The Avenger- Thomas Bennet and a Father's Lament

by Don Jacobson

  To their credit, neither man, so familiar each was with Churchill’s behavior, bridled at their man’s brusque manner. They simply rose and, unintroduced, nodded to the Earl and Bennet before departing.

  The Leader of the Opposition gazed upwards from his leather wingback. He had known Matlock for decades, both as a young man before his elevation upon his father’s death as well as his wartime M, having swept the previous master of British intelligence out the door with the rest of the appeasers. Churchill’s interest was arrested, though, by the remarkable resemblance between the two men in front of him. Oh, there were differences. Matlock seemed a softer, newer version—Fitzwilliamed, it seemed, on top of another stock—of the other fellow; the latter had apparently sprung from an earlier graft upon their common family tree. However, dismissing superficial differences, the two men were clearly related. The most distinctive variance was to be found in their eyes, similar in their unique cast, something which was held in common by every member of the Five Families, but different in color. The Earl’s were his father’s steel grey. The other gentleman’s eyes were hazel.

  Churchill, turning his penetrating gaze directly upon Bennet, drank in a vision of the male version of someone he had last encountered in early 1940. As was frequently his wont when he turned something over in his capacious mind, muttered in sotto voce, “So, you would have me meet a Mr. Bennet of Hertfordshire. Is he the same Bennet written about by Miss Austen, I wonder? I recall talking with Holmes about his belief that Pride and Prejudice was a work of non-fiction published as a romantic novel.

  “This fellow does look like a former Miss Bennet who, with her husband the Earl, dined with Clemmie and I at Selkirk when we abandoned Sunny and Consuelo at Blenheim and dashed off to the Peaks in ’07.”[lxx]

  Then he subsided into himself, content for the moment to await the opening gambit of the Earl of Matlock whom he knew to be as crafty and cagey as any man on the planet. He motioned the two to take up the seats recently emptied by Butler and Bracken. However, M surprised his old employer with something thoroughly unexpected, a remarkable amount of candor.

  “Winston…I sent you some information on Mr. Bennet when I requested this meeting. I can tell you little beyond that which you already know about him. I will offer that he has travelled an unimaginable distance to be here today. I trust that you will allow me to leave you in the dark concerning Bennet’s background, although I am certain that you may have already arrived at some conclusions that you may wish to discuss with Lindemann.[lxxi]

  “Beyond some intentional smudging around the edges, I want to apprise you of the true reason we are here today.

  “Bennet and I need your help in convincing Atlee to allow one of our people free rein in the SS archives collected at Nuremburg.

  “I have asked Bennet’s help in tracking down the SS colonel who orchestrated the death of my mother, my son, his wife, and their two children along with over a dozen other innocents since the end of the war. Mr. Bennet has a peculiar and equally strong interest, akin to my own, in bringing this monster to justice; his obsession is one which would do our friends in Palestine credit.

  “We have created a special detachment in MI6—limited to only a few trusted persons, taking a page from Holmes’ pursuit of Moriarty—that will strain neither the resources of the agency nor the black portions of the broader budget. Instead, the Five Families, as this is predominantly their concern, will bear the cost…and I advise you that we are prepared to beggar our treasuries to catch this creature.

  “We have already eliminated the actual trigger men in an operation at the end of last month. Now we pursue their leader, a man who has wreaked so much havoc upon our families,” Matlock explained.

  Churchill blinked as he digested the aristocrat’s presentation. He already had determined that he would intercede with the Prime Minister, but, in his own way, he needed to glean a nugget of something which the Earl had intentionally left unsaid. He would get the measure of Thomas Bennet and then gracefully subside having had his entertainment.

  He tried to pin Bennet using his fiercest glare before launching his assault.

  “Now, Mr. Thomas Bennet of Hertfordshire, tell me why you must send someone to crawl through Himmler’s sewer?” Churchill aggressively demanded.

