The Tango School Mystery Read online

  I said: "Oh, yes, sir. In East Chiltington, we're right behind the party."

  The other Chiltington was near Lewes and even tinier than its West namesake.

  Blunt scowled. "You said West Chiltington."

  "I'm sure I said East." I turned to Freddie: "I said East, didn't I?"

  Freddie squeaked. It could have been "yes". It could have been "no". It could have been "get me out of here".

  Blunt scowled some more and balled his fists. Looked like he was ready for a rumble.

  I said: "'East is east and west is west and never the twain shall meet.'"

  Blunt grunted. "Rudyard Kipling - only decent poet this country's ever produced." He relaxed a little. His hands hung limp at his sides. They looked like a couple of flounders hanging off a fisherman's hooks.

  I said: "Couldn't agree more about Kipling." I turned to Freddie. "Couldn't we?"

  Freddie squeaked twice. Possibly in a rhyming couplet.

  Blunt flexed his shoulders and looked hard at us.

  He barked: "Stand to attention when you're addressing a superior officer."

  We shuffled our feet together and straightened our backs. Tried to look like a couple of guardsmen on parade. It wasn't easy for Freddie with the camera strapped round his stomach.

  Blunt strode slowly around us, like he was inspecting his troops before a big battle. The man fancied himself as the brave commander. Probably modelled himself on Marlborough or Montgomery or one of the famous generals of the past. He had the given name for it. Wellington, victor of the battle of Waterloo. The most famous general of them all. But under the cod-uniform and the officer's epaulettes there was just a street bullyboy. He was a thug living a fantasy. But that made him dangerous.

  He circled us twice. Came to a stop in front of me. Leaned closer. I could smell the rancid reek of his breath. You could have bottled the stink and used it to frighten off rats.

  He said: "What's your name?"

  I said: "Ponsonby Crampton." I thumbed at Freddie. "And this is Bert Buckle, my deputy."

  Blunt's eyebrows parted like a theatre curtain.

  He said: "Ponsonby. That's an unusual name. A familiar name."

  "Naturally, to an officer such as yourself. Wellington led British forces at Waterloo. Ponsonby commanded the Second Union Cavalry Brigade at the battle."

  Silently, I congratulated myself on staying awake in the school history lesson when we'd covered the Napoleonic wars.

  I said: "My father was a fan of the general who died a hero's death and named me after him. So we have something in common."

  Blunt looked unconvinced. He moved back and stood further off. Brushed an imaginary fleck of dust from his shirt. Gloated a bit. He was named after the top man. My moniker came from an under-strapper. Just as he liked it. He allowed himself a small smile. Fleshy lips parted to reveal grey teeth.

  Blunt turned an evil eye on Freddie.

  Freddie's shirt was bulging around his midriff from the camera. The buttons on his jacket strained. If he wasn't careful, the lens of the camera would pop out from behind his tie.

  "What's wrong with your deputy?" Blunt asked.

  "Heavy bandaging," I said. "Just recovering from an appendix operation."

  "Grumbling?" Blunt said.

  "The appendix was - but Bert doesn't complain," I said. "Do you Bert?"

  Freddie looked at me with desperate eyes. "No, er, Ponsonby."

  "We still haven't cleared up why you're in this restricted area," Blunt said.

  "Security check," I said.

  "What security?"

  "Checking the lavatories for hidden communists before the rally starts."

  Blunt's brow furrowed. He'd never thought of that.

  "Find any?" Blunt asked.

  "No, Captain."

  "Carry on, then."

  Freddie and I turned and marched away like a couple of troopers heading into battle.

  I could feel the heat from Blunt's eyes burning my back as we went through the door.

  "That was close," Freddie said as we took our seats in the main auditorium.

  "It could get worse," I said.

  We looked around the place. It was half full but crowds streamed through the doors. They had tight lips, angry eyes, flushed cheeks. Mean faces. They'd come to hear their hero. They'd expected to feel the power of his words. But they hadn't expected to meet opposition outside. After all, wasn't Sir Oscar Maundsley the fount of all truth? A saviour for the nation?

