his Lordship. It’s not even black. He’s…he’s wearin’ a pearl grey titfer!

I beg your pardon dear?

Lieutenant General Henry Wilberforce Frederick Augustus Falchion KCB, DSO and bar, Second Earl Synburn and Deputy Lord Lieutenant of Northumberland, was almost inaudible, chiefly because he was standing behind the heavy velvet curtains, pressing his nose against the window of his wife’s boudoir. This was necessary, as only from there could he observe the arrival of their guests. He emerged from his hide looking slightly dishevelled.

I said Synge-Russell’s wearin’ a pearl-grey bowler.

How dashing.

Dashin’ bedamned, Blanche. He looks like a bally deb’s delight. And to think that blighter has designs on my little girl.

Lady Synburn set aside her placement and regarded her husband with bafflement. "But you like Auberon Synge-Russell. You said he was a splendid match for Beryl."

Hadn’t seen him in a damn ridiculous hat before muttered the Earl, darkly. "You think you know somebody… and then this. It’s like the Abdication all over again."

Oh for goodness’ sake, my dear – what has Major Synge-Russell’s hat have to do with His Majesty?

"He ain’t King any more Blanche – not since the 10th – so he’s not His Majesty. He’s… well, I don’t know quite what he is. Just a prince I suppose… he’s referred to as His Royal Highness. He shook his head to clear the unpleasant thoughts that had occupied it. But that’s not the bally point. The point is a grey bowler is just the sort of thing that Prince Edward used to wear - and look what happened to him."

Willie, that’s ridiculous. You’re just being silly. This isn’t really because of the bowler hat, is it? You’re irascible because we have guests.

Nonsense! I’m perfectly at easy with houseguests. I’m a social animal, Blanche. Everyone knows that.

That’s why we live in the most isolated part of Northumberland, isn’t it dear?

"Bah! Damn good shootin’ – that’s why we live here!"

Lady Synburn stood up and walked over to her husband.

Look at you, Wilberforce she tutted, "your hair’s disordered, your tie is crooked and your coat is dusty. If you want to watch the guests arrive, why not go to your dressing room? There’s a perfectly good view from that window without burrowing under the curtains."

"Watch from my own room? Where they can see me lookin’ at ‘em? Hah! I wouldn’t give ‘em the satisfaction. No…I’ll stay here. After all, I’m not botherin’ you, am I?"

patted down his white hair, screwed his monocle back in place, and burrowed back under the curtains. Lady Synburn returned to her list.

Good God! Phoebe Fishbourne’s become enormous! Like a Walrus in a feather hat! And her daughter looks like a bally drayhorse. Lord Synburn began to chortle behind the curtain.

Lady Synburn sighed, wearily. House parties, she thought, were never easy with Willie in this sort of mood.

***

Major Synge-Russell was not a happy man as he strode into the hall of Synburn Priory. His high collar was cutting his neck, his morning suit was uncomfortably stiff, he had eaten an indigestible pigeon pie en route to Newcastle – a journey that had been one of constant delays, irritations and incidents - and he was cold, damp and not looking forward to a weekend in the dubious comfort of the Bachelors’ Wing, which was the oldest and shabbiest part of the house.

My God Auberon – whatever happened to your hat?

The speaker was Charles Makepeace Cartwright Esq, MP, a friend of Auberon’s who had arrived just before him and was being helped out of a capacious and heavy overcoat by one of the footmen. Another footman approached Auberon and assisted him to disrobe.

Oh, afternoon, Charlie! Auberon removed and wryly examined his bowler. I put the damn thing down at Synburn Bridge and a bally porter managed to tip flour all over it. Didn’t even stop to apologise, just swept on as though nothing had happened. And that’s not the-

Whatever are you doing dolled up in a morning suit?

"Oh, typical Army bêtise - I’d planned to spend two days motoring up in a leisurely fashion-"

My new valet Blythe drove me up.

Eh? I didn’t see the Bentley outside.

Got a new one of those, too – three and a half litre, Mulliner coachwork.

All sounds very nice.

"It is, old boy. It is. But what delayed your motoring?"

Oh, there was a flap in Whitehall (all rather hush-hush), so I lost all of yesterday and most of the morning, which I spent with the Brigadier, taking Ministers through the latest reports. I ended up meeting my man Stern at King’s Cross and taking the train up to Synburn Bridge – straight from the office. He waved the document case in his hand. No time to get rid of my papers, no time to change into tweeds - and to top it all, I got me bowler ruined.

You best have Stern brush it – be in a dreadful state, otherwise.

"If you would allow me, Major Synge-Russell Ampersand had materialised beside them in the gloom of the hall. Auberon passed him the hat, which he examined closely. I’m very sorry to say it has already absorbed a considerable amount of atmospheric moisture and is thus slightly damp, sir - as is the flour. Brushing it in this condition would create smears of paste, which would be quite disastrous. With you permission, Major, I will take it to a place where it can dry slowly without disturbance and will give it a very gentle clean with a soft brush and the vacuum cleaning device. Monsieur Stern and I will confer further on this matter when he collects it – no doubt he will wish to subject it to very careful restoration with brush and steam. He looked gravely at the two guests. If one treats a Lock’s hat with dignity and respect, it will reward one with a lifetime of service, Gentlemen."

Thank you, Ampersand. I knew I could rely on you.

It is always a pleasure to be of assistance, Sir.

Ampersand moved away into the shadows, silent and smooth, as though mounted on exquisitely engineered castors. The two men walked stiffly to the fireplace and warmed themselves whilst the footmen saw to their coats. They made desultory small talk for a few minutes as feeling returned to feet and fingers: Synge-Russell seemed somewhat troubled.

