by Daniel Kemp
It was Sophie who added the final punch.
“There was not, Harry, but never fear, she had not vanished. I found her name in a 1940 edition of the same newspaper, but her termination came in a vastly different way than his. She was brutally murdered in the basement of that Cork home. Stabbed repeatedly and decapitated,” emotionless, Sophie revealed. If this was all part of Percy's revenge then how and why did the Drogheda hospital fire fit in?
“What happened to the Somerset family between 1910 and 1940 in Cork, George?” Again it was Sophie who had the microphone.
“I was attempting to find that out when George told me of your imminent arrival, Harry. I'll get on with it when I get back.” Sophie was providing me with as much excitement as she was George, except my mouth salivated for an altogether different reason than his.
Chapter Seventeen: Banana Trees
Mrs Franks had Sophie's additional appetite to satisfy over the weekend shoot, augmented to the existing forty she expected. To her fully stocked larder Serena proposed to add a variety of smoked pork sausages, cornbread, pulses and herbs. Bags of ice from the kitchen at Eton Square were packaged for the transportation home stacked beside travelling bags in the boot of the car.
The conversation in the Bentley had been muted somewhat with Serena and myself focused on more general points than our own relationship, and George and Sophie being separated by Mrs Squires, who was constantly being coached in the preparation of Portuguese soup and stew as per Serena's recipe. Mrs Squires was coming to help in the kitchen at The Hall, but by the reflection I occasionally caught in the driving mirror I could not see the same determination of purpose that I heard in Serena's instructions. I visualised problems awaiting me both at home and here in Lincolnshire.
* * *
Major-General Sir Rupert Draycott was somewhat surprised as I temporarily placed our sausages and ice in his ample sized freezer on my arrival at his home in Lincoln. I said my goodbyes to the others at his gate, leaving them to mingle amongst the crowds surrounding the Cathedral.
“Most of what I know is still listed as top secret, Harry, and I was not too sure that I should be speaking to you about any of it. But I followed your advice and spoke to Sir David Haig. He cleared you, and that satisfies me. Ask away, my young friend, let's get to the bottom of what you're after.”
Sir Rupert had long retired from all service-related work, now living alone with his immense powers of memory honed after years of ritual and discipline. His wife of more than half his lifetime had passed away a little over three years ago, and although I hadn't seen him since the day of the funeral we had spoken on the telephone several times on matters to do with the regiment. He was a man of short stature, moustached, bespectacled and of academic appearance, rather than military. His dominating personality did not emanate from any special physical power but came from the fluency of thought he applied to any subject. Special Branch was pre-eminent in many achievements whilst under his guidance, introducing Special Detective Units both north and south of the dividing border of Ireland being just one. But it was not Ireland that I had come to speak of principally. I had come for Percy, knowing I was breaking Jimmy Mercer's most sacred rule, but if Jimmy didn't know that's what I'd do, then he had no right to occupy a park bench in Langley Fort, let alone an executive desk at the nearby CIA headquarters.
“When Percy Crow died in September 1983, Sir Rupert, your department took possession of all the photographs he had in his home and studio. I want to know how they were handled and what you found that may link him to us and the IRA. I believe he was a consummate performer acting out his own interpretation of the role that was first assigned to him by Meredith Paine back in the fifties. He also, as I understand it, had a particular photograph that may have had embracing consequences on perhaps the highest family in this land of ours that could still be in circulation today. He and that photo were a liability, and both of us know that he could not be allowed to carry on as he was. Did we hang him or did he really do it himself?”
We were seated in his conservatory, which later I was to find out was a favourite spot of his, just sitting watching his plants grow. The place had that distinct steamy smell of heat mixed with water. A moist humid place that the tropical plants found to their liking, but not so my knee. It was starting to flare up again.
“I never considered you as quite so forthright, Harry. You would have made either a jackass or a heroic battlefield commander. Not possible to tell which at this stage, though.” He'd laughed, as we carried our coffee to the small rounded marble table with its two soft long chairs, beneath overhanging palm and banana trees looking out onto his secluded garden and a tranquil riverside scene.
