by Jack Murray
‘I’m glad to have finally impressed you, said Kit a slow smile spreading over his face. ‘Well, it shall be so. Perhaps you could compile some of your stories into a volume, so he can read them. Although, I imagine he will be more impressed by the telling of them.’
‘I shall hold you to that Lord Aston,’ said Mary before spinning around and walking over to her sister.
Strangerson stood up from the sofa and walked over to the sideboard where there were various decanters. ‘Can I get you something Lord Cavendish? I see your glass is empty.’
‘No thank you, Strangerson. I think I have had quite enough for today. Another one and I should be in danger of mild intoxication. Forgive me ladies.’
‘Shocking,’ said Mary.
‘Well really,’ added Esther in mock horror, ‘the company we’re forced to keep.’ Both were smiling up at their grandfather affectionately.
A few minutes later the clock in the room chimed to indicate it was now midnight and therefore Christmas Day. Everyone stood up, clinked glasses, shook hands and wished one another a Happy Christmas. The sisters gave one another a hug and did likewise to Cavendish.
As the chimes faded, Cavendish said to the group, ‘Well I think this old soldier will turn in. I shall leave you young things to your own entertainment. A reminder for those thinking about attending the Christmas service; I should like to be on our way around nine thirty in the morning. I must greet the villagers and it would be nice if those attending did likewise. In addition, Curtis has asked me to remind you that breakfast will be available from eight o’ clock in the morning. There will not be a gong as I am conscious some of you won’t be going to the service and may wish to lie on in bed.’ He glanced at Henry but said no more. As usual Henry was impervious to any veiled comment.
Disappointingly for Kit, the sisters also decided to take their leave. They left the drawing room accompanied by Cavendish who could be heard saying, ‘No reason to leave on my account.’
Esther pointed out the need for the girls to have their beauty sleep causing Mary to laugh and roll her eyes. Strangerson inevitably took the bait to rebut such a necessity in their case. Henry, who had not been drinking, also took the opportunity to turn in and offered a curt goodnight. This left Strangerson and Kit alone in the drawing room.
‘One for the road?’ asked Strangerson sociably.
Kit contemplated his empty glass and replied, ‘Why not.’ He was not sure if he wanted to go to bed. Sleep meant dreams. Dreams always became nightmares.
They sat in silence for a minute or two contemplating the brandy. Then Strangerson asked Kit, ‘Did you bring any presents old boy? I can’t say I bothered. Perhaps I should’ve. Hope they didn’t think me rude.’
‘I’m sure they won’t. Yes, I did bring some trifles. Perfumes for the girls and a first English language edition of War and Peace for Lord Cavendish.’
‘And the grand dame with the foul child?’
Kit laughed. ‘No, I knew they would be here, obviously, but felt the risk of causing offence, or worse, indifference, outweighed any conceivable benefits.’
‘You obviously had first class intelligence. Clearly your métier,’ said Strangerson knowingly.
Kit glanced at him but simply replied, ‘Let’s say her reputation preceded her.’
It was Strangerson’s turn to laugh, ‘She certainly is a tartar. I didn’t bother to buy anything. Thank goodness. One dreads to think of how she would have reacted to something she didn’t like.’
‘Oh, how did you come to be invited?’
‘The invitation was very last minute. I wrote to Cavendish several months ago. I’d meant to contact him long before - about Robert. I was there when, you know. Anyway, long story short, he contacted me at the end of the summer, and we corresponded. Then out of the blue he invited for Christmas. I hadn’t any plans so thought, why not?’
Strangerson went on to relate the last moments of Robert Cavendish but Kit was no longer listening. He felt his chest tighten and the heart pumping seemed to block out the sound of Strangerson’s voice.
Kit turned away for a moment, was that an explosion? Who was shouting? Everything stopped. Then he was aware Strangerson was still talking to him.
’…it was clear he was a goner.’
