Chapter One
April 1953
Dear Mr Bowe
You are invited to the next meeting of the Monday Evening Association. We assemble at seven thirty sharp, first and third Mondays of the month, in the offices of Herbert and Chapman, floor three, Clanfield House, Eagle Street, London. We appreciate that you are a busy man, so will understand if you can’t join us on this occasion but we feel it vital you attend as soon as convenient.
Yours sincerely,
Lloyd Conway
Chairman
M.E.A.
“Well, what do you make of that?” Toby Bowe, who’d thrust the letter into Alasdair Hamilton’s hands almost as soon as he’d entered the latter’s house—and then had waited with admirable patience for his fellow actor to peruse it—felt he could wait no longer. “It came this morning, forwarded from the studio, and I have no idea who Conway is or anything about this association he represents.”
“I’ve never heard of him, either.” Alasdair raised his eyebrow, the one which was heavily insured by Landseer Studios due to its notable capacity for expressing emotion. “Miss Marple was a member of a Tuesday Night Club, so perhaps these are fans of either Mrs Christie or detective fiction in general.”
“I suppose that’s possible, but they could have given a chap a clue as part of their invitation. What if I go there based on that premise, then find they’re…I don’t know…a group of artists who’d want me to pose au naturel?” Toby tapped the letter. “There’s no address given for me to reply to, unless I send it via those offices.”
“Hmm. It does smack somewhat of fishiness.” Alasdair took the letter into his drawing room, where he stationed himself by the window to view it in a better light.
Toby suppressed a smile at the actions. Alasdair would no doubt not have given a thought to himself being seen in a better light, as well, nor to him presenting his best profile to the audience of one. He and Toby had been colleagues—and lovers—for long enough now not to have any element of vanity in their relationship. Yet what was done for the camera, or for the benefit of those in the stalls if the actor was on stage, could become habitual. And Alasdair did present a pleasing sight, standing with the missive in hand, the afternoon light catching his dark hair.
“So, what in the communication specifically smells of either fish, flesh or good red herring?” Toby asked as he settled himself into one of the comfortable fireside chairs.
“The name of the offices, for a start. Herbert and Chapman. Herbert Chapman.”
“Oh, yes. The Arsenal and all that.” Toby should have spotted the significance of the name. “If it’s not a coincidence, it could be another indication of a love of detective fiction. An allusion to The Arsenal Stadium Mystery.”
“I’ve not read that one. Should I?”
“Yes. It’s quite fun. You’ll have to imagine the men running around in shorts as the book isn’t illustrated.” Toby produced his cheeky grin, so beloved of newspaper and magazine photographers. “If Mr Conway and his merry band do enjoy reading of that type, perhaps that’s the very reason they want me to attend one of their get-togethers.”
“To talk about portraying Dr Watson on the screen or emulating his and Holmes’s exploits off it?” Alasdair asked.
“Either or both. In each case they’d benefit from my inside knowledge.” Landseer was unique in being the film studio that could boast of actors who were involved in detection onscreen and off.
“Then why not invite me to the meeting, as well?” Alasdair couldn’t hide his disappointment at not being asked.
“Perhaps they have done and your invitation has been delayed in the post? They wouldn’t invite us both via one letter, surely, as they can’t—please God—be aware of the exact relationship between us.”
“True. Or perhaps they are exclusively fans of Watson rather than Holmes. Let’s check if Eagle Street exists, anyway.” Alasdair went to his bookcase, selected the A to Z, then perched himself with it on the arm of Toby’s chair. “Well, the road’s here. Just north of Lincoln’s Inn. Not an area I know.”
“Indeed.” Toby took the letter back, although studying it for further clues seemed a vain pursuit. “I think I’ll get the Landseer people on this. They’ll surely know if this Conway chap or his group have a reputation, say for inveigling film stars into their clutches then performing terrible things upon them. If Landseer advise me to go ahead, they might also provide a bodyguard, to prevent the clothes from being ripped off my muscular frame.”
“Twit. The Monday Evening Association is unlikely to turn out to be populated by your adoring female public. Aren’t they called something like The Toby Bowe Appreciation Society?”
“They are indeed and a more splendid bunch of women you could not wish to meet. I think you’re right in saying this has to be a different kind of organisation, though: adoring male public, perhaps, given that Lloyd is a chap’s name.” Toby folded the invitation and tucked it in the pocket of his jacket. “I’ll reply to him once Landseer give the go ahead. Perhaps I’m being over cautious, purely from the lack of information. Whoever this group is, facing them can’t be as dangerous as squaring up to a Junkers with a trigger-happy pilot.”