“Shall we dispense with the respected titles? Harry, all right for you?” I agreed, and down to business we went.
“I'll deal with the photographs first if that's okay. They would appear to be the easiest in a very tightly woven tale. We spent literally months on them. At first the 'orange' ones were examined. Orange in our line meant of no apparent interest, but Harry, there weren't that many crystal clear. Many names overlapped our lists. 'Yellow' were the next priority and 'Red' being the last. Separate sections were employed on all three, but as I say there was often nothing to differentiate between all the levels of risk. I'll give you an example. There were several of theatrical personalities, playwrights, actors, actresses, even theatre owners. British, Americans and some from other parts. Several of these knew others unrelated to the thespian world who would appear on any security alert notice board. Then there was the Irish question. That warranted a separate section completely. It was a painful process requiring much diligence and time. We were given strict orders from 5 not to involve any outside agency other than them. Not The Box either, Harry, you notice. Nobody was the directive, and we obeyed it to the letter.
The first name he gave us, on his recruitment in '52, was also in a photograph that we had categorised as Yellow. Sir Anthony Blunt. If you remember that period of history at all, Blunt was suspected when Donald Maclean crossed over, but never verified until the American, Michael Straight positively fingered him in the sixties, but all manner of differing evidence had been laid down by then. From Sir Alan Lascelles in the forties, to Goronwy Rees at the time of Burgess and Maclean's defection, but Blunt's name was continually ignored, or deliberately pushed aside. He was made a Knight Commander of the Royal Victorian Order as late as 1956 by the Queen herself. One of the reasons why his public exposure as a Soviet spy was kept secret until 1979 was that at the end of the second World War he undertook a mission, authorised by the Palace, to Germany. That visit was deemed as not relevant to national security, and is still so designated. The complete file is preserved in perpetuity away from any outsiders hands. You may discover that he made two visits, Harry, and possibly become one of a select handful of people to find the reason for that second visit. But I wouldn't want to swap places with you; if you do.
As I understand things, you've spoken at length to Sir Michael Riven with whom I had the privilege to work with for a time. He introduced Charlie Reilly to you. Reilly and Crow had a mutual friend in Douglas Simmons, who you also may know of. What you don't know is that Blunt and Simmons were in contact. Not often, Harry, but significantly in the tracing of that photograph you have referred to. Blunt had a passion for many things, one of which was the paintings of Nicholas Poussin. He added quite a few to the Royal collection when he was in charge of the Queen's paintings. There was another avid admirer of that artist; a Canadian by birth, Harry, known to Simmons. Whispers from the intelligence services suggested that it was this man who had much earlier introduced Percy Crow to the 'pin' in the photo we tried unsuccessfully to unearth. The one which you now seek. Yes, I'm aware of the terminology that Crow used to describe his subject matter. I don't believe for one split second that the Canadian in question had any inkling into the sexual preferences of the man he introduced to Crow and another person you're aware of, Lord Cecil Montague, as he had
an impeachable reputation both here and in his own country. Think where both Simmons and Crow were in '45, Harry, and concentrate all your thoughts on who the girl in the picture may be, because I've got no idea and nor has anyone else. All I know for sure is that it was a cruel world, that of Percy Crow, and it never changed up to his death.”
“But they were both captured in '45 by the Red Army, Rupert. They were in Russia when Blunt went to Germany.”
“Did he only go to Germany, Harry? How can you be sure that's the one place he went, or who he met? Wiser men than I bought the story that Crow sold us and never looked further, but why was Simmons repatriated from a Russian camp, and where did his embarkation ticket come from and where did he go? I was still in the military when all this was happening and obviously know nothing concrete about any of it, but during that search through the file of Crow's that I was allowed to look at, I saw references to inhumane acts that turned my stomach, but I wasn't allowed to look to deep! I spoke almost everyday to C at 5 and most of what I've said I got from him. My overall impression, after hours on the phone, was that his opinion of Crow was the same as the one you now hold; Crow had somehow gone beyond control.