Regaining his composure, Kit hoped his discomfort had not been noticed. Thankfully, Strangerson was so engrossed in recounting his story of Robert’s death and its aftermath that he did not notice the reaction of Kit. The talk of the War was something Kit tended to avoid normally, but this subject, in particular, was too painful. Desperate to get away from the conversation, he emptied his glass and set it on the table.
‘Perhaps it’s time for bed.’
Strangerson finished his glass and they both headed out of the drawing room and up the stairs. Kit collapsed on the bed and looked at the ceiling. It was night in the Cavendish household; the house where Robert grew up. His wife and son just down the corridor. How desperately he wanted to avoid sleep. He went to the window and gazed outside. The clock said one o’clock. He felt so tired. Sleep was inevitable and before long he drifted off, reluctantly.
-
He lay in the crater. How long had it been? An hour? Five hours? He’d lost track. The night’s chill hit him at every point in his body. That’s what would get him in the end. Not the wound. Often it wasn’t the bullet or the shrapnel, the seeping of life from the rent in his body. It was the cold. He regretted discarding the overcoat, but what else could he do? He would have been mistaken for a German.
How much longer? Every time he regained consciousness, he hoped it would be to discover it was just a nightmare. What could he do? The situation was impossible, he realized. Trapped in No Man’s Land, unable to walk. Why should they send someone out to him? The risk would be too great. It would be a waste of time anyway. He wondered how much the icy air was numbing the pain he should be feeling. The blackness returned.
When he came to again it took a few minutes for his eyes to become accustomed to the gloom. The ringing in his ears would not stop. Would he ever hear again? Then he laughed. No. He would not. A dull acceptance that this could be the end began to take shape. With each passing minute the form of it grew and became more distinct.
A flare went up causing the sky to turn a blinding white. He squinted upwards. His arm was trapped in a barbed wire stump, silhouetted against the lit sky. He felt numb. The cold enveloped his body once more. The layers of clothing seemed defenceless against its onslaught. With frustration he dug his fingers into the ground. The top surface was crisp with a wet frost that gave under the crunching force of his fingers. He felt the damp soil under his fingernails. The back of his throat felt dry. He was thirsty. The blackness returned.
He woke as he felt his body being tugged then dragged. It felt like a spear was stabbing him in his leg. A voice whispered in his ear, ‘Don’t worry, we’ll have you back soon.’ The blackness returned.
The flare woke him. He was being given a piggyback ride. How odd, he thought. Doesn’t he realize there’s a war on? An explosion nearby, the man carrying him collapsed to the ground. He collapsed on top of the man. Ahead he saw the British trench. It was so close. He could see some men climbing out of the trench. They were coming towards him. The fools!
Gunfire.
-
Kit bolted upright in the bed. His breath came quickly. He was sweating and shivering. After a few moments to gauge his whereabouts, he fell back onto the pillow and stared at the ceiling, praying he had not screamed, like those other times. The same dream: it never deviated. Yet it was just as he had remembered, so real. Was it trying to tell him something?
The clock on the wall was ticking loudly. Just after five in the morning. Like always; like then. Instead of trying to force sleep, he read a little. However, the thought that the dream was a message had fixed itself in his mind and he found he was unable to concentrate on his book. After an hour or so, he finally nodded off with the light still on.
Chapter 12
Christmas Day 1919: Cavendish Hall
The sun shone on Christmas Day. No clouds were visible in a cerulean sky. The snow was blinding white and the air was crisp as the household stepped out onto the driveway. Only Lady Emily and Agnes were missing as the Cavendish family, their guests and the staff made the short walk into Little Gloston for the Christmas service.
They made the short walk towards tiny chapel, with each step the sound of the choir singing ‘Hark the Herald Angels Sing’ grew louder. Kit walked with Esther and further ahead, Cavendish accompanied Henry. Mary was busy pointing out parts of the village to Strangerson. Kit could not help but smile as they passed “Nettlestone’s Village Store est. 1702”. He turned around to Mary and raised his eyebrow. She returned his look and winked slowly, ‘It was a true story, of course.’ she called out, smiling.
