by Daniel Kemp
“An impatient man. Well, I'm much the same I guess. She plucked it from the sky, Harry P. “Just tell Lord Harry; Percy Crow.” Said she would talk only to the Paterson of noble English bloodstock, no common Yank like me.”
“Were they her words or yours?”
“First bit hers, second, my swing at it. Why?”
“Could you tax your overworked grey matter and recall precisely what the two of you were discussing before she revealed that name?”
“I could, but I won't. Nor will I tell you any of the conversations we had, but before her utterances about dear old Percy, we hadn't spoken for days. That enough?”
“What have you offered her in exchange for her ideals?”
“None of your business, Harry, but I did consider offering your bed and a British passport for an insight into Percy. Not for long though. I never felt comfortable with either, and I doubt your present company would like the arrangement.” The merest hint of a genuine smile threatened to break the downward tilt of his wafer-thin lips.
“So, she did say something else then?”
“Oh yeah, she did that alright. Something that nailed it bang smack on your front door. Said Daddy Paulo told her the name! Let me quote: I was having a meal with my father sometime after my second meeting with Harry in Moscow. It was he who mentioned the name. Verbatim stuff, Harry, good memory powers they installed at Langley.”
“Did you ask why Paulo had dropped the name into the conversation?”
“What was your expression, Harry; thick? As I take it you meant dumb, then neither am I. Of course I did. She said, quote again: I will only speak to Harry, he will understand. That's what Paulo told me to do. That's word for every word, my Lordship. I've taken the American angle out this time.” He leant back in the soft red leather armchair and stared vehemently at me, before adding the killing blow.
“Now neither of us need two guesses to know who Daddy Paulo got that name from, Harry, do we? That elusive great-granddaddy of yours, Lord Maudlin! Perhaps, the greatest handler of the greatest operative there has ever been. Maudlin either took the time and trouble to write the name in a love letter to his bastard son, or spoke directly of it in some meeting they had. Now, why, in your highly rated opinion, would that be, your noble Lord?”
“For someone with a memory like yours, you seem to have forgotten your own name. You haven't, unless I sustained a moment of complete deafness, announced yourself. Would be somewhat polite, don't you agree?” intrigued by the whole affair, I answered.
I had never heard the name that Katherine had disclosed. Once again, I questioned whether being a Paterson was a good thing or not, with more skeletons and suitcases in the Paterson wardrobe to unpack and pick at. My newly acquired American acquaintance sprang from his chair as if stung by a passing bee, briefly towering above me.
“Well, slap my thighs and brand my ass, what a peasant I must appear to you! Howard James Fredrick Mercer the second, at your pleasure my peerless English Lord. My father, Rudi Mercer, was the department's chief executive in the caper you were involved in that flushed Paulo out. He had worries about the set-up over here long before you climbed into it, Harry. Dad had George W's ear. Almost had him cutting dear old England's balls off, but Iraq and other considerations stood in the way. Your precious Secret Intelligence Services survived that day. Wasn't to last long though, was it?”
“This isn't going to work, Howard the second, is it?” I was only just holding myself together. If this was they way the Americans wanted to treat me then Sir Michael had wasted his and my time. “Either you want my cooperation or you want to slag me and this country off. What's it going to be? Make your decision now, or I'm off back to sunny Yorkshire, counting sheep!” I had tired of this line of chat and the overbearing hostility shown to me. His answer wasn't quick enough.
“Eff you, Mercer, I'm walking!” I said, as I too stood, making to leave. Under that light grey, creaseless suit he wore he must have been wearing armour plating. I extracted no reaction, nor a cessation to that monotone voice. He just sat back down.
