by Daniel Kemp
In the winter months, he would say, that his hat matched the colour of his overcoat, as would his gloves and scarf, but not the colour of the green rubber boots that he wore on his walk to 'Annie's'.
“Look after your feet son, and they will carry you through life without complaint.” This was, perhaps, the only sensible advice he ever gave me.
He was not particularly tall, maybe it was my mother who made him appear so in that nuptial snapshot but strode in a military fashion, straight-backed with swinging arms, pacing out his steps with his silver-topped walking stick. He had served in the Coldstream Guards before his inevitable transfer to the bank at the age of 39. Longevity lay before him in this role and maybe it was this that had burred away at his impulsiveness, dulled the sharpness and taken away the spirit that shone from those photos. However, his self-assurance and assertiveness stayed with him for all to see. It was only with me that he let that curtain rise, and then only briefly, months before his death.
Most banking Patersons lived well into their eighties. Five had reached the three-figure mark, and the normal age of their youngest to take outright charge of the bank was in their late forties. Elliot had been the youngest, but he had been the exception, as his father Phillip was quick to point out.
“I had enough interference from your grandfather. He kept his nose in the trough almost until he was dead, and that was not until he was ninety-three! I'm not going to make the same mistake. I'm going before you're forty; you can have the worry, boy.” When I was told this story, I wondered what could have been meant by the word worry.
In 2003 Elliot began the transfer of all the Saint George files onto computer discs, and that was when his trouble-free complacency began to be interrupted irretrievably.
Eight months before the shot was fired from the Slovak semiautomatic pistol found beside my father's body, he had spoken to me on the telephone. At a younger age I would have replaced the receiver on hearing his voice, but I recognised his courage in taking that step. When I left him on the threshold of Eton Square almost eighteen months previously, having used most of the expletives in current usage and some, I'm sure, I conjured up on the spot as he stood there open mouthed and traumatised, I had left him with no doubts into the advisability of contact between the two of us.
“Harry, I am sorry that I have to disturb you, but I have no option. There is something terribly amiss in some notes I've found of Maudlin's, and I don't know what to do about it.” There was an element of fear in his voice; I had heard fear at the end of telephones too often in my life not to recognise it.
“Thought of confiding in Edward? Why trouble me with it?” There was not much compassion in my response to his call for help.
“He's too young Harry, too young for most things. It's big and if I'm correct, it's still going on. It's certainly over my head, and I'm way out of my depth. I think Maudlin was a spy working for the Russians, and I'm not sure how I can save the family name.”
“Where are you speaking from?” I asked.
“I'm at my club, why?”
“Have you told anyone else, anyone at all?”
“No,” he replied, in a questioning tone.
“Good. Don't call me from home, or from the bank. Tomorrow…no do it tonight, there must be somewhere open in your godforsaken part of the world for it, it's only seven thirty buy a mobile phone, a pay as you go one, no contracts understand? Then buy a twenty-pound top-up card, and charge the phone overnight. I'll call you at 'Annie's' in the morning, no, that won't do. Stop at that call box you pass in Hobart Place and ring me here with the number. Remember to write it down before you leave.”
“You're being forgetful, Harry. If it's a number, I'll remember it,” disdainfully he replied.
“Have you enough cash? I don't want you using a card.”
“I expect so.”
“That's not what I asked, was it? How much have you got on you?” I asked, curtly, with no respect.
“Couple of hundred, I suppose. Haven't looked.”
“Well, now would be a good time, don't you think?”
There was a pause whilst I heard the sound of the rustling of paper.
“I've got one hundred and sixty in notes. Will that be enough?” he asked, innocent of the world beyond his own.