Sam, dressed in a natty tartan top, happily trotted alongside Kit until about halfway when he stopped and resolutely refused to move. Esther happily picked up and petted him for the remainder of the walk, much to Kit’s disgust. Sam did not care, always happy to receive the attention of a beautiful girl.
They entered the chapel, which was named after St. Bartholomew. It dated back to 1659. The nave of the church contained barely a dozen rows of pews. They had all been filled by the villagers except the front pew which remained empty. This had clearly set aside for the Cavendish family. To the left of the altar were two rows of seats at a right angle to the pews. Behind the seats was a small organ. Here sat the choir comprising four elderly women and two men.
The stain glass windows were remarkably effective in blocking out light or perhaps were overdue a good clean, thought Kit as they entered. However, as the service began, the light began to stream through. It created a ray of light shining directly on the figure of Reverend Simmons. The effect of this and the choir’s singing was quite heavenly, and Kit scolded himself for feeling uninterested. He hoped his good early impression of Simmons would not be dashed by a lengthy sermon from the pulpit. Kit wasn’t in a mood for fire and brimstone being tossed far and wide.
Thankfully, this fear proved unfounded. Instead, Simmons treated the congregation to a short, heartfelt, but gently humorous sermon. It struck the right balance between the joy of Christmas for children, and the bittersweet recognition that the recent wounds of War would require a long time to heal. Kit nodded his head and felt a deep sense of guilt for those who had not made it back.
The service finished with several rousing hymns and soon the congregation was streaming into the sunny cold. Cavendish made a point of spending time with the locals and shaking hands. Both girls also joined him. Kit and Strangerson were joined by Reverend Simmons, who had had changed quickly following the service. He was wrapped up like he was ready to follow Shackleton across the icy tundra. Curtis, meanwhile, led the staff back to the house to make ready for the afternoon’s festivities upstairs and below. Their day would begin to get very busy soon.
‘Beautiful day,’ observed Simmons.
‘Indeed, dashed cold though. I’m glad it’s a small village.’ said Strangerson.
‘They shouldn’t be too long,’ said Simmons looking at three of the Cavendish family members chatting easily with different groups. Henry seemed unsure of what he should be doing. In the end, he forced himself to join some of the children. He knelt down and began to talk to one child, sitting in a makeshift wheelchair. The child began to smile. A man and a woman came and joined him. They were followed by a young woman who looked very much like the mother.
‘They seem very popular,’ remarked Kit, scanning the scene outside the church. Strangerson came over to join the two men.
‘They are much loved,’ confirmed Simmons, smiling his greeting to the new arrival. ‘The family has always taken its responsibilities seriously and the people of the village recognize this.’
People were streaming past the three men now. Simmons nodded to a couple who walked with a small child holding each of their hands.
‘Hello Stan. Happy Christmas Kate. And you, young Tom.’
Kit glanced at the man and immediately a chill descended on him. The haunted eyes told their own story. The man nodded to Simmons then looked away.
Seeing such despair made Kit yearn for something else. He turned and looked at Esther. She had joined Henry, kneeling down to chat to a bunch of the school children. She was laughing with them. As she laughed, she glanced at Kit. It was clear a thought had struck her. She leaned over to the oldest of the children, a boy no older than eleven or twelve, and whispered in his ear. She pointed to Kit and Strangerson.
‘Get ready, Strangerson old boy,’ said Kit laughing, ‘I think you’re on duty now.’
‘Yes sir! Permission to engage enemy?’ said Strangerson saluting.
‘Granted,’ laughed Kit.
Raising his arms as if he was a monster, he charged forward in a frontal assault, causing the children to run screaming. Strangerson played his part, spiritedly, for the next few minutes. This brought hoots of laughter from the onlookers and won him many admirers.
-
Activity in the kitchen of Cavendish Hall was at an elevated pitch under the unruffled direction of Curtis. So much so in fact, to cheers from Devlin and Polly, Elsie had chased him out of the kitchen wielding a bread knife. Consequences would follow, warned Curtis shrilly, as he adjusted his waistcoat and tie at the top of the stairs leading to the hall.