  Not if the hundreds of protestors had their way. They hated Maundsley. And everything he stood for.

  And the people who stood by his side.

  That's why Maundsley's supporters looked sour and angry. Because when you believe you know the one unquestionable truth, you can't understand why other people hate you for it.

  Inside the auditorium we could hear the shouts and whistles of the protestors.

  Maundsley out! Maundsley out!

  I said: "Have your camera ready, Freddie. This is heading the way of other Maundsley rallies. To a punch-up."

  Freddie grinned: "Great," he said. He'd recovered from the shock of meeting Blunt. "Is that why we're sitting at the back?"

  "If you're in the front row, you don't see what's happening behind you. You miss stuff that might make good copy - or pictures."

  Freddie said: "What did you mean just now when you said it could get worse?"

  I said: "I interviewed one of Maundsley's fan club this afternoon. A Rhine maiden by the name of Unity Box-Hartley. She wouldn't miss this. I just hope she doesn't spot me. She'd give me away faster than you could say 'Sieg heil'. If Blunt realises we're journos and not Maundsley fans I wouldn't fancy our chances."

  We kept our heads down but risked occasional peeks around.

  Freddie said: "Will Maundsley have his wife with him this evening? I'd like to get a picture of them together."

  "I wouldn't think so. She divorced him three years ago. There's no Lady Maundsley on the scene at the moment."

  The lights dimmed and the crowded auditorium fell silent. The air was electric with anticipation. You could have powered the seafront illuminations with it.

  From the back of the auditorium drums began beating.

  Dum-di-dum, dum-di-dum.

  Then they appeared. Four drummers marched down the central aisle two abreast. They beat their drums in a steady rhythm. One drummer was old and bald. One drummer was young and walked with a limp. One drummer was tall and thin. The drummer next to him was short and fat. They were dressed in grey shirts and grey shorts. Their knees were knobbly. They marched out of step.

  They looked like a bunch of guys who needed a uniform to make them feel good. And a drum to beat made them feel better. They could pretend the instrument was someone they didn't like. As a way of raising their self-esteem it looked like it wasn't working. They'd have felt better going to the pub and getting drunk.

  I whispered to Freddie: "This raggle-taggle army wouldn't frighten the brownies."

  Freddie pointed to the back of the hall.

  "What about them?"

  Two Grey Shirts marched in holding flaming torches.

  "They're either holding a barbecue or planning to burn the place down," I said.

  But Freddie didn't have time to reply to that. Because Oscar Maundsley marched in behind the torch-carriers. The crowd were on their feet cheering as Maundsley stomped down the aisle.

  He passed as close as if we'd shoved past one another in a corridor at the Chronicle. I caught the astringent whiff of pricey cologne as he strode by. He was old enough to own a pension book, but he walked ramrod straight. He'd maintained the slim figure I'd seen in old newspaper cuttings. There were wrinkles around his neck and the beginning of crow's feet around his eyes, but otherwise his skin was smooth. His black hair receded a little from his forehead but it was still thick. His moustache was pencil thin. He was dressed in tailored grey slacks designed to show off the line of his leg. He had a grey shirt and wore a Sam Browne bel
t over it. He didn't need any fancy epaulettes on his shirt. He strode with an easy confidence which made it clear who was in charge around here.

  The drummers fanned out at the front of the auditorium. The torch bearers mounted the stage and disappeared into the wings.

  Maundsley took the steps to the stage slowly. I sensed he wanted to savour the moment. Wanted to hear the cheers ringing in his ears a little longer. Wanted to lap up the adulation.

  He reached the stage and turned to the audience. The shouts rose louder. They drowned out the cries of the demonstrators outside. And then Maundsley turned to face his faithful.

  He moved forward and his arm shot into the air as if he was hailing a taxi. But I'd seen that salute on Pathé newsreels too often. By a little man with a Charlie Chaplin moustache. And I didn't like it.

  Freddie undid his jacket and fumbled with his hand under his tie. It looked like he was playing with his belly button. I hoped Blunt or one of his goons didn't notice. He'd have us slung out for indecency.