Alasdair took Toby’s hand. “One can only hope. And if they are genuine fans, too coy to advertise the fact, it would be a shame to disappoint them. Common decency must always be observed towards those who ultimately pay our wages.”
“Let alone always observing the avoidance of adverse publicity.” Toby chuckled.
“Were you joking about needing a bodyguard?” Alasdair asked.
“Only partly. It wouldn’t surprise me if Sir Ian, should he get wind of this, insists I’m properly looked after. Some burly chap to act as chauffeur and be in the offing in case of trouble.” Sir Ian Sheringham, head of the studio, wouldn’t want one of his most valuable properties to be put into a potentially tricky situation. “Are you volunteering to disguise yourself for the part?”
“No thank you, much as I’m intrigued by the whole business. It’s simply that I have someone in mind for such a role, should it be required.”
“Are you going to tell me who?”
“You’ll have to guess. Clue one, your godfather mentioned him a while back as being a useful person to have in one’s corner if trouble was brewing. He’d helped him out with a case, I believe.”
Toby furrowed his brow. “That doesn’t narrow down the field much. He’s often running across people, helpful or otherwise.” Matthew Firestone, being one of the police force’s most reliable—and successful—officers met plenty of folk and had many tales about them to regale his friends with.
“Then consider clue two. He’s pally with the brother of one of Matthew’s other godsons. I think I’ve got that right.”
“Right or not, it doesn’t help much, either. Matthew has stood at the font so many times he might as well be ordained. Another clue please, Sherlock. At the risk of me having to play an astonished Watson at how obvious the answer is.”
Alasdair, who was evidently enjoying this greatly said, “Third and last clue. He has a connection to a certain person you’re portraying in our upcoming release.”
“Jonty Stewart? Oh, of course. We’re talking about his great nephew, aren’t we?”
“Correct, my dear Watson. Jonny Stewart, which is rather confusing name wise but at least memorable because of the similarity to Jonty. Except in your case obviously not memorable at all.” Alasdair snorted.
Toby now recalled the conversation with Matthew clearly, but didn’t want to admit that he hadn’t been paying attention throughout, because there’d been a rather handsome waiter in the offing who’d been making eyes at him. It had taken all of Toby’s concentration to ensure he gave no hint of response to the saucy chap, not least because he had all he needed—romance wise—currently sitting on the arm of his chair.
“Why do you have Jonny in mind, as opposed to anybody that Landseer could suggest?” Toby asked.
“It feels neat and tidy, with the Stewart connection.” Alasdair liked things neat and tidy. “It might even be useful publicity if this thing somehow becomes public. Young Jonny carrying the family torch.”
“Quite.” They weren’t portraying Holmes and Watson in this latest offering but the entirely real Jonty Stewart and Orlando Coppersmith. “You really do think there’s something odd about this, don’t you?”
“Yes. I couldn’t tell you exactly why—a pricking of my thumbs, maybe—but it’s like when we’d scrambled, and were flying in an apparently clear sky yet knew there were bandits about.”
A shiver shot down Toby’s spine. He remembered that feeling in every detail and hoped he’d never experience such a sensation again.
***
Those at Landseer studios who seemed to know everything there was to know—about anything—were tasked with looking at the letter and gave Toby his answer very promptly, or so he reported to Alasdair. There was apparently nothing in the communication from Conway that rang any corporate alarm bells, so if he wanted to attend the Monday Evening Association meeting on April the twentieth, he could.
“They say they don’t recognise the name or address as being linked to any of their unpleasant correspondents. You know, like the ones who take umbrage at the way Landseer portrays Holmes and Watson, particularly your Sherlock getting his end away with whichever minx Fiona is playing.” Toby grinned over his teacup.
They were both at the studios, grabbing a cuppa before a meeting about all the activities surrounding the launch of their new film. Fiona Marsden would be attending, too, she being the key third part of the Landseer star acting triumvirate. The fact that she’d recently begun a romance with Jonty Stewart’s nephew, the present holder of the family title, wouldn’t hurt publicise the new film, either.
“A chaste kiss in the final five minutes counts as getting one’s end away, does it?” Alasdair said, with a snort.
“In the fans’ eyes, yes, according to the complaints received. Although these folk are no doubt right in saying that Sherlock never went so far with a woman. Nor man neither, I’d guess.”