All I could think of is that he must have provided some very useful information otherwise he would have been contained, but I could find no evidence that we killed him or contrived to make that happen. However, that's not to say we didn't. I'll say this much and leave it there, Harry. Percy's file contained more ambivalence than absolute certainty in all matters, and remember his file was wiped clean in 1963, twenty years before he died.”
The more I delved, the more misinformation I came across. Sir Michael Riven knew nothing of Simmons being in Russia. Wily Sir Rupert hadn't believed anything he'd read, so why should I?
* * *
Two hours later and with a wealth of information down on my tape machine I was reunited with my company of helpful amateur sleuths. Rupert had provided no insight into those three remaining photos of Maudlin's that George had brought with him, which caused a ripple of disappointment on the assembled vexed faces. I surmised that the Cathedral had not been enjoyed by all, and surprisingly I was not wrong.
“Loved the colours the sun painted through those stained windows, Harry, but after a while, was it ten hours or two days you left us, one pew looked the same as any old pew, and they all felt as hard. Not the centre of originality is Lincoln, is it! Very lacking in interesting shoe shops.” It was Serena who voiced her irritability while the others nodded in approval. I could imagine the three women searching for shoes but not George, as I silently thought that his choice of footwear, a pair of pristine clean white trainers, was far worse than my own, a pair of scuffed brown brogues. I had no other time to spend comparing our mode of dress, as Serena hadn't finished her diatribe aimed at Lincoln.
“All there was were antique shops and tea houses. Neither of which I wished to waste time in! This bloody shoot of yours had better be exciting or I'm off back to the civilisation in London. Find me a Costa coffee shop, or else, Harry P.” I didn't press the 'or else' part of her complaint. I liked her angry!
Rupert had given me some details concerning the two Irishmen at the 1981 party of Maudlin's, but there was a nagging doubt in my mind that kept me from sharing that with Serena or any of them, but not from a guest at the forthcoming shoot.
Chapter Eighteen: A Smudge
Inside Charlie Reilly there was no room for anything but hatred for the English; Percy was different. All I was sure of was that he was an insipid person with affinity aligned to only himself. Both men, however, had experienced abuse of many kinds whilst at Grange Manor, under Montague's care, which neither forgot. Charlie took his revenge through the brutality he helped to finance for the Republican Army, introducing Percy to their number and his passage to higher stakes. Percy had something of extreme value that needed hiding somewhere safe; far from Ireland. The only reason I had at that stage for his enlisting in the territorials was to further both their ends. Charlie would have an asset within the British military who perhaps could assist his Irish friends and Percy could forget the atrocities meted on him in Ireland in a way he had come to like; blowing things up! I knew this to be insubstantial, flimsy and lame but it was all I had. Not one of us could foresee the future.
Douglas Simmons, the third prong to this perplexing trident, was the odd one out in two ways: one, he had never suffered from sexually deviant men and two, nor was he being chased by any nightmares, he was following his lifetime enticement of money. He had lost his idealism in Spain only to recover some of it in the chemical laboratories inside Germany before his association with Viktor Brack, when it then flourished. One of the hallucinatory drugs he worked exclusively on developing was colloquially called Angel Dust, but when it first appeared was known as an anaesthetic agent that caused schizophrenia, amongst many other toxic effects.
* * *
The Glorious Twelfth opened precisely as that. The sun shone strongly and the birds flew high and fast. Sophie had refused the offer of a gun, opting instead to watch from a safe distance, and although I'm sure that Serena felt a certain obligation to keep her company, competition against me and her father was far too compelling. For the luncheon on Saturday, after the first drive of the day, it was her Portuguese stew that Mrs Franks presented for our guests. That, with the soda bread, stole the day. As we all took to our stands for the afternoon drive all I could hear was praise for Mrs Frank's — Tantalising Crimple, the name the three of us had democratically christened the dish.