“Yes, that will be fine. Dad…don't tell anyone about this, not even George. When you get the phone, look through the security options and put a password in it, so no one can access it without your say so. If George sees it and asks about it, tell him it's for another of your liaisons…he'll understand that or, better still, say that your young violinist is causing you trouble again. Tell him that her father has found out that you haven't broken it off yet and you need a different number to keep the sordid arrangement going. After all, George might be able to relate to that, you being almost three times her age.” I stressed the 'her,' hoping he would notice. The knife that had only grazed my mother was buried deep in my heart.
“I understand,” was his only reply as a momentary silence split our conversation. “I'll do as you say,” he added, eventually.
“Good, and I will do the same tomorrow. No more land lines, or personal mobiles, never that okay?”
“All a bit melodramatic, the need for all these precautions, Harry. It's only a suspicion, after all.”
“Maybe, probably. Let's hope so…but better to be cautious Dad, just in case there is something in what you say. We don't want the good name dragged around needlessly, do we? Keep all this between the two of us for now, and remember the old war motto: Keep Mum, She's Not So Dumb.” He was one for platitudes, my father. I enjoyed the usage in return, for once, knowing he wouldn't miss the ridicule in my voice. I had his acquiescence, but not only that; I also had the same feeling of fear and trepidation as he did.
“Make that call here early in the morning. We will have to arrange times to call and other ways to contact each other. By the way, don't ring again tonight, I'm out,” I had added trying to sound as impassive and as unconcerned as I could.
“I hope I'm wrong about Maudlin, Harry…I honestly do.”
I said goodnight, but I didn't think he was. I had found some old photographs of Maudlin whilst rummaging through the family photographic chronicles, and one in particular had caught my eye. I needed answers and, I needed help in finding them.
Chapter Four: Hibiscus From Malaysia
She was there as she had threatened to be, waiting at the gates for the East Coast Line and beckoning me enthusiastically.
“Over here, Harry Paterson!” I heard her call, above the commotion of King's Cross station.
The rose and the newspaper were missing, but that was not what had caught my attention. It was her hair; I had been wrong as to its colouring. It was a patinated copper, the colour of the flames of a fierce bonfire, a beautiful combination of red, brown and orange, and extraordinarily striking.
The first thing that caught my eye was that hair, as it flowed in time with her waved greetings and brushed against her impractical pink linen coat. Then her skinny legs, which ended in the cream leather high-heeled shoes. She would have been better suited in boots, and warm ones at that. The late March weather in London had been touching the lower 70s on the Fahrenheit scale, whereas in Harrogate it had barely risen above freezing, and I had no intentions of telling her! The absence of a suitcase caused me to wonder if the outfit she wore was her only clothing, and I remarked on it.
“Have you got a spare pair of everything you need in that document case?” I asked, when I was beside her.
“Oh now, don't you worry about my welfare, H. I'm more than capable of looking after myself in that regard. Censeo et Conslio family motto, or Resolve and Purpose Harry, if you're a bit short on your Latin. Have no fears about me.”
She was jumping around like a demented child who had never been on a train adventure before. I did have a singular fear of being arrested for the transportation of a live skeleton on British Rail, for which I'm sure, there must be so
me law against in the lost journals of the Empire.
The fact that my father held the position he did had meant that a Government enquiry had been inevitable. However, my position within the SIS had complicated matters, and had led to the appointment of Judith Meadows as my personal inquisitor, the would-be discoverer of the truth as to who may have committed the crime. I had called Peter Trimble that morning and was told all I apparently needed to know about her, which was not a lot!
“She is good at what she does, Harry, very thorough.” That, along with her surname, is all the information I got.
As I had approached my would-be interrogator, my annoyance was slightly tempered by the realisation that not all was lost. I had been right about her face.
She was indeed very attractive, with large hazelnut shaped green eyes, my favourite colour. I decided on the age of 32, short without the heels, which somehow accentuated her slightness. She reminded me of a pink mannequin displayed in the windows of fashion shops, one of those minus zero size females who are advised to eat air for sustainability.