“He wasn’t a real person, you know.”
“I know that. Although I’m not sure everyone else does.” Toby took a drink. “Apparently, 221b Baker Street receives post from people hither and yon wanting the great detective to solve their problems. Those letters can’t all have been sent as a bit of a joke.”
Good point. “And will Sir Ian allow you to go into the Eagle Street lions’ den alone?”
“Absolutely not.” Toby explained—much to Alasdair’s satisfaction—that Sir Ian, had happened to drop into the department concerned when they’d been making their enquiries. “As a result of which, he’s just sent me a note. He’s worried about potential risks to yours truly and said that he’d need to organise somebody to go with me. I said you might have the very chap.”
“Excellent. I’ll ring up to Sir Ian’s office, right now, and suggest Jonny. I’ve got two numbers for the latter, office and home, garnered from his great uncle Jonty.”
“Have you? How sensible.” Toby nodded approval. “What did the Cambridge connections think of the idea?”
“They gave it their whole-hearted approval. I also discovered more about the mystery he helped Matthew with. Remember that story about Ivor Gregg the actor going missing? Jonny and a pal of his were involved with getting that sorted.”
“Well done him.” Toby raised his teacup to make a toast. “I did wonder if Sir Ian was going to suggest you as my wingman but either he doesn’t want to risk both of our handsome faces being bashed about or he’s avoiding us being seen together too often when not on studio business.”
“The second, I’d say.” There was an increasing risk of people becoming suspicious, especially when none of the fledgling romances he and Toby were apparently involved in actually took flight. “Talking of which, I wonder which young ladies they’ll hang on our arms for the premiere?”
“I’m due a rising starlet, although I have hinted that a bluestocking from Girton might be more fun and a novelty for the press coverage. I’m sure Jonty or Orlando have a suitable contact.”
Alasdair raised his non-insured eyebrow. “That would be a novelty. It’s a while since I was paired with a lesser daughter of minor nobility so I guess my partner will be along those lines. I do feel sorry for these women.”
The machinations of the Landseer publicity offices, which provided the daughters of captains of industry or other eligible ladies as the actors’ “dates” for events, had proved successful so far but surely there was a limit to how long they could get away with it?
“Quite. Hopes dashed and all that.” If Toby was going to add to that remark, he was prevented by the arrival of his dresser, who wanted to nab him for five minutes, if she could, regarding one of the costumes for their next film, The Heart That Wears the Crown. With a grin and a, “No peace for the wicked,” Toby let himself be taken off.
Alasdair could profitably use the time to ring through to Sir Ian, which he did without delay.
“Sir Ian? Do you have a moment?”
“I do, Alasdair. You just caught me before I go into a meeting about Naughty Nelly. Someone’s having kittens about the title. And the script.”
Naughty Nelly: there was a production that had already caused a problem or two, including losing its leading man to a fatal accident two days into shooting at the start of February. The role had been recast but production proper had yet to recommence. Alasdair hoped that the royal connection both films shared wouldn’t prove an ill omen. “Then I won’t delay you. I only wanted to suggest a suitable bodyguard—if that’s not too strong a term—for Toby, when he goes off to this strange meeting he’s been invited to.”
“Not too strong a term at all,” Sir Ian said. “Do you have as strong a smell of rat as I do?”
“Absolutely. So does Toby, although not as foul-smelling an odour as ours. I couldn’t tell you why, Sir Ian, and I haven’t been quite so frank about it with him but I’m not at all happy about this invitation. If I can’t go with him, which would no doubt be too great a risk on other fronts, then I want to do all I can to protect him, albeit vicariously.”
“Agreed on both counts. You’ll be in public view alongside each other often enough in the next few weeks, so if it’s not official Landseer business or to do with your detecting work, I’d rather being seen together didn’t happen.” Sir Ian rarely put his foot down in such a way: the Naughty Nelly business must be getting to him. “It’s a shame these two Cambridge chaps you’re portraying are too long in the tooth to do the honours on the bodyguard front.”
“Quite. Although the person I want to propose is of the same family—the Stewarts—and according to our constabulary friend Matthew Firestone, a good man in a tight corner.”
“Another Stewart? They’re getting everywhere, given Fiona’s latest amour.” Sir Ian chuckled. “Still, that would all hang together nicely with the new film, should it come to public attention. Can I leave you to organise that with him, please?”
“Of course.”
