Classic In the Clouds Read online

  Helen, I noted, was keeping very quiet.

  ‘Certainly,’ Julian said after a short pause. ‘And we need it urgently.’

  ‘Because you want to display it as soon as possible?’

  ‘Yes, but it’s for the rally.’

  I was really flummoxed now, but before I could flee to a saner world, Helen stepped in. ‘Suppose we introduce Jack to Treasure Island and then explain our plans.’

  The voice of calm – and a smile that could win a convalescing heart like mine. It was needed because then she threw open the door to Aladdin’s cave.

  I’ve seen a lot of classic car collections and museums in my time, and I love them all, from the huge, all-encompassing ones like Beaulieu and Haynes to smaller specialist ones such as the Morgan museum at Rolvenden. There are also plenty of ‘fishing’ stories about privately owned barns with rumoured splendours behind their closed doors, whether they be cherished possessions or sad wrecks mouldering away unloved. But never, never, had I seen a collection housed like this.

  At first I thought I’d entered another Glory Boot like Dad’s. What hit me immediately was the sheer colour of the place. The inside of this outwardly drab greyish shed was painted a vivid red, both the barrel ceiling and all the walls of this warm shell. Within their red cocoon cars glowed welcome – or did their best to do so. It was a maze with cars jumbled up with photos, models, books – you name it, I could see it. Each car on display seemed to have its own shell area painted in a different colour: a vivid blue, a green, a primrose yellow, giving the effect of an enormous jigsaw puzzle. A second look told me that some of the paint needed redoing, that several of the cars were well past their due date for restoration, and the whole place needed a face lift. But that first impression still had me gasping.

  Helen shot me a sideways look. ‘It’s a bit – um . . .’

  ‘Impressive,’ I supplied tactfully. ‘What exactly is it a museum of?’

  ‘Memorable Motors,’ she told me. ‘Each car is set in context of what it’s memorable for. A famous owner, a race winner, a getaway car for a famous theft. That sort of thing.’

  ‘Motors represent history, people’s history,’ Julian said with owner’s pride. ‘Cars are the people who loved them.’

  I could see now that within each car area, the differing colours provided a backdrop to the automobilia displayed with the car.

  ‘The cars each have their own story explained,’ Helen said proudly, pointing to a 1946 Riley l ½ litre that been used, she told me, as the getaway car in the famous raid on Beechwood Castle. The board I could see at its side was covered in large copperplate handwriting – no impersonal computer-generated labels for Treasure Island.

  ‘Are all these from your grandfather’s collection?’ I asked Julian.

  ‘He began it, my father added to it, and I intend to do the same.’

  ‘I hadn’t heard of it,’ I said, puzzled. ‘Is it open to the public?’

  ‘My grandfather never wanted that,’ Julian replied – it seemed somewhat unwillingly. ‘He loved it too much.’

  That ticked a few boxes. The avid collector spirit is alive and well in the car field just as art collectors hanker after treasures that lie squirrelled away.

  ‘My father turned it into a charitable trust just before he died,’ Julian continued, ‘so that it should be opened for all to appreciate. Times change, so that’s what we shall now do when the money is available.’ He didn’t look happy about it though.

  ‘Have a look round,’ Helen suggested and I was only too eager for a solitary wander. I made a beeline for a Bristol 406 Sedan, but got seduced by a Lea-Francis on the way, and then by – well, let’s say, every single car I could see. The storyboards – for want of a better word, although it made me think of my lost Louise, whom I’d met on a film set1 – carried tales of the rich and famous, the notorious, and the unknown, such as the mother who had bought a Ford for her son’s twenty-first birthday, which waited four years for him to return from the First World War. He won a posthumous VC at Zeebrugge and the car was never used. Louise would have found that as poignant as I did.

  ‘So that’s why you want to display the De Dion Bouton, if there’s any truth to the rumour you heard,’ I said to the Mad Major when I finally forced myself to return to them.

  ‘There is no doubt about it.’ The Major glared at me. ‘How are you getting on?’

  I forbore to point out that it was less than sixteen hours since he had ‘commissioned me’ and for half of those, as is usual with mankind, I had been asleep. ‘It seems to me there’s quite a lot of doubt, but I’m putting the word out to my contacts.’

