Classic at Bay Read online

  Quite why her name was so tinged with notoriety rather than fame I did not know. Nor had the Internet much to offer on that subject, save that she was chiefly associated with the Three Parrots, a club that closed down in 1964 for unknown reasons – possibly drugs, as these were the mainstay of London’s gangland in the mid- to late sixties, and clubs were familiar trading places. The days of gang leaders Billy Hill and Jack Spot had passed but the Richardsons and Krays were flexing their muscles.

  Today, for classic car lovers such as myself, she was known as the centre of a different legend, the owner of a small collection of classic Jaguars that would make many an eye water. It wasn’t open to the public but she often appeared at car shows in one or other of these beauties. Occasionally too she was seen in one of the cars at Danny Carter’s side as he drove her sedately through the countryside. ‘That’s Adora Ferne,’ the whisper went round at car shows, yet she lived quietly now, from what I could gather, and her past history was largely forgotten. To most people she was merely an old lady being driven around in her old car by an equally ageing driver. Danny must be at least twenty years her junior, but his grumpy expression didn’t make for a youthful appearance. I knew nothing more about him until he had turned up at the Pits out of the blue with his commission.

  ‘Why me?’ I had asked.

  He had shrugged. ‘Why not? You want the job?’

  A rhetorical question. With an SS 100 at the end of it and a mortgage payment due shortly, of course I did.

  I was convinced that I’d played a minor part in an ongoing story and I wanted to know more. Rumours had circulated in the car world every now and then that each of Adora Ferne’s Jaguars represented a different husband or lover in her life, although no doubt the true story had become embellished over time with a lack of evidence only adding to it. All the same, it was an enticing thought, especially now that I had met the Earl of Storrington, former poet. Question marks were sprouting in my mind like overnight bristles begging for a quick shave.

  The earl had apologised for having brought me on a fool’s errand but still offered no explanation. When I had thanked him for showing me the car, he had replied, ‘At least I could do that.’

  All I had to do was report my failure to Danny Carter. OK, my commission had been a washout but I was determined to see Adora Ferne’s Jaguar collection. I decided the way forward for that would be to break the news to Danny Carter in person.

  As luck would have it, Louise had just left Frogs Hill and would be away for the next week so I couldn’t discuss the plan with her. As she is a well-known actor on stage and screen, absence is unfortunately no rare occurrence. In the past this had led to our separation, but now we have an understanding and, if I smart from time to time, I flatter myself I hide it well. Absence doesn’t make my heart grow fonder, though. That wouldn’t be possible as it’s at top-level fondness already.

  I could see Zoe working in the Pits as I drove into Frogs Hill. Silence reigned while she and Len worked on a 1952 Sunbeam-Talbot. In fact, all I could see of Zoe was her red hair sticking out from under a baseball cap. In age I sit comfortably between them as Zoe’s still in her twenties whereas Len can cap that by an extra forty years. I think one of them glanced up as I entered, but even when I spoke neither stopped work for anything as trivial as listening to their employer.

  ‘You were right,’ I announced, tired of waiting for their attention.

  No gasps of astonishment. ‘I knew that already,’ Zoe said.

  ‘Rum chap that Danny Carter,’ Len commented, giving the distributor cap a flick of his beloved rag.

  ‘Have you seen Adora Ferne’s collection?’ I asked curiously.

  ‘Nope. Like to, though,’ Len said. He’s crusty and doesn’t waste words, so this was high praise indeed.

  ‘What’s so odd about Danny?’ I asked. I’d met him, of course, but to me he seemed nothing more sinister than a grumpy man in his sixties.

  ‘He’s been looking after this so-called collection for years. What for, if no one ever visits it?’

  ‘Perhaps he lives in the grounds and does it in lieu of rent?’ I suggested. ‘Has he got a family?’

  ‘Not around, if so. Heard about a son once.’

  ‘What’s odd then?’ I persisted.

  Realizing he wasn’t going to get rid of me, Len straightened up and actually considered the matter. ‘Doesn’t mix.’

  That was rich, coming from Len, the arch loner. ‘What’s wrong with that?’ I was beginning to feel I was driving up a blind alley.