“Now, while I have you. It may appear that I’ve been slightly tardy regarding your and Toby’s companions for the premiere of Death Stalks the College, but I haven’t. In fact, it was all set up a while ago, at the suggestion of your two Cambridge contacts.”
“That sounds intriguing.” Maybe Toby would be getting his blue stocking companion.
“We certainly thought so when we heard their idea. It also fits nicely with the film, given that the two ladies concerned both helped you clear up that recent case with the Victorian corpse in the vaults. Names being…” the sound of papers being rummaged through came down the line, “Mrs Bessy Cutting and Miss Geraldine Topley. The publicity department are going to make a splash about it over the next few days but we’ve had to hold fire because Miss Topley had a fall and we weren’t sure if she’d have to pull out of the event and we’d need to call on one of the usual suspects. Luckily, she’s fully recovered so can attend. I hope that gets your approval.”
“It does indeed. Much better than having another young woman disappointed at the lack of follow up from either of us.”
“Exactly. The public will love them being there, of course, suggesting as it does that one of them might end up on your arm on a similar occasion in future.”
“That could be a suitable strategy for all such events.” And an answer to the thorny issue of why their companions tended to be for one evening only. “You could hold a ballot or a raffle—a shilling to enter and all proceeds to the Royal British Legion.”
“That’s brilliant, Alasdair. I’ll jot the idea down right now or else I’ll forget. Can you let Toby know about the arrangements? You can fight over who gets Bessy and who gets Geraldine.” Sir Ian chuckled.
“I will do so at the first opportunity. Good luck with Nelly.”
“I’ll need it. All the content is a matter of historical fact, of course, but the censor may cut up rough. We never have that problem with your films, and long may that continue. Ave Imperator, morituri te salutant.” With which comment, Sir Ian ended the call, leaving Alasdair to wonder at just how bad the upcoming meeting would be and how near the knuckle the script of Naughty Nelly was. Not anything that could be lodged against The Heart That Wears the Crown, even though it was frankly a piece of opportunism. One that had benefitted from Nelly’s problems, because the delay in production had meant slack capacity in various departments which had allowed the Cambridge film to be whizzed out in record time and without the risk of it looking like a quota quickie. In turn, the coronation film could then be moved forward and got out in a timely fashion.
The Heart That Wears the Crown had a long history. The film had first been mooted in the early years of Landseer studios, some twenty years previously, in anticipation of the day when the then Prince of Wales would succeed to the throne and the screen representation of a coronation would chime with the real one being held in June. The general disquiet caused by both King Edward’s abdication, and his choice of partner, had led to the film project being shelved indefinitely. Now, the country suddenly found itself with a young, beautiful queen, whose upcoming coronation was an occasion likely to shine as brightly as the diamonds in her crown amidst the lingering post-war austerity. So, the Landseer script was quietly dusted off and reworked into its present format, as suiting the trio of stars.
Assuming nothing awful happens to Toby at his meeting.
Alasdair decided to ring Jonny immediately, because if the man was unavailable, or didn’t wish to take up the commission, then he’d have to go back to Sir Ian cap in hand to report his failure. Fortune must have been smiling on the endeavour, though, because Alasdair not only caught Jonny at work, he professed himself delighted to help, particularly when told that Matthew Firestone had recommended him. “It all sounds very mysterious, though, Mr Hamilton.”
“Call me Alasdair, please. And yes, too mysterious for anyone’s liking. We might be being over-cautious but as your great uncle Jonty may have told you, we do our own bits of sleuthing, in a small way, and it’s possible we’ve made an enemy or two as we’ve done so.” Which idea had only come into Alasdair’s head that moment. Not that he could think of any specific enemies offhand, but those they’d helped to convict would have friends and relatives who might seek revenge.
“If there’s any rough stuff, I’ll be prepared. Should Toby and I meet beforehand to make a plan of campaign?”
“Sounds a splendid idea. I’ll get him to give you a call this evening, if that’s convenient. You can sort out the details between you both.”
“Aye, aye, captain. I’m looking forward to it.”
“Cheeky scamp,” Alasdair said, with a grin. It sounded like Jonny and Toby would get on like a house on fire, the pair of little rascals. Surely between them they’d be able to cope with anything Mr Conway’s meeting had to throw their way.
And he’d have to sit on his hands, to ensure he resisted all temptation to lurk in the Eagle Street area on Monday evening, just in case another pair of hands—or fists—were needed.
Erin O'Quinn