“You'll want to hear this, if only for curiosity's sake. We researched this Percy Crow, threw everything we had at him. Committed suicide, so the report said, in his Islington home on Saturday twenty-eighth September 1983, aged eighty-one. His body was discovered by a male friend, who had a key, the following Wednesday. He was a professional photographer by trade, with a studio near Ludgate Hill, in the Fleet Street vicinity of your capital. A newspaper printing area apparently, or it was then. Not a wealthy lifestyle, but, interestingly, not poor either, seemed to live well in reasonable comfort. Had no enemies that the local police could find, neither did any connecting names appear in our analysis. That's not to say that there aren't any, especially now as we can't be completely sure our databanks have not been compromised. Other than that, we drew an enormous zero. Now, I'll address those subtle, social niceties you so eloquently mentioned. Sit, Harry. Sit, please! You're having the locals hatch eggs plus my neck hurts looking up to you. Are all you Englishmen so touchy and belligerent?”
I reluctantly complied, as he carried on with the sharp clink of china cups in the background.
“Excuse my pride getting in the way of my manners. The truth is, we, the last great bastion of freedom showing the way home, need you, an English Lord of the realm, to light the beacon. How ironic is that! You have my abject, unreserved apology for my rudeness. First I had to find out if you would be receptive to our courtship in this affair, Harry. Not a simple quasi-political type acquiescence, joined at the hip through a Lend-Lease agreement or hopes that special relationships affect your judgement. Hence, the visit you had from your ex-head of internal affairs, or civil service as you so nobly put it over here. Throw the carrot then hit with a whip, or some such British saying. Then I wanted to size you up for my own personal satisfaction. You're one helluva stubborn and proud man, as you should be. Mega piece of work you did on that Paulo thing. You have not only my admiration and respect, but also my initial trust.” Heavy emphasis on the you, I noticed. “It don't get any better in this game than that, Harry, believe it.” A brief stoppage to assess my reaction, then he took off again.
“Before you open what I'm about to give you, I'll take your word that it stays only in your honest safe farmer's hands. I want no corrupted British intel mitts on it. Not one single smudgy mark, Harry, not one!”
He removed a thin, yellow-coloured, paper file from his leather briefcase at the side of his chair then moving the empty cups aside, placed it on the table between us. It had no title, nor imprint.
“This is all we have. It's your game now, Harry. Don't drop the ball, nor pass it on, as in your favoured rugby, my English running back friend.”
“What department at the CIA did you say you worked at, Mr Mercer the second?” I asked
“I didn't, nor will I,” stoically he replied.
I wondered how the last American CIA friend, the one who had exposed Katherine, along with our own Willis and Howell, was doing. I concluded that not all allegiances to the Stars and Stripes led to satisfaction. Some led to agonising torment.
“Do I report back to you directly then, Mr. Howard, James, Fredrick, Mercer, or if not, to whom?”
His antagonistic and dour expression had been replaced by a more genial countenance, which was reflected in his tone.
“Call me Jimmy, Harry, and yes, you do. Use this cell. I'll be changing the codes as we go along.”
Handing me what I knew as a mobile phone, but he insisted on calling a cell, he rose and without further ado left. At the same time two heavily built men, wearing light brown raincoats covering similar coloured suits, who had been seated at the small round table nearest the door on my arrival, also left. Both waited in the street for Jimmy to catch-up, and by the time he had, a silver-coloured, nondescript Vauxhall motor car had pulled alongside the kerb. All three got in and drove off. Slick and efficient, I thought, now alone but enveloped by mysterious puzzles.
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The death of Percy Crow had never been remarked upon back at the Paterson family home and estate, nor at the London home, but the mass breakout of convicted IRA members from the notorious H-block, Maze prison, in Northern Ireland, three days earlier, had been; and regularly. Although I was only thirteen years of age at that time I remember the days clearly as it became the escape game I fantasised about on my way to Eton College after Ashville Preparatory School, my first place of education. I even extended the plan to Harrogate Hall. Working out how I would overpower my weekend governess, taking her captive, before driving off onto the Yorkshire Dales in her car! I had even worked out the ransom I would demand!
