The Desolate Garden

by Daniel Kemp

  “I thought Peter was your boss. Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't he the head of Defence Intelligence, as well as everything else in our little world?”

  “Yes, he is, but I report to the Cabinet Secretary. The Bank of Saint George and all your family are under his jurisdiction, as is the whole of the SIS. I did tell you that the Patersons were a special breed, didn't I?”

  “You never told me that you were 'out of house' though, did you? Isn't that a bit sneaky?” Hector had abandoned the twig having, found a scent to follow.

  “Well, you've exposed a little bit more of yourself, Harry, so it's only fair that I do likewise. Think of me as the rubber sole squad, all one of me. I go everywhere, but nobody hears or sees me. I have access to most things and everything, if Haig deems it so, not even Trimble can refuse…went over two years ago.

  I am under Peter's wing and keep him informed of my findings, but not conclusions. Those I give to Haig. He's a relative of the First World War's General you know, Douglas Haig or Butcher Haig, as he was more commonly referred to. We are all on the same side, H, it's just that I bring different skills to the table. I'm very good at what I do, Harry. I read people's minds.”

  Well, she hadn't read mine at all. Where I wanted a slap-up full English, fried bread, the lot, I had to make do with it in a toasted roll! Greasy spoons didn't exist in fashionable SW4; only Italian chain coffee shops where tea came in a pot and not a mug, and an all-day breakfast was found, wrapped in cellophane, on the chiller shelf. Needless-to-say, Hector never got his sausage, but he did get a biscuit which Judith gave me to feed him with, and we became friends. Ah…

  It was going to be a happy ending sort of Monday all round, or so I began to think. I managed to part from my escorts, neither appearing too sad at my departure, and took the tube to Victoria, walking the short journey from there to number 16. I had only been inside this house on one occasion and that was so long ago that I had forgotten when that was and for what reason. I knew the people there by name, but not personally, only ever meeting them all once a year.

  Every Christmas the staff from London would spend the holiday in Yorkshire, at Harrogate Hall, where it was our tradition to wait on them. My mother would cook, or it would be more correct to say finish the cooking of the Christmas lunch, with cook's expert eye looking on, and we all ate together in the Great Hall. When we all lived together, I was in charge of my two brothers and sisters at the kitchen sink, where I delegated my authority ruthlessly. On Boxing Day we would do it all again, but this time as a buffet for all, as before, plus additional local guests. Again, I ran my siblings ragged. All this had stopped on my mother's death, and I wondered if I would still be recognised on the doorstep.

  Mrs Hodges, the housekeeper, answered the door, and immediately burst into tears. Condolences were exchanged all around, as I met the rest of the household. George, on the surface, appeared as stalwart as I could remember; but underlining that intrepidness lay a degree of uncertainty, on which he was quick to elucidate.

  “It's good to see you, Harry. We were all upset over the disagreement between you and your father, and speaking on behalf of everyone we missed the bonhomie that existed between the two homes. Your two sisters have visited, but we understood the position you took, and never at any time took sides. There's no coincidence here, is there? I mean…with both Elliot and Edward's murders…are they connected to the bank?” George had this distinction, apart from all the rest that worked for us, whereby he addressed every member of my family by their first name. It was something I had grown up with, as we had both entered the Paterson patronage more or less at the same time.

  I was five months old when Maudlin, then seventy-eight, first announced George's entry into our tribe. My grandfather, Phillip, was then fifty and living here in London with my father who had a mathematical inclination, so I was told, and spent his weekdays in the capital. At this late stage in my life, I understood the real reason. Anyway, as a child I found George a welcome accomplice to my escapades, and the fourteen years of difference was to me, on the face of it, no hardship to either of us.

  I spun him the same story that I had told Joseph, that of a vindictive investor still on the loose, adding that he was now believed by the police to have made his escape abroad. I hoped that this would quieten any nerves and misgivings that he and the others here held. He had never married, or even courted a lady that I could recall, but I had never had a reason or a wish to question his sexual leanings. I asked him as to his aunt's well-being, and was told that she was now in a residential home but going strong at the age of seventy-four, if a little forgetful.

