by Jack Murray
Esther smiled but then her face grew more serious. In a moment Mary’s face changed and became more reflective.
‘It’s not even a year since we lost Grandpapa. You don’t think it’s all too soon?’ said Esther.
Mary hugged her sister.
‘If you remember, he was trying to marry us off. You to Kit and me to…’ she stopped for a moment, unable to utter the name of the man who had killed her grandfather.
‘They’re due to hang him the day after the wedding,’ said Esther.
Mary nodded then said, ‘Let’s not talk of him, Essie. Let’s think of the future. I know it sounds banal, but I really think Grandpapa would have wanted this. He’d have been delighted to see us so happy with men like Richard and Kit.’
‘I know.’
The two sisters walked on in silence for a few minutes, lost in their memories. Just ahead they saw Claridge’s. They looked at one another and grinned. Lunch in one of their favourite restaurants was the order of the day and the perfect place to catch up on their month apart. They ducked into the hotel just as the first droplets of rain began to fall.
‘We didn’t bring an umbrella,’ pointed out Esther, sadly.
‘Excellent, we’ll just have to stay here until it stops.’
Esther grinned, ‘Good point. I’m sure Aunt Agatha will understand.’
-
At this moment, Agatha was concerned with weightier matters. The luggage, most of which was still sitting on the street, was in danger of being soaked. While there was no questioning the doggedness with which Fish was performing his duty, Agatha could not help but note that the pace was paralyzingly slow. Even with Natalie’s help, it was clear that the poor man was struggling. She felt a stab of sympathy for her aging butler.
He was getting on a bit.
Perhaps the time was soon coming when she would have to make a decision regarding Fish. As this thought crossed her mind, the rain began to fall more heavily. She looked at the poor man struggling with the baggage. An image came into her mind of two young men. Her husband, Eustace ‘Useless’ Frost and his manservant Judson Fish.
So long ago.
The view from library became obscured by the rain running like tear drops down the window but Agatha’s mind was in another century. She could still hear the laughter of the two men. She could still see the first time that ‘Useless’ had looked at her. The whispered aside to Fish and then his leaving them alone on the platform to perform some duty or other. Of course, he’d been sent away to allow ‘Useless’ an excuse to engage her in conversation.
So long ago.
Was it really forty years? Where does the time go? It could have been yesterday as far as Agatha was concerned. The sights, the sounds, the heat and the smells were still with her. All she had to do was close her eyes. Such a wonderful time. And sad. Fortune distributes its gifts unequally. We find that out in the end, don’t we?
Poor Fish.
Agatha woke up an hour later. The rain was battering against the window like small stones thrown by a rough boy. Someone had placed a tartan blanket over her to protect against any drafts. She looked around her. The room was empty. The girls had probably gone out to lunch. No doubt they had much to talk about. Adventure. Romance. Aging aunts denying them the rich tapestry of experience they desired so much. This made her smile. She was performing her role to the hilt; for role it was. She remembered another. An aunt who had performed a similar duty in her life.
The door opened quietly, and a head peaked in. It was Natalie.
‘Madame, je m’excuse.’
‘It’s quite all right, Natalie, I was awake. Thank you for putting the blanket on me.’
‘It was Fish, madame.’
‘I must thank him then.’
‘I have unpacked everything, madame,’ said Natalie.
‘Very good. Actually, can you join me for a moment?’
Natalie looked a little nervously at Agatha before walking over to the library window where Agatha was sitting. Agatha gestured for her to sit down. This was unusual and set Natalie on edge for a moment.
‘I want to talk about the future. Specifically, your role, Natalie.’
Now Natalie Doutreligne was very worried indeed. Agatha read the look on her maid’s face and put her hand up to reassure her.
‘I know that when I first engaged your services, Natalie, it was on a short term basis.’ Agatha paused for a moment. How she was going to phrase the next part of this conversation was something she wished she’d given more thought to.
‘Clearly, the circumstances were unusual.’