I had an explorative and inventive mind when I was a child. In my imagination I would build a picture of a person on simply hearing their name: their size, shape, characteristics, and on some occasions adding their prowess to a shrouded activity I would give them. It gave me great fun when names of ancestors were being expanded upon whilst I underwent my detailed tutorial into the family's history. The hanging portrait paintings came alive in my vision as a consequence. An elementary, childish thing I know, and one that I should have grown out of, but I never have. For the most part, what I imagined them to look like, or to have been was never in reality the truth. Being wrong, however, never stopped me continuing in that quirkish manner.
I was playing with the newly acquired name as I drove home from Reading. Percy, seemed strong and solid. An old man's name when carried on young shoulders, but sturdily substantial when older. As for Crow, I pictured the bird. Dark and threatening as the glossy plumage, resolute and strong-minded as the raucous call and strong bill. As I turned into the drive leading to The Hall, I had fixed on the impression of a tall, well-built man with red hair and beard. Perhaps a sailor, or a mercenary? At least a military person at one stage. Non-commissioned rank, as the surname was too commonplace for my innovative and fanciful mind to consider otherwise. Somehow or other he had been known by Maudlin, the Great One, and known well enough for my great-grandfather to have told his faraway bastard son, Paulo. I wondered from where, and why!
Deep in my memory, was the recollection that not only did Maudlin collect women throughout his life, but also he had an attachment to photography. Could that have been where the two had met? I could not see the Ireland of Maudlin's adventurous days with the names of Percy nor Crow in them. Even allowing for the falsification of age in the First World War, it was hardly feasible for someone who was born in 1902 to be known by him, and by the time of the Second World War Maudlin was engaged elsewhere other than in the overt military. It came down to a political acquaintance, or a monetary one? Perhaps neither, but how though?
The bones were beginning to rattle!
Chapter Three: Soft Box
It wasn't until late in the evening that I arrived back at The Hall. Serena had called me twice whilst I was away. The first time to say that she was bored, and the second to tell me that her hairstylist was coming; again! Serena's hair was almost as important as her fashion designs; requiring infinite attention. As Joseph, my long-suffering, stolid butler, greeted me at the door I heard the shrill sound of playful voices coming from somewhere inside.
“We have unexpected company, my Lord.” If Joseph was uneasy with anything he addressed me as he had just done. More often than not he was in absolute command over the house and then I was referred to as plain 'sir'.
Serena bounced towards me, on the tips of her toes, as though she was a ballerina performing little pas de chat steps. She was either excited by her new hair colouring, or it had sent her stark staring mad. It wasn't long until I found out.
“Follow me, Harry. My heavenly creative team are here awaiting you. Oh, I also invited a couple of business associates up from London as well. Something vitally important came up suddenly. We have been busy in your absence. Don't mind, darling, do you?”
“Don't I get a kiss nowadays? There I was thinking that it was my body and scintillating personality that attracted you, when all the time it was my money and this spacious place that you were after.” I smiled of course, but I was slightly annoyed to find that it was open house to strangers. I needed time to think, not socialise.
“Tanta, you'll meet him in a second, just loves your cows, H. He positively fell in love with one of them, I'm telling you tears were in his eyes in adoration!” I got my kiss, and doubted that anyone named Tanta was a farmer, but looked on the bright side in case I was wrong. At least there was another man amongst her normal all female cast of attendants.
“I was raised in the belief, Serena, that if one stocks cows then it's better to milk nice ones than the ugly ones. For myself, I try not to fall in love with four-legged cows as much as I do with the corresponding two-legged variety, but there's no accounting for taste.” My displeasure was fading but not fast enough for her.
“Have I caught you in a bad mood, H? I do hope not, as simply everyone is over the stars here in ecstasy!”
As I quickly dismissed the thought of some drug-induced party held in my beloved county of Yorkshire, I caught sight of Joseph who was hovering, ostensibly to take my attaché case and coat, but I sensed his displeasure. He and I had been together for too many years not to be able to understand situations without the need of speech.