I say, Ampersand? said Synge-Russell, as the Butler re-materialised out of the Victorian gloom of the house. I’m afraid I need to make a telephone call. But it’s rather, well … private.

Very good, Sir. There is a telephone in Steward’s Room. I shall show you the way, Sir. He paused, looking at the document case that Synge-Russell had, rather carelessly, thrown onto a console table in the hall. Would the papers in your briefcase be confidential, Sir?

Those? said Auberon wearily, "Hmm… Well, yes - they are, rather. That’s… well no matter. I’d best get them locked safely away in my room, don’t you think, Ampersand?"

Indeed, Sir. I anticipated this eventuality and Mr Stern and I have taken the liberty of placing a strong-box in your room. Mr Stern has the key. If I might ask you to take great care of it, sir – there is no duplicate. He looked at the two men with a benign smile. Perhaps it would be better if I showed you to your chambers, Gentlemen. He turned to Major Synge-Russell and added you can place your telephone call afterwards, Sir.

***

Lady Beryl Falchion, hacking jacket bejewelled with rain and face be-starred with mud, tripped lightly down the corridor to her room. She was in riding breeches and stockinged feet, still clutching her riding hat and gloves. A door a little way along the corridor opened and her father slipped out.

Hello Papa, how are you? I had a divine ride this morning - Cocoa Bill is going very well.

Her father froze, regarding her with his customary mixture of incomprehension and affability. Hmm? Cocoa Bill?

"The whole of the lower pasture has flooded, only about six inches deep but ever such a large area. Hepplewhite in the stables says there’s a freeze expected. Do you think it might freeze, papa? D’you know, I am hungry – I wonder whether I should ring for an early tea? No, I need a bath first."

Bath?

I say papa, have you seen – all the guests are arriving now!

Yes, and half of them in inappropriate dress. Humph! I’ll see you at tea, Papa.

Indeed, m’dear. Indeed! Her father turned on his heel and stalked off to his dressing room, muttering something about a grey bowler hat.

I see papa is as garrulous as ever said a familiar drawling voice behind her. It was her elder brother, Leopold, Lord Drabfell.

Oh, Drabbie! So now both my brothers are here! When did you arrive?

There was a flare of orange as Leo lit a Turkish cigarette. He leaned against the corridor wall, one arm across his narrow chest cupping the elbow of the other, which held up his cigarette in the fashionable manner - a tall figure, so thin as to be almost gaunt. Mid-morning… came up last night on the sleeper.

You are a beast, Drabbie - you startled me then. She smiled at him. I’ve been out for a ride on Cocoa Bill. He’s growing to be a damn fine horse, you know.

Cocoa Bill again… sighed Leopold. "Bloody Cocoa Bill… The trouble with you, little sister, is that you only pay attention to the things that interest you. Horses and hunting and balls and parties."

"Rot, Drabbie. I do pay attention. I pay scrupulous attention to Hepplewhite, and Mama and Papa, and Auberon."

"You listen to that damn groom because all he talks about are your beloved horses. You listen to Mama and Papa because they do whatever you want, Synge-Russell because you’re besotted with him – and that’s it. Oh, except for Cousin Margaret. But I’m not sure you really listen to her – if you did you’d make more sense. He laughed harshly. You know the reason I think you like Cocoa Bill so much is that he’s only slightly less intelligent than you."

"Well, he’s a very clever horse but I wouldn’t – Oh! You beast, Drabbie, I see what you meant. You know, you are horrible to me sometimes."

"Not as horrible as I can be.

Well you are being particularly objectionable today.

Leopold looked coldly at her as he drew on the cigarette. Am I? Oh dear. Well, never mind. After a moment, he sighed then said "You know why: It’s this bloody house. This old railway terminus of a house, sitting on these wretched grey moors and slowly submerging under this bloody rain. I don’t know how you stand it. He pushed away from the wall and, suddenly brightening, waved contemptuously around him. You know, once this place is mine, I’m going to close it up as quickly as ever I can and leave it empty. I shall live in London and Cap D’Antibes and relish the fact that I need never visit Synburn Priory, or tramp over Drab Fell, or get off a train at Synburn Bridge again."

"Drabbie, I know you dislike it here. I do understand that. But it isn’t my fault. Do try not to be surly while you’re up. You’ll have a better time and so will everyone else."

He looked steadily at her. I am sure you would have a happier time - but I need to vent my spleen. He shrugged, then added anyway, you had best bathe. I’ll see you later, my dear. Is Cocoa Bill dining with us tonight? He chuckled as he walked away, his sister’s squawk of beast! echoing behind him.

Where the bedroom corridor met the top of the stairs, a wide landing sat beneath a very large leaded window, which illuminated the stairwell and much of the hall below. The window ensured that the landing was well-lit, even in winter, and it was provided with a large but rather ineffectual fireplace and some chairs. For this reason cousin Margaret was often to be found there, muffled against the chill, doing her needlepoint. As Leopold rounded the corner from the corridor, he saw her look up and he smiled. He was pleased to see her: Margaret was an attractive woman who, although not conventionally pretty, dressed elegantly and had presence. Leopold knew also that whilst she was easily as astute, intelligent and well-read as he was, she was far less impulsive and ill-tempered. Had he been the sort of chap who found women especially attractive, he knew he might have been very strongly attracted to his cousin. It appeared she had heard his exchange with Beryl.

You know, Drabbie, you really shouldn’t tease your sister like that. It’s cruel and it makes you look mean and small. She looked up at him over her work, eyes behind severe black-framed glasses, dark hair cut in a bob. Leopold found her cool, appraising gaze,