Acting as a seductress to Aunt Agatha’s nephew who was on the cusp of a potentially damaging marriage certainly qualified as being unusual, thought Natalie.
‘Oui, madame.’
‘Quite. However, Natalie, I must confess that your performance of the, shall we say, more traditional requirements of a maid have impressed me. In fact, I was rather hoping that we could extend your contract indefinitely.’
This was unexpected. Natalie’s mouth dropped open. Agatha’s eyes widened slightly which hastened Natalie’s mouth to resume its normal aspect.
‘Madame, this is very kind of you.’
‘Quite,’ said Agatha, unsure if this was a yes or a no. She raised her eyebrows a degree or three to suggest that an answer would be welcome to her job offer.
Natalie did not have to think too hard about her answer.
‘I would love to stay, madame.’
‘Capital,’ said Agatha, tapping the table in a spontaneous gesture of happiness. This was good news, and she was sure it would be seen as such by the girls and Kit. The only question remaining was the status of Fish.
‘Would you be a dear and ask Fish to join me for a moment. That will be all.’
Natalie rose from her chair and went to find Fish. Her happiness at the job offer, she realised, was tempered by a worry for what it would mean for Fish. One did not have to be a Cambridge academic to see that his vigour was not what it once was. She hoped that madame did not intend dispensing with the venerable butler’s services. This would throw a new light on her own intentions.
Several minutes later, Fish appeared in the library. The long wait was something Agatha was used to by now. She watched him slowly make his way over to her. Judging by the tick of the clock, the journey of a matter of yards took almost thirty seconds. She gestured for him to take a seat.
For Fish, being asked to sit down was a rare event. He remembered an occasion at the outbreak of the War. The second Boer War. While he did not necessarily feel on edge, his senses were on heightened alert.
‘Fish. How long have you been in service now?’
‘Many years, milady,’ answered the butler truthfully.
‘Well, I’m sure neither of us needs to dwell on how long you have been of service to me. Suffice to say it has been a considerable amount of time.’
Fish nodded. A sadness fell upon him. He could see in Agatha’s eyes that she knew what he was thinking. All the more reason to get to the point, thought Agatha, no point in shilly-shallying.
‘I have just asked Natalie if she would like to stay on as my maid.’
This was a surprise to Fish. He had anticipated the young Frenchwoman would leave their service upon their return. At this point he began to wonder what this meant for him.
‘You’re no longer a young man, Fish.’
This definitely was not looking good, thought Fish, even if it was true.
‘Perhaps the time has come to think of life after service.’
Did such a thing exist, wondered Fish? Service was all he’d ever known. He was the son of a butler. His grandfather, too, had been a butler. The world outside was an abstraction. His world was here.
‘Of course, it’s up to you,’ continued Agatha.
Better, thought Fish.
‘But I wonder if you would not be happier with a reduction in your duties. Let the younger ones pick up the strain.’
Muc
h better.
‘What do you think, Fish?’
The question was thrown at him so unexpectedly, Fish was lost for words. Lady Frost wanted his opinion. An opinion on a subject related directly to his future. A few seconds passed and Fish struggled to arrange his thoughts into something that would sound comprehensible.
‘I know this is a bit of a shock,’ prompted Agatha.
Fish finally felt it was time to gain some sort of control on the direction of travel.
‘I have no complaints, milady.’
In fact, he rather enjoyed his life. Lady Frost could be a harridan when she wanted but her demands were minimal. Having Natalie continue would certainly be pleasing to the eye, although he was certain he’d been caught by her, on a few occasions, enjoying her rear aspect. However, she was French and, if anything, it was an additional, if not particularly onerous, duty for him to fulfil.
Agatha was unsure if her thoughts had penetrated her butler’s consciousness sufficiently, so she came to the point.
‘What I am driving at, Fish, is that you should consider semi-retirement. I would add that I have no wish to see you leave this house. You can continue to oversee the staff, but we should think to a future where the younger ones do the work, and you enjoy a richly deserved rest.’