Miller groaned inwardly. He suspected the consequences might be directed towards him. Soon he heard Curtis shout down the stairs requesting his presence. With a wink in the direction of Polly he left to join Curtis. Arriving at the top of the stairs he recognized early signs of Curtis beginning to flap about something else. Probably the party was returning from church. Behind Curtis, through the open door, his assumption was confirmed.
A few minutes later they all stepped in and Curtis helped with coats, hats, and scarves. Miller led everyone into the drawing room where tea and some light snacks were waiting. Miller tried to avoid Kit as he knew his master would be enjoying immensely his discomfort. Speaking to him would be unavoidable and he bowed to the inevitable, ‘Will there be anything else, sir?’
‘I believe everything is in order, Harry, thank you. You look very elegant.’
Miller escaped as quickly as he could, aware of Kit’s half mocking, half sympathetic smile. Laughing to himself he swore he would find a way to get even.
Kit was joined by Mary. She smiled up at him and said, laughingly, ‘Am I right in thinking Mr Miller is displeased with the livery.’
‘Displeased barely covers it, Mary,’ laughed Kit
‘I can have a word with Curtis if you like, we’re not so formal these days,’ offered Mary.
‘No, don’t think of it. In fact, I’m enjoying every second of it.’
‘Ahhh, I understand,’ said Mary laughing. ‘Poor Mr Miller.’
‘Trust me, if the boot were on the other foot, Harry would be every bit as sympathetic!’
Mary nodded and then turned as Cavendish came over to join them. He looked at Mary, ‘Mary, would you mind if I took Kit away for a few moments?’
‘Of course.’
The two exchanged a look which intrigued Kit. Almost certainly it would be explained in the next few minutes. Cavendish led Kit out of the drawing room, and they crossed the hallway to the library. They went over to the desk and Cavendish moved the framed photograph of the army battalion, over to one side.
‘I wanted to talk to you about one of the reasons why I had invited you this Christmas.’ Kit raised one eyebrow and smiled. Noticing Kit’s reaction, Cavendish smiled also, ‘No it’s not what you think, although do allow an old grandfather some hope on that score.’
Kit nodded and smiled, ‘Please tell me what’s on your mind.’
‘It’s quite serious, Kit or perhaps not. I cannot make up my mind about it and I’ve been reluctant to involve the police of late.’
‘The police?’
Happy Christmas. I’ve killed you.
‘Good Lord. Who would send such a vile message?’ said Kit, in shock. He glanced down at the envelope and then glanced back at Cavendish. ‘But this is four years old.’
Cavendish smiled. ‘Very good, Kit. I see you noticed the post mark.’
‘And it was posted in London. WC2. Not that this tells us much.’
‘Why do you say that Kit?’ responded Cavendish.
‘The person who sent this may have had an accomplice who sent it from London, even unknowingly. The fact we’re speaking now suggests this person either didn’t try on your life or they failed.’
Cavendish reached into his desk drawer and took out three more envelopes. Kit examined each one. Each envelope contained a Christmas card with the same typed message inside, only the post mark date changed.
For the next few minutes, Kit carefully examined each of the envelopes, inside and out. He set them alongside each other and made comparisons. At the end of this inspection, he looked at Cavendish, ‘I’m sure you’ve made all the same checks as I have. You’ve told the police about this but either they or you decided it was some sort of tasteless hoax.’
‘Correct, I didn’t show the cards from last Christmas or this. It seemed implausible this fiend would try to carry out his threat. In the end I decided not to waste any more of the police’s time.’
‘If you’ll forgive me sir, but this was unwise. It could be that the person who sent these letters wanted to carry out his threat but was dissuaded from doing so because there was, I presume, police protection.’
‘Only for the first two years,’ admitted Cavendish, ‘After…’ he shrugged leaving the sentence unfinished.