  I lingered for a while, reassuring everyone as to their future as far as I could, then took a cab across the river to the waiting Peter Trimble and the not-expected Judith Meadows. I had left one cloud of uncertainty, and walked into another. The Special Branch police officer I had first met just over a week ago made up our four-ball, and off we teed.

  Judith led, uninvited, with her report of the days spent at Harrogate, but made no mention to the code I had given her, or the connection she had made to Korovin from it. When Peter ask me if there was anything I wished to add, I declined, agreeing that Judith's summary was accurate and detailed and she had covered everything. We all discussed my brother and his interconnection with Elliot and the bank, which we all agreed was the only thing in common, and therefore the motive behind the murders.

  As none of us had any idea as to the culprit, the police were left in charge and we were discharged, with even more repetitions of “sorry for your loss” ringing in my ears. As I was about to leave I remembered a question I had wanted to ask, but had managed to forget amidst the chaos of my private life.

  “Oh, by the way, I was meaning to ask if you knew…” I got that far in my enquiry before Judith spoke across me, as though I wasn't there.

  “I suspect he's about to ask how long before we feel it's safe for his return home? The precious cows and not-so-precious badgers are waiting. Am I correct, Harry?”

  “No, you're bloody not. I was going to ask when it would be convenient for me to arrange my father's and brother's funeral, actually, my dear.” I replied, angry that I'd been trivialised.

  “No wonder you've managed very little if you're at each others' throats like that every day. Do stop the childish quarrelling; perhaps then we'll get somewhere. To answer your question Harry, it probably won't be until we've caught whoever it is.”

  The inference that Trimble had made in his dismissive remark that neither of us were treating the killings seriously added to the fact that more time was needed in London in Judith's company, confused the already complicated feelings I had towards her. I felt exactly as Peter had described: childish, and not to be trusted, without her beside me, being my chaperone wherever I went. We were outside when I got my chance to rebuke her for her interference. I had felt my resentment building up inside as we had made our way out the 'Box' and into the early spring heat of the polluted air of Vauxhall Cross, but my chance never came, as Judith apologised.

  “I'm sorry about that, Harry. I had to jump in…I wasn't sure what you were about to say. I didn't know if you were about to reveal all my deductions about Paulo. Thinking I had forgotten to mention it all. I really do think it's best for the time being to keep that to ourselves. Don't want Peter getting overexcited at the moment, do we? There's nothing concrete to go on yet.”

  I felt like the proverbial putty in her hands as the wind spilled from my sails. I accepted her offer of a fish lunch at Scott's, as recompense for my loss of honour as she put it; but I could not resist alluding to my preference to trouts on plates, rather than in my face, as we attempted to cross the road, watching out for yellow taxi lights. Her green eyes gleamed in mild mockery, but there was no caustic retort aimed at me. However, she made a remark that caused me to think.

  “Have you ever noticed, Harry, that it's not the questions people ask that are often discomforting? It's the ones they don't ask.”


  “Now you mention it, I suppose there was more they could have asked. It all seemed a bit perfunctory and half-hearted, as if they weren't interested much.”

  “That's because neither of them want to take responsibility and leave any blame sitting on their desk if it goes wrong, Westminster politics, Harry. They are almost all the same, the mandarins of power.”

  Later that day, still in her clinging company, I returned to Eton Square. There, I made the arrangements for the joint interment, at the mausoleum that adjoined the family chapel on the Estate, for the forthcoming Sunday. I hoped that the bodies would have been released by then, and all things would have returned to normal. I was being premature, I knew, but I needed a semblance of normality in my life, and a reassurance to all those close to me.

  Judith was having a nose around. She had asked if I would mind, but it was said as more of an imposed instruction that I was obligated to agree to, rather than a polite enquiry. As I telephoned Joseph to tell him of the arrangements, she was examining the mounted photographs that were scattered around.