The interview finished on this highly satisfactory note. He understood that Natalie was to assume the role of housekeeper and that the two of them would recruit a new maid to take over many of Natalie’s duties.
Yes, thought Fish on his way to the kitchen, a satisfactory outcome. He decided it should be recognised with a small, celebratory tipple. Perhaps he could persuade the young Frenchwoman to join him. If he remembered correctly, there was a bottle of wine high up in one of the cupboards. He could help Natalie reach it. This would, of course, require that he hold her waist while she stood on the chair. Not to do so would be unsafe and, certainly, ungentlemanly.
4
Kit and Smith-Cumming sat in silence for most of the journey. Smith-Cumming’s only comment was to observe that the weather was about to turn. Rather than converse on a subject that held no interest for either man, Kit waited to see where they were heading. He didn’t have to wait long. They pulled up outside a building Kit knew very well. His friend Charles ‘Chubby’ Chatterton worked there.
The War Office building on Whitehall was relatively new, despite its rather Baroque appearance. It had been completed just over a dozen years previously. The Whitehall-facing front from the second floor upwards had a row of Ionic columns. Along the roof were placed a series of sculptured figures symbolising Peace and War, Truth and Justice, Fame and Victory. At the corner of the trapezium-shaped building was a decorative dome. Kit thought it somewhat overdone.
The two men hobbled up the steps. Each instinctively helped the other. Both had lost part of their legs. Smith-Cumming had lost his in a car accident and performed the amputation himself using a penknife to escape the wreckage; Kit had lost his during the War.
They took care going up the steps into the War Office as the rain had made them a little slippery. Once inside the main doors they were confronted with yet more steps. As much as he liked his friend ‘Chubby’, he rarely visited the offices as the steps were such a torture. Kit hoped that their meeting was on the ground floor.
‘Up a flight,’ said Smith-Cumming, dashing Kit’s hopes. The spymaster noted the rueful grin and nodded.
‘Yes, a bit of a pain really.’
They arrived outside an office with a large oak door. The sign on the plate beside the door read: The Secretary of State for War and Air. Kit raised his eyebrows and followed Smith-Cumming through the large doors. They were met by a man Smith-Cumming introduced as the Parliamentary Under-Secretary of State, Arthur Peel. Kit smiled at the dark-haired man before him. His moustache seemed to cover not only his face but half of London also.
‘Hello, Arthur,’ said Kit, shaking the hand of 1st Viscount Peel, the youngest son of Robert Peel.
‘Oh, so you two know each other then,’ said Smith-Cumming rolling his eyes in a manner suggesting he should have known that this class all knew one another. To be fair, they mostly did.
Beside Peel was another man in a dark suit. His greying hair was receding at the temples. A deep groove ran vertically between his eyes which were hidden behind round spectacles. A clipped moustache decorated his lip like a medal. The tightness of his lips matched well with the rigidity of his personality.
‘This is Vernon Kell.’
Smith-Cumming added nothing to this. Kit sensed an atmosphere between them, like two prize-fighters meeting in the middle of the ring before a fight. Kell had once tried to recruit Kit and they had worked briefly together before the end the War. He headed up the sister branch of the secret service, MI5 (g). This branch of the Intelligence service dealt with investigating espionage, sabotage and subversion within Britain.
The look on Peel’s face was quite grave so small talk was kept to a minimum. He led Kit, Kell and Smith-Cumming through to the main office. A man was standing behind an impressively large, and surprisingly high, oak desk. He was not large but his eyes compelled attention. He rose as they entered and walked around the table to greet them.
‘Gentlemen, I’m happy you could come at such short notice,’ said a voice that would one day become not just the most famous in Britain, but, perhaps, in the world. It was a deep, textured and warm. The voice of someone used to giving commands.
The Secretary of State for War and Air, Winston Churchill, shook hands with Kit and Smith-Cumming. Kit had met Churchill on a few occasions. Mostly social. Churchill was a Marlborough. The Marlborough family had been at the side of every King since William.