  Len treated the remark with the scorn that it perhaps deserved. ‘He’s got his own agenda, that one.’

  ‘For what?’ I ploughed on, regardless of my lack of progress.

  ‘Dunno.’ Even Len realized this might not satisfy me, and Zoe giggled. ‘Control,’ he muttered. ‘Knows it all, not like all the idiots around him. That’s Danny Carter for you.’

  Then Zoe took the stand. ‘No one controls Adora Ferne,’ she objected.

  ‘You’ve met her?’ I asked.

  ‘No, but that’s what they say,’ she was forced to admit.

  ‘They?’

  ‘Rob does, anyway.’

  Rob does? In Zoe’s view that means it’s true. Rob Lane is her boyfriend, though of what status I am never sure. She ring-fences him. Rob is as unlike Zoe as it’s possible to be. He’s from a wealthy farming family background but too lazy to do any farming himself. Zoe is industrious and far from wealthy. Rob has an eye for the main chance; Zoe puts cars before money. I can never tell whether she puts them before love or not. She’s a feisty lady and is ready to defend her beloved against all odds, so I don’t push it.

  She seemed to be blushing, however, clearly sorry that she had mentioned his name. ‘He’s met her.’

  ‘How did he do that?’ I asked.

  ‘Through her granddaughter, Alice,’ she muttered, ‘who according to Rob is the greatest dancer in the world and the prettiest, daintiest little thing that ever sweet-talked herself into whatever she wanted.’ A touch of sarcasm here? I wondered. ‘And she doesn’t know a bonnet from a boot,’ Zoe ended savagely.

  Len and I were speechless. Never had Zoe exhibited such emotion over anyone or anything – well, not for a long time. I gulped and returned to the matter in hand. ‘Why did you warn me not to get mixed up with Adora and Danny?’

  ‘Both weirdos.’ Len had become interested now.

  ‘Alice too?’ I asked Zoe.

  ‘Never had the honour of meeting her, but she has to be. The whole family is out in orbit.’

  ‘Which consists of whom, besides Adora?’ I couldn’t define why I was so interested at first. Then I realized if there was a story involving Adora and the Earl of Storrington, that could be relevant. But relevant to what? I had no ongoing commission.

  ‘Melinda something, Adora’s daughter. Also Adora’s granddaughter, Alice, Alice’s brother, Michael, and Adora’s son, their dad Simon, live in Crockendene Cottage in the grounds. Danny’s got a cottage too, but Melinda lives in the main farmhouse so she can watch her mother like a hawk.’

  ‘Does Adora need watching?’ I was getting even more interested in this woman. After all, I might meet her with any luck. ‘No husband around?’

  ‘She’s had at least three of them, maybe four,’ Zoe told me, ‘plus Rob says a string of gentlemen friends that made it to the bed but not the golden ring.’

  ‘So perhaps the rumours about the cars stemming from her ex-lovers are true?’

  ‘Could be. Rob thinks she demanded one from each of them when they split up.’

  I grappled with the practicalities of this nonchalant statement. ‘They just handed them over?’

  ‘Wouldn’t know. They seem to have done.’

  ‘All,’ I said thoughtfully, ‘except Gabriel Allyn, now Earl of Storrington, who has the thirteenth car.’ I couldn’t wait to meet this remarkable lady, although caution suggested that Danny should come first.

  There are lanes in Kent that l
ook so inconsequential that the immediate assumption is that they lead nowhere in particular. However, if you choose to follow them you might come across a paradise of unexpected pleasure – or alternatively they might lead to the local rubbish landfill sites. Oakfield Lane was one such road and it was new to me. It was not far from Ashford and on a high ridge of the North Downs, which over the years have been crossed by smugglers, Templars, invaders and countless pilgrims on their way to Canterbury, and still carry the atmosphere that they left behind. Adora Ferne lived near a stretch of the North Downs Way, the track that prehistoric traders would have beaten to the Channel ports. The whole area is riddled with hints of our past of several thousand years ago.

  In today’s world, however, my satnav appeared to be stumped on how to reach Crockendene Farm, so I relied on my faithful Ordnance Survey map and, sure enough, once past a bluebell wood just coming into bloom, several fields of sheep and a lonely apple orchard, I found the turning that possessed a signpost half hidden in budding spring greenery and pointing the way to my destination.