  Bennet sat back for a moment. The politician’s manner reminded him of his brother Gardiner when the man had begun a complicated negotiation and was seeking to put his opposite number on his back foot. However, Thomas Bennet, MA, Cambridge, ’82, had not wasted his time in the halls of academe. He knew how to deal with examination boards made up of older men with calcified minds.

  Churchill, surely a descendant of Queen Anne’s great captain John Churchill, was not a victim of the worst of all sins, an unexamined mind. He would not be a push-over and would never respect a man who could not join in battle on the same level. An audacious move would be the only path forward.

  Bennet, thus, exposed his Queen.

  Surprising his host, Bennet turned to the Earl and addressed him as his subordinate, “Tom, I must ask you to rise and stand post over us to ensure that none may overhear. I am invoking our new rule.”

  Surprising Churchill, the Earl, long known in some circles to be Britain’s most powerful non-member of Government, simply nodded and rose to his feet in a manner identical to that recently exhibited by two members of the Conservative Shadow Cabinet. He moved off a few paces and faced the room, beginning a metronomic scan that took in every person within fifty feet.

  Then Bennet addressed his interrogator, his Hertfordshire “r’s” rolling off the back of his tongue, making his speech sound even more archaic in a London so recently overrun by Americans and their multitude of accents reshaping and coloring their version of the King’s English.

  “Mr. Churchill, I think you are taken with the extraordinary circumstances of a commoner such as I who would presume to order about an Earl, let alone the head of the British Secret Services. I assure you that young Tom would normally have bridled at such cavalier treatment by one so beneath his station.

  “Matlock has assured me that you are a man used to keeping confidences of the greatest sort. And, thus, I will offer you a taste of Mankind’s greatest secret. Prior to this, the treasure has been revealed to only two others who were not at the very least married into the Bennet Family or one of its branches.

  “You may have learned of the abduction of Miss Catherine Bennet who later became Lady Fitzwilliam, the Countess of Matlock. The young Earl, Henry was his name…”

  Churchill briefly interrupted, “He was one of my dearest friends as was his wife Lady Kate.”

  Bennet continued after a beat, “Ah yes, Lady Kate. In any event, the 11th Earl consulted with Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson as he searched for her. To meet the detective’s unusual demand for complete transparency, this Earl told him the secret.

  “The information I share could shake the foundation of nations if transmitted into the wrong hands. However, we have determined that we must eschew the old ways and include those who would help us in our time of need.

  “This explains why you see before you a man born in 1760 seeking vengeance for his murdered daughter and asking for your help.”

  A waiter was quickly summoned to refresh Churchill’s drink and to offer Bennet and the Earl their choice of libation. Bennet smiled and chose to indulge himself in one of his favorite drinks—vintage port—in this case a generous snifter of 1931 Quinta do Noval Nacional. After all, he assumed that he was a rich as Croesus and would have ample metal to cover his drinks bill. Then two cigars appeared, duplicating the generous tube sported by Churchill.

  In a deepening blue haze, the Edwardian politician and the Regency gentleman leaned toward one another and suspended the rest of the world for a while.

  

  As Bennet concluded his induction of Winston Churchill into the secrets of the Wardrobe, the older man asked but one question, so complete was Bennet’s coverage of the subject.
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  “Are you telling me that the Royal Family are Bennets? Or, at least the Queen and her daughters?”

  Bennet nodded.

  Churchill chortled, “Oh, I would dearly love to see the faces of some of my more Republican friends if they learned—I assure you they will never know it from me—that the Windsors…or at least some of them…have powers that many might argue as being just this side of divine!”

  Then he had the grace to look suitably chagrinned and turned to Matlock saying, “I do hope that you will, Lord Fitzwilliam, do whatever you can to prevent the Princess of Wales from ever using the Wardrobe. I fear for our country if something happened to that dear young lady.

  “As for her sister…”

  Matlock wryly replied, “I have spoken with the Queen. She, too, is concerned about Princess Margaret. We have agreed that t’is unlikely that the Keeper’s Talk…that is what Mr. Bennet just gave you…would have positive results if given to her when she attains her majority. Unlike her elder sister, knowledge of the Wardrobe would be superfluous to the execution of her duties.”