  Freddie lifted up his tie and I heard a faint click as the shutter on the camera snapped. It snapped twice more before Freddie replaced his tie.

  The crowd had been on their feet delirious with joy. Goodness knows what they'd have done if something really good had happened. Now they sat down. Slowly, as if they were trying to understand what they'd just done. They shot little sheepish looks at their neighbours as if to say: "I may have been foolish but you were doing it too."

  On the stage, Maundsley moved to the lectern. He stood silent for a moment, then threw back his head and spoke.

  "My friends, we come together in this great meeting at a critical moment in our nation's history." He had a rich baritone voice. "I come to you tonight with a profound sense of that history and with a bold vision for our future. We have been a great imperial nation in the past - and we can be great in the future. We can be even greater."

  The audience cheered. Maundsley let the cheers run, then quietened them with a dismissive flip of his right hand.

  "It is some forty years since I first offered my services to our nation in a general election. Forty years during which we have seen an economic depression that impoverished our people, a war that shattered our great country, and a cowardly government that has given away much of our great Empire. There are guilty men and I shall name them. And they shall pay the price. Now, forty years on from the first of my election campaigns, I bring fresh hope to our nation."

  He lifted a thick document from the lectern. Held it up so that all could see it.

  "This is my legacy. My plan for Britain. It is a plan for making our country great again. We shall triumph once more over the inferior races of the world. We shall be strong again so that all may fear us. We shall conquer where we have an inalienable right to go. We shall taste - as is our nation's birth right - the fruits of our conquest. And now let me tell you, like the real friends I know you all to be, about my plan."

  But it looked as though we weren't going to hear the plan.

  A delicate hand with red painted fingernails landed on my shoulder. I looked up. Unity Box-Hartley grinned at me. Like a lioness about to eat a gazelle. Behind her, Blunt's scowl was working overtime.

  Unity said to Blunt: "If he's leader of the East Chiltington Patriots, I'm Queen of the May. He was a journalist with the Evening Chronicle when he interviewed me this afternoon."

  Blunt said: "We have ways of dealing with journalists."

  I said: "I hope it doesn't involve thumbscrews. I have enough trouble opening sardine tins with those fiddly keys as it is."

  Behind Blunt the two torch-bearers moved menacingly forward.

  Beside me, Freddie squeaked.

  On the stage, Maundsley had launched into his plan to subjugate the world.

  The audience had fallen silent. They were enraptured.

  The shouts of the demonstrators outside grew louder.

  And then the doors at the side of the auditorium burst open, and protestors flooded in. There were young ones dressed in jeans and tee-shirts. There were old ones in corduroy trousers and cardigans. There were men in rat-catcher caps. There were women with scarves knotted under their chins. Some waved placards. Some blew whistles. Some charged forward looking for a rumble.

  Maundsley stared at them with a disdain that would have been impressive had it not also been stupid.

  Blunt roared: "Grey Shirts, to action stations."

  Around the hall, men rose to their feet and scrambled towards the protestors.

  But the demonstrators were already swarming up the aisles.

  Blunt yelled: "Drummers - attack beat."

  The drums started up in a pounding staccato rhythm.

  Dum, dum, dum-ti-dum.

  And then the fighting started.

  Blunt rushed towards the thick of the battle.

  Fists flew and feet kicked. But the protestors and the Grey Shirts had crushed together and there was little room to launch a haymaker punch or deliver a swinging kick. Instead they pushed and shoved like angry commuters in an overcrowded rush-hour train. They shouted and yelled insults at one another.

  I looked around. In the melee, Unity had vanished. On the stage, Maundsley gathered up his papers and walked slowly towards the wings. Like an ageing actor who couldn't be bothered to take a curtain call.

  I grabbed Freddie, who let out another squeak.

  I said: "We should follow Maundsley."

  We pushed our way into the aisle. Maundsley disappeared into the wings.

  The first casualties were crawling away holding red handkerchiefs to busted noses, bleeding lips, black eyes. Men shouted, women yelled. Crowds pushed towards the emergency exits. More demonstrators piled in. They wielded placards mounted on staves. Shouts and cries and screams rent the air.