  As I drove along a bumpy potholed track, I was relieved that I had not brought my stately four-seater Gordon Keeble classic sports car but my daily driver, Polo. The Gordon Keeble lives in the old barn behind Frogs Hill farmhouse and has two trusty companions, a 1938 Lagonda and an old Packard. Each with its own personality, the three of them live together in quiet harmony.

  Ahead of me now, I could see Crockendene Farm. Some farm! It was a handsome early-nineteenth-century red-brick mansion with a large courtyard before it. The portico to the house looked too imposing to be my destination, but as I entered the courtyard I saw a sign reading Reception with an arrow to the left, indicating that the collection might lie that way.

  The reception lay in a large modern building with an office at the near end. The rest of the building, large though it was, did not seem to be spacious enough to display the Jaguar collection. The office proved to be a spic-and-span room with practical working surfaces and what looked like the latest computer technology. The only thing it lacked at first sight was a receptionist. Then a high-backed chair swivelled round and there was Danny Carter. He was a short man in perhaps his mid-sixties and thickset, with what seemed a perpetual scowl above a not-too-well-shaven chin.

  ‘What are you here for?’ he growled in welcome.

  I arranged my face to convey complete surprise. ‘To report on the commission you gave me.’

  ‘Next time give us a bell first.’

  ‘I will,’ I assured him cordially, though he might be disappointed over there being a next time. ‘Bad news, I’m afraid. I got nowhere with the Earl of Storrington. He refuses to sell to me, to you or anyone else.’ I held back on the earl’s arrangements for the car after his death.

  Danny didn’t look too amazed at this, to my initial relief. Then I began to wonder why he wasn’t surprised.

  ‘Bill me,’ he ordered.

  ‘I will.’ I paused. ‘Could I see the collection while I’m here?’

  He looked at me as if I’d asked to raid the place. ‘No one sees the Lair without madam’s agreement.’

  ‘The Lair?’

  ‘The Jags,’ he snarled.

  ‘Why the Lair then? Jaguars don’t use lairs. They’re lone hunters.’

  ‘None of your business.’

  ‘True. I’ll ask madam if I can see them.’

  ‘I’ll ask her.’

  Danny reluctantly produced an efficient-looking gadget, punched in numbers as viciously as though they were on my face and had a brief conversation with someone – hopefully Adora Ferne herself. The conversation included the news of my failure to buy the SS 100, which I assumed would blow my chances. I was pleasantly surprised, therefore, when Danny announced reluctantly: ‘Madam will interview you first.’

  To be interviewed to see cars? Ah, well. This was a first. ‘I’ll go over now.’

  He glared at me. ‘No, you won’t. I’ll take you.’

  I was duly marched across the courtyard to the majestic farmhouse, feeling like a naughty schoolboy on his way to the head. We made an odd couple, Danny stalwart but a mere five foot nothing, myself almost as stalwart but more than a foot taller. I didn’t give a damn. I was going to meet Adora Ferne.

  The woman who opened the door could not be Adora Ferne, however. She was in her forties and as unremarkable as Adora Ferne must be the opposite. That might be an unfair judgement as first impressions can be wrong and she hardly looked formidable. She was sturdily built, clad in smart trousers, a cardigan and T-shirt. Their muddy colour combined with her short brown hair and anxious face suggested that her role – if indeed this was the daughter, Melinda – did not permit competition with the famous Adora Ferne.

  ‘Here’s Jack Colby, Mrs Melinda,’ Danny announced, handing me over like a parcel to higher authority.

  ‘Thank you, Danny.’ Her coldness and lack of interest did not indicate a happy household.

  Boundaries had clearly been established between them, and I was left with Melinda as Danny sullenly walked away.

  Mrs Dane Wilson (her formal name, she told me) led me with protocol so strict that this might have been Buckingham Palace, not an old farmhouse – large though it was and indicating wealth. The austere corridor gave way to a room full of light overlooking a rear garden. There was music blaring out – not background classical melodies but pop music from the sixties. I followed Melinda in, peering round to spot Adora Ferne. I could see no sign of her at first – because it didn’t occur to me to peer behind the door we had just entered.