Since my university days and my indiscriminate fascination in women, I had graduated in selection and had settled on a preference for voluptuous, sensuous types. The sultrier the better, and the more full-figured the more magnetic. Judith had none of these desirabilities, and her vivaciousness only underlined my distaste and my hostility.
“Did you stay for more to drink last night, or did my departure spoil your evening?” She asked, as she linked her arm through mine and pulled herself close to me.
“I'd rather we didn't play happy families, Judith. Or should I address you as Miss Meadows, or Ma'am, as you're the senior officer here?” I detached her arm and quickened my walk so that I was a few steps ahead.
“Don't be petulant, Harry. There's no seniority here, only friends. Actually, I'm a Mrs, even though I don't wear a ring. Please, slow down, I can't walk that fast in these heels!”
“Why aren't you at home caring for him, instead of frequenting bars and accompanying chauvinists layabouts to their country lair? By claiming to be married are you trying to avoid any virginal duties you may have with the new Earl on his estate? I thought you knew all about them, but I'll be glad to fill in the missing details.”
She stopped, tugging at my sleeve as she did so. “My husband died, Harry; five weeks after we married. He was a Major in the Ordinance Disposal Regiment, on active service in Afghanistan. He was blown up into little pieces. I would be obliged if you weren't to mention him again.”
There was a deep determination in those green eyes perhaps tinged with sadness, I'm not sure, but certainly spirit and a great deal of tenacity. She was, as I was beginning to understand, a stubborn, intransigent woman; self-contained and belligerent at times.
“You brought him up, not me,” I answered, in my defence.
“No, you used the word 'Miss' in a disparaging way. I'm acutely aware of your enmity towards me and the resentment you must feel over others examining your father's death. I'm here to help you, not trick you,” she replied, truculently causing a brighter colour than her hair to wash over her face, blemishing an otherwise pure complexion.
'Help' not 'trick' me…strange words to use, I thought. Could she know what I was already hiding, or was this the subtle way of the practised interrogator?
'Tell us what we know you're concealing, and we'll give you a candy bar.'
Suddenly I viewed Mrs Meadows in a different light. Perhaps her zero size did not match the zero evaluation I had given her. I made no reply to either her offer or threat.
“I've sent two of our sitters up to your place by road. I've phoned ahead and forewarned them of their coming and their requirements. They won't need accommodation, we found them berths in a local hotel. I thought about using your stables for them when I found out that you don't keep those racehorses of yours anymore, but decided they deserved better, the poor souls. They have all their equipment in a van, but I sent my car up with them. Can't bear to be parted from it for too long and, who knows? We might want a drive up to the moors, you and I.” Judith had regained the composure I had displaced, returning to her bullish best as we took our seats. I contemplated her words whilst exchanging tiresome banalities for the remains of our journey.
After Alice's death, my father had taken permanent residence in London, having no need or want of Harrogate. He had sold the estate's racing stock at Newmarket and the polo ponies had also gone long before this; his age, other pursuits, and the lack of interest in the sport shown by my brothers and I being a contribution in his decision. These changes had led to the letting go of our stable manager and most of the hands, now we had only the six horses in the stables for riding out or the occasional point-to-point race. I hadn't hunted in years, nor had I thought of it much since the changing of the laws, but her comment made me think of the chase of the fox, as long as the scent wasn't wrong and it was not me that was being chased. There was to be the full response to such a situation, recording machines both audio and visual and the electronic data readings of pitch in speech. It was not quite a polygraph; more refined, it showed the slightest agitation, because most in my trade could lie with conviction. That is, if they knew what was a lie, or the truth, if it stared them in the face. Why, then, the need of a drive and away from the recording of Lord Harry Paterson, Earl of Harrogate, I wondered? Was that where the trickery made its entrance?
That evening, after dinner, we began the first episode of what was to be a challenging time for both of us. I was changing that first opinion of mine; albeit slowly. Her car, a Porsche Panamera, one of those four-door saloon types that are shaped like a coupé, had been loaded with matching luggage, and her obvious wealth could not have come from Civil Service pay alone.