  ‘Fat lot of use that will be,’ the Major snorted.

  Julian lost his cool too and panic antennae shot out all round him. ‘We need discretion. Everyone in the world will be after it.’

  ‘True, but unless you hope to buy it from a scrap merchant, that will happen anyway.’

  Julian flushed and his eyes took on the manic look again. ‘I have to have first crack at it.’

  I noted the ‘I’. Was I dealing with the trust or with Julian Carter, car collector? Could there be a lack of ‘full disclosure’ here?

  ‘I don’t want the whole world chasing after it,’ Julian added shortly.

  I changed tack. ‘You said the rumour was already going around, Major. When did you first hear it?’

  He stared at me angrily. ‘I want the car, not an inquisition.’

  It had seemed a reasonable question to me. What on earth was going on here? ‘For Treasure Island?’

  ‘Of course,’ Julian said stiffly. ‘The jewel in the crown.’

  Helen gave me an amused look and I was reassured – almost. ‘The De Dion would certainly be a draw,’ I agreed, ‘but don’t be too confident I’ll find it. What if I don’t? Given the way that false rumours can fly around that’s more probable than finding it. A car that hasn’t been heard of for over a hundred years is more likely to remain hidden than to suddenly pop up on the radar. And you know that rare cars like early De Dions are worth real money, and with the pedigree of the one you’re after it would go through the roof.’

  ‘I’ll pay your time,’ the Major barked impatiently. ‘And if you find the car, I’ll double it.’

  That seemed fair enough – if I took the job. I was still thinking about it though. Why me? Because I was known to be a chump?

  ‘Tell me,’ I said firmly, ‘just why you believe it’s still to be found. A vague rumour isn’t much to go on.’

  Boxed into a corner, Stanley managed some sort of reply. ‘One of the two was definitely around in the 1960s.’

  Well, that was a help. Halfway there. Only another fifty or so years in which it could have vanished again. ‘How do you know that?’ I asked, when he stopped right there.

  ‘I was attached for a few months to the British Embassy in Paris,’ he continued unwillingly. ‘Heard enough about it then to convince me it was still around. After all, the Itala and Spyker are.’

  ‘The 1960s are a long time ago,’ I pointed out, ‘and that was in France, not Kent. Where did you hear this recent rumour?’

  ‘Does that matter?’

  I thought maybe I’d entered John Cleese’s Department of Silly Walks. ‘Yes. Could you try to remember and explain why it’s so urgently needed?’

  All three trustees of the future Memorable Motors museum looked at me as though I were crazy, and not them.

  ‘It’s for the rally.’ Julian looked shocked that I should ask.

  That word ‘rally’ again. Fortunately Helen read my face correctly. ‘Didn’t you tell him about that, Stanley?’ she said crossly.

  The Major cleared his throat. ‘It’s urgent because we’ve only got four months. We’re rerunning the Peking to Paris rally in August.’

  This time I was left speechless. Helen giggled. ‘It’s taking place here, Jack, not in Asia. We’re doing it on the cheap.’

  ‘Here?’ Call me stupid, but Peking to Paris does invo
lve Asia.

  ‘It’s going to be fun,’ she assured me. ‘We’ve mapped out a weekend route starting at Dover, which is our Peking – now Beijing, of course – and ending two days later in “Paris”. That’s going to be Canterbury, or perhaps here at Harford Lee. Overnight stops at “Urga” in Mongolia on the far side of the Gobi Desert, and Tunbridge Wells which is Omsk in Russia on the original rally. Then we return to “Paris” by a different route. Every town and village will be decked out in period costume accordingly, and serving appropriate foods.’

  I was trying to take all of this in. ‘What’s the reason behind it, apart from fund-raising?’ I asked weakly.

  ‘Fun,’ she promptly replied – and I warmed to her even more. Pipe dream? Fantasy? Helen seemed quite serious about it, however, and though I had put Julian and the Major down as fantasists, I did believe in her.

  ‘We’re allotting each town and village an appropriate name from the route that the original rally took – and the hazards they faced too. Romney Marsh is the Gobi Desert, for instance.’