  ‘I like doing this,’ explained the extraordinary woman who slid gracefully out of her hiding place. ‘I can tell all sorts of things from the way someone comes into the room. Especially men. I can tell all sorts of things from their buttocks.’

  ‘Mother!’ Melinda said in a tone that suggested remonstrations would be of no use.

  ‘I’ll entertain Mr Colby alone, darling,’ said Adora, while my mind was still reeling at this introductory theory. ‘His backside suggests he is quite acceptable.’

  For what? I wondered somewhat nervously, while she gave me such a charming and intimate smile that I automatically shared the joke with her. I was still grappling for a hold on the situation. Almost visibly gnashing her teeth, Melinda departed, her heavy footsteps dying away along the corridor conveying her reproach. I was alone with Adora Ferne, who had moved over to the CD player.

  She was tall, extremely thin and wearing bright, extraordinary clothes like a Spanish dancer, with a wide, long bright red skirt, purple top, flamboyant patterned shawl and beads everywhere. Her hair was piled haphazardly on top of her head and was held ineffectually in place with a diamond clip. Real? I wondered.

  ‘Do you like Elvis? Well, no matter. We’ll dance anyway,’ she informed me.

  In a trice she threw herself into my arms so that I had no excuse not to obey her instructions to dance, her lithe, energetic body hurling itself against me.

  ‘Dear me, Mr Colby,’ came her voice just below my chin, ‘you’re out of practice. Shall we tango?’ she laughed, her eyes twinkling.

  ‘I’d like that,’ I replied obediently. I wouldn’t. I’m hopeless at most ballroom dances, especially the tango. I did my best to shoot my head and shoulders sharply in different directions, my chin pointing upwards, but she gave up on me. Instead I watched her, fascinated by the sensuous movements that must once have seduced any man she chose. The technique was still there, and the power, but fortunately I could tell it was not at full strength any more. Just as well. I couldn’t provide her with another Jaguar.

  ‘So,’ she said eventually, coming to a standstill before me, ‘we have established that you are no dancer and I’m told you cannot fulfil straightforward commissions to buy cars. What are you good at, Mr Colby?’ It was just as well she was laughing. The velvety, throaty voice purred insinuatingly at me.

  I wasn’t going to fall for it; this was her method of gaining control. It was time to establish my own
persona. First, a touch of formality would not go amiss; otherwise the story of the Jaguars was going to be entirely one-sided. Fish caught in a net do not have much say in what’s going on and I preferred to judge the story objectively. Why did I want to? I’d had one fruitless journey and a lot of guarded comments thrown at me, and finding out the reason why was a compelling plan – even if I had to risk being led into a labyrinth with no knowledge of what might lie ahead.

  ‘I’m good at classic cars, Miss Ferne. I don’t know your married name, I’m afraid.’

  ‘My dear, which name would I choose? I’ve forgotten the name of my first husband and there’s no way Rex would permit me to use his. He was my second choice. I have no wish to use Charlie’s name, and as for Harry’s … that would be politically awkward at the moment.’ Those green eyes twinkled again.

  I couldn’t resist the temptation to take this further – especially as she was clearly provoking it – so I fed her the question she was waiting for. ‘Why?’ I asked.

  ‘He’s eager to try a second round.’

  ‘And you don’t want to remarry him?’

  ‘I haven’t decided, Jack. May I call you Jack?’

  ‘It would be an honour.’ This was one game at least that I could play with caution.

  ‘My name derives from the Latin, of course. It means I’m adored and so to you I must be Adora.’

  From anyone else this would have sounded impossibly smug, but somehow it seemed quite natural coming from her – especially as it was probably true.

  ‘And to show you how adored and adorable I am, or alas, in many cases was, I will show you my darling Jaguars, Jack. My zoo of panting lovers, my stable of husbands, my Lair. Come.’ She took my arm as though we had been intimate friends for many years and out we went across the courtyard. Enthusiastic though I was to see the Jaguars, something felt wrong about this set-up. I decided to prod a little.