  Churchill sagely nodded.

  Straightening in his chair he looked at the men seated opposite and said, “You ask if I will intercede on your behalf with Clement. Many of my compatriots would decry such a reaching across the aisle as being a betrayal of our closely held beliefs: that I somehow have become squishy in my dotage.

  “I tell you this, Labour is my opponent, not my enemy. Mr. Atlee and Mr. Bevan are surely as patriotic Britons as I or any member of my party.

  “Much has been made of the supposed antipathy between Atlee and myself. That is a creation of Fleet Street who find ready purchasers of contention in their specific narrow constituencies.

  “You know, despite the 1945 electoral campaign, Atlee and I—he was by my side throughout the war and kept the domestic side of things going as well as could be expected—get on quite well.

  “But, I have recently heard a rather spiteful quip pointed at our Prime Minister. It goes something like this: ‘An empty taxi pulls up in front of 10 Downing Street and Clement Atlee steps out.’[lxxii] I had to set Colville right about that.[lxxiii]

  “Atlee is a good man: better than those like ‘Soapy Sam’[lxxiv] and Halifax who snicker like schoolboys at this tripe. It was their ilk, the Men of Munich, who, in going along with our fashionable fascists like Moseley and the Mitford girls, would have sacrificed our freedoms on the altar of Appeasement.

  “So, Matlock, Bennet: yes, I will call on Atlee for you. Once he learns that t’is you, Fitzwilliam, behind this, he will agree, I am sure.

  “Oh, and Bennet, before you leave to return to your home, I do hope you will dine in with Mrs. Churchill and me at Chartwell. Bring your wife. I assume you did not enter this—how did you say it? Ah yes…this where/when—unaccompanied. Bring your grandson and his missus, too.

  “I would show you my masonry work and my fish pond. And, while we allow the women their sherry, the three of us could share a bottle of something that will not be laid down until a century in your future…a 1912 Vintage port!”

  Chapter XXIV

  Exagoras Agapis, October-November 1947

  Much as the cinema—a thoroughly engaging entertainment as Thomas and Fanny had discovered to their pleasure since their arrival in London—showed the passage of time with an image of flipping calendar pages, so, too, did the weeks and months slip by as if an invisible hand was ticking boxes. The grandes vacances of 1947 aged into a difficult autumn in a country still struggling with rationing, although General Marshall’s Plan offered some hope for better days to come. The mood of the country was lightened by the anticipation of Princess Elizabeth’s November wedding to her sailor, Mountbatten.

  Mrs. Bennet was utterly entranced with the remarkable pageantry leading up to a royal wedding. As it turned out, unlike so many of George VI’s subjects, the Bennets would not be relegated to listening to the BBC commentary over the radio: although Lord Tom would have stumbled over that word and reverted to the term wireless popular in his young manhood. Rather, with the suddenness of a rising Channel squall, the refugees from Hertfordshire were thrust into the middle of the national celebration.

  The first inkling of this came when an emissary of Sir Alan Lascelles appeared in October, about a month before the wedding, in the parlor of Oakham House. He was bearing a note from the Queen herself. She had granted the couple the boon of a private audience with the bride-to-be and herself in a few weeks: barely time enough for Fanny to assault the salons at both Harrod’s and Selfridge’s in her search for the perfect day dress and accoutrements.

  Bennet, thankfully, no longer had to concern himself over the cost of his wife’s periodic excursions into Brompton Road and Oxford Street. His treasury account at the Trust had allayed his earlier fears. He had discovered new-found pleasure in supporting his wife’s shopping expeditions as he joined other exiled husbands in well-appointed Gentlemen’s Smoking Lounges redolent of the best British city clubs had to offer.

  If I am to be browbeaten into escorting my lady into the palaces of British mercantilism, t’is best to appreciate all that is on offer: fine port, excellent cigars, and an opportunity to commiserate with men in a similar condition. At least Fanny has not demanded my presence outside of her fitting room. There she would ask of me the one question for which no man has ever found the correct answer…

  ‘Does this dress make me look heavy?’