  I had to laugh, which pleased them all. All the same I wondered what the thus honoured Kent villages would think of their new identities. ‘Do the places concerned know what’s going to hit them?’

  ‘Of course.’ Helen looked slightly annoyed at my all too obvious scepticism. ‘We’ve been planning it since last autumn and have done the basic work clearing it with the traffic police and contacting parish and borough councils. And before you ask, we want as many classic cars and clubs to enter as possible, although the police have set a limit of sixty cars. And they don’t have to fall through bridges and get mixed up in floods as they did in the real rally. We’re just about to start the serious publicity – so you can see how the De Dion Bouton would fit in so nicely.’

  It was crazy, but could indeed be fun. Looking at Helen, it seemed certain it would be – except for my nagging suspicion that where Julian and the Mad Major were concerned it wasn’t going to be all plain sailing. I felt there was something I hadn’t yet got the hang of. ‘Who’s agreed to take part so far?’

  ‘Most of the motor clubs in Kent and East Sussex have agreed in principle. After all, it’s for charity. One half goes to each town’s local charities, and the rest to us. Our charity being Treasure Island and the project of opening it to the public.’

  I had to ask: ‘Suppose the million to one chance comes off and you do get the loan of the original 1907 De Dion, are you hoping it will actually take part in the rally?’ That surely had to be too much to hope for.

  ‘No,’ Julian said promptly. ‘Display only as the centrepiece. After I’ve bought the car, of course.’

  This all sounded optimistic, to say the least. I could see trouble ahead. Big time. ‘It would cost the earth.’

  ‘Then I shall pay the earth – somehow,’ Julian patiently replied. ‘Do you think I’d let my grandfather’s – and my – dream go without giving all I’ve got to fulfil it? It was hearing his father talk about that race and reading the books about it that set my grandfather off on a lifelong hunt for memorable cars – and in particular for those two De Dion Boutons. One of them he had to have, but he could never track one down. Now I’m going to do it for him.’

  If Julian could afford to pay for the De Dion (even ‘somehow’) why, I wondered, was it necessary to organize an event to raise funds for the museum? It was understandable, I reasoned. Cash in hand is one thing; running a museum is a long-time commitment and thus quite another. Was the aim of the rally to flush the De Dion out of hiding? I dismissed the idea. They said they wanted the car before the race, not as a result of it.

  I saw Helen’s hopeful eyes and I formally accepted the job from the Major. It occurred to me as I drove away, however, that I still felt uneasy about it. I couldn’t figure out why this was at first, but then it came to me. The Major had never told me where he first heard the rumour. It had not reached me, so it could hardly be widespread as yet. He had avoided answering me. And why, if it was Julian who was so dead set on buying the car, was it the Major who was commissioning me?

  The other thought that occurred to me was that I hadn’t seen inside the other two sheds, only Treasure Island itself.

  I returned to Frogs Hill still pondering whether I’d been wise to take the job on. Although I’d been honest about my chances of success, and although it was possible I might track down the source of the rumour, I knew I didn’t stand much chance of getting any further than that, especially given that the Mad Major was hardly being cooperative. I suspected that if Helen hadn’t been involved I wouldn’t be going this far. There were too many unanswered questions, I hadn’t much taken to Julian and the Mad Major was off his rocker. That was just for starters. I argued that Helen seemed sane and that therefore she must believe there was a chance. If so, I needed to get going on the rumour front and for that I should pull in some favours. That, like charity, would begin at home.

  Zoe and Len. Zoe hadn’t been her usual self recently, but one avenue might be through Rob Lane, her boyfriend, partner, chum – I never know which with Zoe. A layabout from a wealthy family, he’s an odd companion for otherwise practical fancy-free Zoe, and incidentally he and I have a chequered relationship. We don’t get on. He barges in and I throw him out whenever I can.

  I drove the Gordon-Keeble tenderly back to the rear garage at Frogs Hill where it lives together with my other classic, the 1938 Lagonda. How can I afford two classics when I’m broke? They are a part of the reason for it. Like beautiful women, they can be costly.

  Then I went over to the Pits to find Zoe decoking the cylinder head of the Austin Healey. When I mentioned asking Rob to put out feelers for me, the answer was clear to my astonishment.