“I'll have the car garaged, sir,” he stated on his departure, carrying away my coat. Serena took hold of my hand and led me towards the introduction of her assembled retinue of assistants.
“Do you adore the new hair colour, Harry? Say you do, or Tanta will be just so upset he'll probably cry again. The poor chap is undergoing traumas of emotions so far from his home. The country air doesn't suit his personality at all! I thought he was going to choke when he got out of the taxi.” There is a waft from the muck that I've heard to be considered unpleasant by city-lovers but surely not by a lover of cows! I concentrated on Serena's hair rather than the unbelievable.
“Purple is it, or crimson?” I asked, ignoring all references to tearful, sentimental cow lovers who found fresh air alien to their nature. As much as I was interested in everything about her, the variance in shades of colouring was not foremost in my mind.
“Tanta has christened it crimple. With the added cute advertising line of: The Fulfilled Fusion of a Fateful Future! Creativity at its best, Harry, can't you just believe it. I instantly flew two of my design team up here as we're going to use the colour for this year's upcoming winter coat collection. We're working flat out on it now. There is a bit of a rush to get it to the machinists. Most other designs are waiting in warehouses.”
The entourage, in one of the smaller upstairs drawing rooms, numbered six: Tanta, the maestro with the imaginative creativity. A huge black man with plaits of pure white hair trailing down his back as far as his knees. Shoulders and neck definition that reminded me of a bodybuilder and the frame of a super heavyweight boxer. He was wearing a full-length, loose-fitting grubby garment that I can only describe as a coat smock. He never looked like a tearful girl to me!
A petit, quiet Chinese girl with short lifeless black hair named Bao, the pedicurist. She was minute in frame and height. Walked with her feet turned painfully inwards and had such intoxicating blue shadowed eyes that made it almost impossible to look away from. She frightened me.
The manicurist! A strikingly good-looking woman named Fiona. In her early thirties with a figure to die for. She spoke with a faint Scottish intonation, giving her the extra sex appeal that her body definitely did not need. With her I desperately fought against the thought of discussing Scotch whisky; and several unrelated topics that I had a liking for. Even though I was with Serena, I had not abandoned my characteristic flirtatious ways.
The hairstylist, an immensely expensive, middle-aged chap with a French name I had instantly forgotten, who only cemented my innate dislike of that race. Then came the two fashion photographers. Both appearing to be in need of a substantial meal to fill out sections of their corresponding yellow dresses that might
make it easier to guess as to their gender. One of these under-nourished girls was beside a soft box, with light-reflecting umbrellas and a fish fryer. She was standing alongside the second, who was at a tripod mounted digital Canon camera. My late younger brother Edward sprang immediately to mind, as it was he who had first used the terminology that I instantly remembered when I had seen him in the exact pose here at The Hall. They all mumbled a faint hello, then assumed their previous positions.
After a curt, compact conversation with the assembled, separated by another of Serena's kisses and an inconspicuous smile from me in Fiona's direction, I made my excuses and left, wishing my fingernails needed cutting.
“Get Mrs Franks to bring something from the kitchen, then I'll be back shortly to share it with you. Make it something easy,” I added as an afterthought, with mind to Tanta's size. “As I believe she may be on her own in the kitchen at this time of night.”
I showered, then met with Joseph half an hour later in my private office.
“I need to go and stay in London for a few days, Joseph, visiting George in Eton Square. Then no doubt there'll be other things to do and people to see that I haven't met in ages. Could you telephone him tonight to arrange a visit for late next week please? I'll check my diary and leave a list of meetings to cancel, and I'll tell the estate manager of my plans. It could involve a long absence, but I'll try my best not to make it so. You know how much I hate London.”
“And what will the young lady do whilst you're away, my Lord? Will she be going with you?” Joseph was uncomfortable again.