She had dressed for dinner, something I had not expected nor done since dining with my mother. I was waiting without a tie but luckily I had a jacket, otherwise her rebuke may have been more severe.
“Harry, we have to have rules. Rules are what I live by, and I love a good routine. After breakfast, through lunch and one hour before dinner, we work. We go back in time and recollect all that we are trying to forget; or hide. We play by the SIS house rules that we both understand. At dinner we adopt the rules of the upper classes, of which you are most notable, and as are my own family. I am Lord Davenport's daughter, he is the Queen's private secretary, amongst many other things. Heard of him?”
I had…by accident one could say. His father, Judith's grandfather, was one of those I was investigating in the mysterious photos I had found, now cut short by that gunshot of Sunday last.
“No,” I lied, but we were not in the library where the machines now lived, we were in the lounge beside the huge log-burning fire. She had discarded the pink travelling coat and now looked considerably warmer. Her hair was pinned to her head and woven into a circle at the back. The long crimson dress covered every inch of flesh except for her neck wrists and ankles, and although I have already spoken of her slight figure, I could not deny her femininity.
Joseph, my father's butler had stayed at the Hall when he had left, and had been in the room through all her detailing of the code to be adopted throughout her stay. He had just finished pouring our drinks, so no doubt the rest of the household would soon know of my guest's high principles, I thought.
My sisters had, like Elliot, long departed, and now I was the only Paterson left here in the hereditary home, but I was not alone. With Joseph I had inherited two footmen, my own valet, two cooks and three kitchen maids. There was a housekeeper with four maids to care for the thirty bedrooms and all the grand rooms that were constantly in use, a chauffeur who had met us from the train, and three gardeners. Oh yes, and three stable-boys, and one stable-girl. All, apart from the gardeners and the stable-hands, were housed on the estate which covered some 220,000 hectares and contained four tenanted farms, as well as our own. A colossal undertaking which I took over from my father on retiring from the Army and, then, my partial retirement from the SIS
. I say partial because they never really let you go! They don't know how to trust anybody on the outside.
“I'm going to bend those rules of mine at little tonight H. After all, that's what rules are for, don't you think…to be broken a bit?” Her head was tilted to one side as if to accentuate her question.
She waited for an answer, but all I could think of was making love with a skeleton. My imagination tried hard to stretch that far but I was unfortunately, ahead of myself again.
“Well, I do anyway. Let's get some background filled in. Start with your childhood, and your relationship to your late father.” Her requests were more demands than mere inquires; they carried a note of compliance rather than the choice of disregard.
I painted that failed closeness in flowing, complimentary terms of harmony and kinship; it was easy for me to do. It was how I had dreamt it should have been since I was sent away to boarding school, something I had emotionally built on every day of my life that I spent there in nigh solitude, bereft of love and affinity from anyone. I was a good liar. I'd had plenty of time to conjure up an idyllic adolescence, and I told my imaginary story well.
I had been fifteen years of age when great-grandfather Maudlin had died and thirty-one when his son Phillip had passed away. Both had been instrumental in my life, even more so than my own father. They had filled my head with tales of the adventures of their siblings or their forbears, and my head had swollen in pride. Grandfather Phillip's eldest brother had seen action in the Korean War and the Malaysian Conflict in the middle sixties, and I heard of his exploits first hand. Phillip and Gerard would sit in this very spot with me, on one or the other's knee, listening to those deeds in avid attention. Then Phillip, not to be outdone by his elder, would praise his own efforts in 'Annie's' involvement in the protection of British interest in the Far East. Both would refer to Maudlin in an almost religious manner, never in my memory addressing him as 'father' or simply 'Dad.' Only the words 'he' or 'him' and, less occasionally, The Old Man were used whenever reference was needed to my great-grandfather.