  Freddie and I elbowed our way through the crowd towards the stage.

  The fight was moving closer. The demonstrators were outnumbered by the Grey Shirts. But the demonstrators had the momentum.

  Blunt emerged from the melee and scrambled up the steps to the stage. He hurried after Maundsley into the wings.

  Freddie and I pushed forward faster. We reached the stage and climbed up the steps. The Grey Shirts had mounted a counter-attack and started to push the demonstrators back. But now more demonstrators poured through a second door.

  We hurried towards the wings. There was no sign of Maundsley or Blunt.

  I turned to Freddie: "They'll make for the stage door."

  "Which way?" Freddie said.

  I pointed ahead. We hurried through a corridor. Ahead I heard a door open and slam shut.

  We reached the door and flung it open. We stepped out into Pavilion Gardens. Most of the demonstrators were over to our left. They were trying to force their way in through an emergency exit, but the crowd from inside was pouring out.

  In the distance, a police car bell was ringing. The plods would circle the building a few times and hope the trouble would pass so they wouldn't have to wade in and sort it out.

  Freddie and I raced into New Road.

  I nudged Freddie and pointed. "Over there, outside the Theatre Royal."

  A smart Bentley was parked by the kerb. A chauffeur in a peaked cap sat behind the steering wheel.

  Blunt opened the car's rear door and Maundsley stepped inside.

  "Get your camera out," I yelled over my shoulder at Freddie as I raced towards the Bentley.

  But Blunt had shut the door on Maundsley.

  As I ran up, the car's ignition fired and it shot away from the kerb.

  Freddie panted after me. He lifted his camera and took a shot of the back of the Bentley as it disappeared around the corner.

  Blunt was left standing in the road. He watched the retreating car, then turned towards us. His scowl moved into overdrive. He raced towards us. He looked like a charging rhinoceros. I hadn't expected such a big man to run so fast. But then even rhinos can put on a turn of speed.

  I stepped forward but Blunt angled away f
rom me towards Freddie who was busy with his camera.

  Freddie looked up a second too late. Blunt cannoned into him and Freddie fell backwards. His arms went up and the camera flew into the air.

  The momentum of Blunt's charge took him ten yards past Freddie. But his target was the camera. He screeched to a halt and tried to turn.

  The camera was still in the air. Freddie was scrambling to his feet. But there was no way he would catch it before it smashed on the ground. And now Blunt was charging Freddie again.

  I raced across the road as the camera fell. I was never going to catch it. I dived like a rugby forward heading for the touchline. I stretched out my arms and caught the camera six inches from the ground.

  Now I was floundering on the road, feeling bruised. And Blunt was charging towards me. He was eight feet away. His left leg was up and he planned to treat my head like a rugby football. His shadow loomed over me. I rolled to one side. Lifted my right leg off the ground, caught my foot behind Blunt's incoming kick and twisted upwards.

  Blunt toppled backwards like he was a redwood tree that had just been felled. I swear the ground shook as he hit it. Seismographs in Africa would have recorded a minor earthquake. Blunt bellowed in pain. The wind had rushed out of him. He floundered on the ground like a beached whale. He wasn't getting up any time soon.

  Freddie was now on his feet. He ran towards me. I scrambled up and handed him the camera.

  Freddie checked the film, adjusted the focus, and lifted the viewfinder to his eye.

  He pointed the camera at Blunt.

  "Smile," he said as he clicked the shutter.

  Chapter 11

  Freddie Barkworth said: "You'll want to see this."

  It was just before nine o'clock the following morning. We were in the newsroom at the Chronicle. I'd finished batting out a twelve-hundred word front-page lead on the riot at the rally. I'd written a sidebar on the rumble with Captain Wellington Blunt and the camera.

  Now Freddie had slapped a photo on my desk. It showed Blunt seconds after I'd tripped him up and Freddie had taken his picture. Blunt was flat out in the middle of the road. He'd lifted his head. His mouth gaped, his nose looked squashed, and his eyes were glazed with confusion.