  ‘No,’ she said shortly.

  ‘But—’

  ‘He’s found another dumb floozie.’

  I did a double-take, recognizing a bruised heart with a fellow feeling. ‘Not “another”, Zoe. You’re not a dumb floozie.’ Privately I was overjoyed. It was an enormous bonus if Rob had vanished for good from her life.

  ‘No,’ she agreed. ‘I’m just a mug.’ And she promptly went back to work on the Healey as a subtle hint that the conversation was over.

  Len didn’t look in a chatty mood either, so I returned to the farmhouse to put out calls to my usual contacts – none of whom was likely to be in the market to make a rival bid for a De Dion Bouton from 1907. They might know a man who was, however, so I took care to explain they were to listen for, not spread, the rumour. Reliable? Well, maybe. I decided I’d give Harry Prince a miss since he’s the one contact (of a sort) who might be the exception to the ‘listen only’ guidelines. He made his cash by gossip.

  This accomplished, I went into the Glory Boot to have another look at Dad’s books. I knew he’d had a first edition of Barzini’s Peking to Paris, the story of Prince Scipio Borghese’s winning experiences in the Itala – Luigi Barzini, a journalist, had been in the Itala with him. This book had, Dad had told me, seized the public’s imagination all over the world and thus, in Dad’s opinion, was largely responsible for putting the Peking to Paris race into folklore. One of the De Dion drivers had written his story too, but as luck would have it Dad hadn’t bought a copy, perhaps because, I then discovered, it was never translated into English. However, there were other books about the rally-cum-race – or raid as Le Matin newspaper intended it to be when they first launched the idea of the Peking to Paris challenge – and even several sketch maps of the route.

  As usual in the Glory Boot, I became absorbed in what I was doing and it was late evening by the time I returned to the farmhouse living room. The landline was ringing as I did so. Ever hopeful that it might be my lost love Louise declaring that she couldn’t live without me, I sprang to answer it, but it wasn’t her. She was following her wandering star in an acting career, something she couldn’t combine with Frogs Hill (and me). The call was from Dave Jennings of the Kent Car Crime Unit, who commissions me for the freelance work that I do for t
he Unit. Work that’s vital, as I explained, for keeping at bay predators (like Harry Prince) who think they’d like to buy me out. I get on well with Dave, though he can be a funny old stick at times.

  ‘Did you know Alfred King?’ he asked.

  ‘Yup. Great friend of Len Vickers. Len was very cut up about his death. I liked him too. He was a good guy. Why—?’

  ‘Am I ringing you?’ Dave cut in. ‘Answer. Maybe something odd about his accident.’

  ‘Coroner’s query or police?’

  ‘Neither. Judged straightforward. The car lift fell on him.’

  I hadn’t known the details and I blenched. ‘So why the doubt? Accidents can happen to the best of us.’

  ‘Not if the nut locking the hydraulic ram into position has been loosened.’

  ‘Is that fact?’

  ‘Fact that it was. Not fact that it was deliberate. Looks like a moment’s inattention, but the widow isn’t happy.’ A pause. ‘There’s a lot of four-by-fours vanishing all of a sudden. Could be there’s a new kid on the block and he’s trying his muscle. Want to sniff around?’

  I knew Dave’s shorthand. A new gang working Alfred King’s area. Had Alf been blocking its path?

  ‘I’m on for it, Dave.’

  ‘Right. Funeral’s next Monday. Might be a good starting point.’

  TWO

  ‘Turn right at the roundabout.’ Zoe broke the silence unnecessarily. Sitting next to me in the passenger seat and clad in dark skirt and jacket, she seemed smaller and almost vulnerable compared with the Zoe I usually see at work in the Pits. Surely she could see that losing Rob was a plus not a minus? Then I thought of the train of disastrous ladies I could count in my own past, each of whom had seemed ‘right’ at the time, and decided to be more sympathetic.

  I know the road to Eynsford, where Alfred King had lived and worked, and my Alfa daily driver could find it without any help from me, let alone from Zoe. It’s an attractive village at the heart of the picturesque Darent Valley, and the river runs right through its centre. Its beauty made our journey here for his funeral seem all the worse.