  “Could this be Maudlin?” she asked, holding up a silver-framed photo of the man himself.

  “Yes, that is he.” It was George, who I had not heard enter the room, who answered her question. “He was about eighty in that still cuts an imposing figure, though. There are some others where he is younger around…I'll sort some out for you, if you would like? Of course, in the first floor office, there is the commissioned portrait of himself with Phillip, Elliot, and the young Harry, here. He was very proud of it. I'm sure Harry could show you. Will you and the young lady be staying for dinner, Harry? I'm sure Mrs Squires would love to impress you with her delights from the kitchen. She's been inconsolable this past week since Elliot's passing, and now what with Edward…well, I think it would do her good, if you could spare the time.”

  I accepted the invitation, not deferring or consulting Judith, nor with any thought to Hector's welfare, as I introduced my companion to him.

  “This is Judith Meadows; she's helping out at the bank.” I do not know why I lied, but it sped off my tongue before I had time to think. Perhaps it was the distraction of other concerns that led me to blur the truth.

  Mrs Squires, like Maudlin, had always been spoken of reverently within our circle. However, I had Mrs Franks as my cook, and plenty of people to look after my needs. Inside my already overworked brain, I was wondering how I could keep everyone on in meaningful employment.

  The Paterson's, and they are all I can speak of, always had servants, but they were never considered to be humble or lackeys. They were skilled men and women doing their own job in our homes, in which they also lived. They respected us as employers and we respected all of them as individual people, with their own needs and problems. As I saw it, it was my duty as a rich and privileged person to offer positions to good honest people who wanted to work for me, as would any person in business.

  Nobody was referred to as a servant, only as staff, and they were looked after as part of our extended family. Now that my family was diminishing by the week, what could I do with this house and the staff who had their homes here?

  Judith had found something on which to pass comment. “I hope you don't think I'm interfering, H, but don't you find that a bit familiar…him calling you Harry, and your father Elliot? It's as though he's a family friend, and not your father's valet and butler.”

  “He is a friend, Judith. A very long friend of my family and of this house and all who have lived here.”

  “Hmm…I see,” she replied.

  Chapter Eighteen: Prickly Gorse

  “Elliot, I would like to introduced two colleagues of mine. This is Antony Willis from the Foreign and Commonwealth Office, and Donald Howell, the permanent undersecretary at the Home Office. Donald's boss couldn't make the journey as he's suffering at home with the 'flu, but Donald has his blessing and his nod, so can speak on behalf of that Department. Can your man take our guns from the car?” Peter Trimble made the introductions.

  After my father's, self-congratulating slap on my back, he had recounted all of his meeting of that shooting weekend when I was recruited into becoming a spy. As time went on, he told of his successes in working with these three, and later the profits he made for the bank.

  “We have a proposition we would welcome your comments on, and perhaps an opportunity for your involvement through St George,” Antony Willis had said.

  The proposal amounted to the establishment of a paper company in the Isle of Man, funded through the bank's money, which would then buy out BP's interest in those petrochemical plants in Antwerp at a favourable price subsidised by HM Government. A private individual who was working for BP had been approached and had agreed to front this company, lending credibility to the takeover, and the financial reports in the newspapers. The reason behind this, Peter told my father, was that the Americans and the Japanese, along with us, were working on the technology to replace gasoline as the principal fuel for cars, and an equivalent chemical answer to natural gas. The answer they were developing was renewable and cheap to produce, therefore highly profitable. There was, however, an added incentive for Elliot.

  “The new-found wealth in Russia is trying to shut this down. They want to poach the secrets and then corner the market and kill the research.” They had two interested parties, Elliot was told; the ones who owned their oil and gas, and the Mafia, who wanted to control those industries.

  “We must do something to safeguard British interest in this sphere, Elliot. We must add extra weight.” It was Trimble who had added the final plea.

  That was enough for my father. All the right bells were ringing in his head; he had his chance to carry the banner of St George into the battle. “I was ahead of them, Harry, so I volunteered you. I knew that you would fit in, be your kind of fight,” he had told me.