  Best to feign an apoplexy at that moment.

  For three weeks, Bennet had avoided all the traps laid for him and managed—or so he thought—to assuage Fanny’s concerns about her ensemble. Of course, that good lady then took the opportunity on the day of the visit to Buckingham Palace to consult her grand-daughters, the Countess Annie and Lady Eloise, who, along with the Countess Georgiana, supplied the only truth that ever mattered…that which was spoken by the hymenical host. Thankfully, these fine women spared their grandfather any further angst, instead finding ways to confirm his pretty words while tweaking jewelry and twitching the lay of this item or that which, to Bennet’s eyes, changed nothing. However, he wisely held his counsel.

  On a chill November morning, shortly after Bonfire Night, the Bennets climbed into the back seat of the Rover 16 for the short journey from Oakham House to the Palace.

  Bennet’s heart twinged when he looked toward his wife, her cheeks delicately stained claret with excitement, as she sat beside him, so confidently turned out in one of Mademoiselle Chanel’s trademark creations. He recalled another of his family wearing something so similar, yet so different, when she had stepped into the Longbourn bookroom just four years ago.

  Kitty did say that Coco’s designs were classics and would never go out of style. How sage she had become. Would that she could view her Mama on her way to make her curtsey to the Queen and Princess of Wales like a girl at her coming out, all the while wearing something which could be one day or one decade old, but always à la mode!

  What Bennet did not apprehend was that Fanny was assessing him as much as he did her.

  How smart Tom looks! The moderns have certainly divined how to make the most of the physique carried by a man of a certain age. His morning coat and striped pants accentuate just how long he is, both below as well as above his waist. Dove grey suits him so well. And his neckcloth with that diamond stick pin from Lord David…why Brummel could not argue with the way Mr. Thomas Bennet of Hertfordshire is turned out today!

  Fanny unconsciously reached out to flick an imaginary piece of lint from Bennet’s lapel. His hand moved up and captured hers giving it a gentle squeeze before lowering it onto the seat between them.

  And, thus, holding hands like the two youngster they felt themselves to be, they turned off the Pall Mall and through the great gates onto the Palace grounds.

  Their stately progress from the carriage portico was appropriately timed to permit both citizens to appreciate the great artwork and ornate chambers through which they had to pass to reach the p
rivate reception room where their monarchs awaited.

  Then a whirl of introductions left both Bennets slightly agog. When Thomas had first encountered the two royals, it had been on his turf at the Trust. The ladies were incognito. Now, however, the weight of the imposing edifice accentuated the incredible gulf between the couple and their descendants.

  Yet, neither regal lady remotely attempted to set them in their place as the Mistress of Rosings tried to do with Lizzy all those years ago. Instead, the two Elizabeths sought to put their guests at ease. This they did through their manner.

  While the Queen could not become overly familiar, she did speak to the Bennets in the voice reserved only for close family dinners at Balmoral. She made eye contact. She asked rather than ordered. She played “mother” rather than delegating the hovering servants to pour and serve. She was solicitous in an innate way, never sliding into a smarmy condescension, but rather acting solely as a hostess caring for her guests’ comfort.

  As for Princess Elizabeth…

  Fanny managed to contain herself when the young lady referred to her as Aunt Bennet—Thomas had, after all, explained that the roots of this branch of the Royal Family were deeply planted in Longbourn’s ancient soil.

  The Princess’ easy way with Fanny encouraged the latter to offer a carefully phrased bit of advice, possibly imagining wisdom she had not been prepared to give Jane and Elizabeth in December 1811. Perhaps now with this Elizabeth…

  “I am aware, Ma’am, that you, after your wedding, will host many fine dinners and receptions at Kensington Palace. That is all well and good, and to be expected, I am sure. Yet dinners and tiaras ought not be what defines you. I would presume to suggest, however, that you consider what the slave would whisper into the ear of a Roman General granted a triumphal parade.

  “Remember, thou art mortal.