They went to an office with very high ceilings and portraits by Joshua Reynolds adorning the walls. It was a serious room where serious decisions were taken. The atmosphere was grave. Kit refrained from making any comments and waited for the men in the room to explain why they wished to see him. He didn’t have to wait long. Interestingly he was not asked to sit. The five men remained standing as Churchill spoke.
‘You are no doubt wondering why I have asked you here.’
Kit nodded but remained silent. His memory of Churchill was that he enjoyed speaking. At length. Well, thought Kit if he enjoys being centre stage, lead on Macduff. Churchill handed Kit an envelope. Kit glanced at Churchill then down at the envelope.
‘Go on, open it.’
Kit did so. He removed three photographs. He studied the first photograph but said nothing. In the centre of the photograph was Churchill. It looked like it had been taken at least a decade ago as Churchill seemed much younger. Flanking Churchill were a number of men, some in suits and others in, more intriguingly, white robes. If Kit didn’t know better, he would have said they were…
‘Druids. Yes, Aston, they’re druids,’ said Churchill.
The second photograph seemed to have been taken at the same occasion, but it was difficult to be certain. Churchill was standing in the centre and some men were dressed in druid robes. This time there was, in addition, a woman in the picture dressed like a goddess. There was an olive wreath around her head, and she wore a long, flowing white robe. She was standing to the side of Churchill. Kit could see that she was young, perhaps in her twenties, and attractive. Her eyes stared stonily ahead into the distance.
‘It looks like you weren’t aware this photograph was being taken, Secretary of State.’
‘I wasn’t,’ confirmed Churchill grimly.
The third photograph caused Kit to gasp. He looked at Churchill and then the three other men. Churchill’s face had turned red with anger, his voice strained by fear and rage.
‘I certainly wasn’t aware of this photograph either. I have never seen this girl in my life before.’
Kit, reluctantly, looked down at the picture again. It showed the same young woman from the previous photograph. She was naked and clearly dead. Beside her were three robed and masked men. One of them holding the knife that
had been used in the murder.
Kit looked closely at her stomach. There seemed to be something on it, but the photograph lacked enough detail to be sure if this was really the case or not.
‘Yes,’ said Churchill, noticing that Kit was looking at the young woman’s stomach, ‘I saw that too but it’s impossible to see exactly what it is.’
‘Have you any clue as to what to might be? Could it be some symbol related to the ceremony you attended?’
Churchill looked Kit in the eye. For a few moments there was silence as he sized up the man before him. He knew Kit, but not well. He knew of Kit, too. Everything. Smith-Cumming had briefed him the previous week. What he had just shared was an enormous leap of faith. If this became public knowledge, his career and, in all likelihood, his marriage would be destroyed. Kit Aston represented a last, desperate gamble. As he looked deep into the eyes of the man before him, Churchill saw his last chance. He wasn’t certain if he felt reassured or just lightheaded with fear. He rolled the dice.
‘Perhaps we should sit down,’ said Churchill. ‘I’ll tell you everything.’
-
It was late afternoon before Kit returned to his flat. He walked through into the living room and noted that Simpkins was still residing on his seat. Beside him, on the Chesterfield sofa, sat Sam. There was a surprisingly accommodating silence between them rather like two old gentleman at their club.
‘No movement, I see,’ said Kit.
‘No sir, not much. Sam seems to have accepted the new arrival since your return.’
Kit went over and picked Sam up, much to the little terrier’s delight. Simpkins glanced up but said nothing. As there was clearly no chance that the cat was going to give up Kit’s seat any time soon, Kit sat down where Sam had been sitting and placed the little dog on his knee. He risked stroking Simpkins behind the ear. Simpkins let him do this.
As Kit was stroking the cat, he noticed the collar for the first time. It was silver and looked like a star. As Simpkins was now pressing his head into Kit’s fingers it was difficult to see it clearly. Kit assumed it was the Star of David. The thought of it reminded him of Countess Laskov’s funeral.