  * * *

  “I was chosen by Trimble, and that's how it came about.”

  “Did your father say if he needed to persuade them, or did they accept his offer of you straight away, Harry?” Judith asked.

  “No apparently, they had someone else in mind but, according to my father, he swung the vote my way after extolling all my virtues.”

  We were back in the barracks of Clapham and recapping all the events that had directly involved me. Hector was asleep at my feet, having enjoyed Mrs Squires' plate of leftovers as much as we had enjoyed her cooking, and the refrigerator in Judith's pristine, uncluttered kitchen was full of goodies for my later pleasures.

  “Incidentally, Judith…what happened to Messrs. Willis and Howell? Did they get ousted with the other Blair lot, or survive to stand and fall with Brown?”

  “They both moved up the slippery pole, H. Being civil servants means they can't be shafted, only moved, so they've gone up in the world. Working out of Brussels now, the two of them. EU representatives on Trade policy, more mouths to feed in that junket. While I'm on the subject of dubious politicians and outright liars, let's not use the two 'B' names in here again, please. They don't sit well in my company.”

  I never pressed her on this, allowing her to decide if she ever wanted to explain. I thought that it may have been tied-in with the other unmentionable, her late husband, and I was not wrong. However, before I was made aware of that story, there was more of my own to narrate.

  “You were fifteen going on sixteen when Maudlin died, Harry, weren't you? My father was there at the funeral, and told me of it. He said that it was a strange day, but never elaborated on the details. Tell me what you can remember, and if you can recall, who attended apart from family members?”

  It was just over twenty-six years ago, on a freezing January morning in snow-covered Harrogate. It was a ridiculous day. I was nearing sixteen, carrying the usual teenage baggage along with several other suitcases called Lords, Ladies, Honourable's and privileges. I was too wrapped up in my own life, both at school and on the rugby pitch, to properly understand what was happening. Father had told me that great-grandfat
her had died some days before, and that his body had been laid out in an open casket in the chapel for the day and night leading up to the funeral. I thought that I would feel sick on seeing him on display there, and the thought of him lying there, overnight, was too nightmarish to think about. Elliot spoke to me, reassuring me that ghosts and wandering spirits were stories that mediums made up to profit from, and that I shouldn't be afraid as Maudlin loved and could never harm me. I wasn't sick, but I remember that I didn't sleep that night.

  The coffin lay on pedestals, draped in black, with a single vase of white lilies beside it. If anything, I think I felt disgusted; he was grey and bloated, and it just was not him, to me. I remained unmoved emotionally, unable to react, whilst some around me cried and others bowed their heads. Phillip was speaking to me, but I never heard what he said. All I could do was look at his body and feel both sadness and indifference; an odd feeling, and difficult to explain.

  I had known him briefly, but in the short time that I had with him, I remembered him in a childish, frightened, way. He was a big man to me, both in stature and presence, and had a loud voice which, when addressed to my young ears made me stop whatever I was doing and take notice.

  With Phillip and father it was different. Obviously I obeyed them, as with my mother, but I could ignore their words of wisdom or censure them, poking my tongue out when they had turned their backs. Not so with The Old Man ,when he was at home. Towards him, that behaviour would never have seemed right why, I cannot say but that's what frightened me, if frightened is the right word to use, from an early age to when I knew him more intimately. The sadness I felt was not for my loss, nor, I'll be honest, for his death. It was for the others who were crying.

  For me, death was not something I could comprehend; it was not the final chapter of life, but it was just another stage. I had him in my memory, and that was enough. The indifference was not, as you might think, because he would no longer be able scare me or intimidate me. It was not that kind of fear. I think it came from the fact that I never really knew him, and now he was not there to know. But what was the point of regret? Later in life I was told that I was the same with toys, or other possessions that were broken or lost. I never got upset about it but just carried on with life, accepted it for what it was, and never pined for something that had gone.