“Did you have trouble in your kitchen with the cook helping Serena with her stew, Harry? I know it was always a favourite of hers. Your Mrs Franks did wonderfully well in its concoction. I could almost taste home,” Nicolás Abenazo proclaimed, with a satisfied grin on his tanned face.
“No, I stayed a safe distance away. But Serena was magnificent in her magnanimous acclaim of Mrs Franks expertise. As I understand things, you're seldom seen in Portugal nowadays. Based in Brazil, are you not, Nicolás?”
“I am, yes! But home is where the heart is after all and that's where mine is, Harry, no matter where I'm based.”
“Not much hands-on now, surely? Can't the shipping all be done from the offices in New York, releasing you for more time to enjoy those vineyards of yours? You'd make a fine wine expert you know, and advocate for your native varietals.”
“Harry, you're making me feel old. I suppose it was Serena who told you about New York. I'm a long way from retiring into a rocking chair with a candle beside me writing catalogues on Vinhos Verdes. I'll do that when you settle down with a number of children to raise,” he laughed, then smilingly added, “You and my daughter make a handsome couple. Your marriage would unite two of the oldest families in Europe, you know, Harry. Apart from her brief marriage, I've never known her to spend so much time with one man. By that I don't mean that she was flighty, the opposite is true. She is very selective, is my daughter.”
I recalled something Paulo had once told me, word for word: Being married and having children is the norm, and it opens doors usually closed to the single man unless, that is, he knows the right people, or has secrets about them to use as leverage. It's the single people in life that one notices. Married couples draw no attention as they seldom speak to each other.
“Not quite at the stage of calling you Dad, my friend, but I would appreciate a formal chinwag before dinner tonight. Say, my office at around seven. That be okay for you?”
“Intriguing, Harry! Until seven it is then.”
The morning shoot on the Twelfth is traditionally a short drive, more in the way of an introduction for the guests to say hello to each other, and to get a measure of each other's skill. It starts straight after breakfast and finishes around twelve noon. The afternoon drive is longer in time, therefore more tiring, requiring more skill, ability and endurance. Guns get heavier and hotter for both loader and shooter, as well as the walks between the 'hides' becoming longer. It's also a very noisy place w
hich alone can cause fatigue. That afternoon had been exceptionally hot and tiring.
Leaving the dogs and beaters on the ground for a last sweep, we took the long walk back from the firing positions to The Hall, where Serena and I lingered long in a refreshing bath, whilst all the time I was listening to her claim to have shot more birds than I. She had concocted a madding melody to that effect which she sang to annoy me. It worked. I left her to it, and went for a swim. It was not her tune that hurt me the most, that I could put up with, it was that I was confident she was right about the score. I had stood between her and her father, seeing her gun dog out more times than behind her. At more than one point I had seen her dog with at least two grouse in its mouth. I had to wait for dinner until the final score was announced. An hour can seem to be an interminable long time.
I had already praised Mrs Franks, who I'd left with Mrs Squires in the kitchens, with the two of them in the throes of composing the stew, that along with her famous partridge fricassee would be served for the evening meal. I passed my compliments on to the estate manager after dressing for dinner then, with a confident step buoyed by the first Jura, made my way to the privacy of my sanctum.
The chemical analysis that I'd requested from Sir David Haig was on my computer when we all had arrived home eight days ago, as was Tony's appraisal of that Panama address. All was well. I'd studied them, printed them off and placed them in my wall safe as was my custom when dealing with private affairs. I then deleted them from my mailbox. When I entered the office this time it had been entered by someone unaccustomed to its ritualistic layout.
* * *
When Alice, my mother, died I kept her Asprey's yellow gold cigarette case and matching lighter, as a small token of remembrance. I never used either other than as an adornment on my desk, alongside her photograph. They sat beside her cut-glass ashtray on the left hand corner. No one, not even Joseph, was permitted to touch them.
