Percy Crow

by Daniel Kemp

  Percy Crow

  A story of secrets, deceit and damned lies!

  Heirs and Descendants Book 2

  Daniel Kemp

  Copyright (C) 2017 Daniel Kemp

  Layout design and Copyright (C) 2017 by Creativia

  Published 2017 by Creativia

  Cover art by Cover Mint

  All events that follow are purely fictional and are my interpretation of the actual events that happened in the timespan covered by this novel. References to real names are made respectfully, carrying no desire, nor wish to further malign their reputations. In the main, they did quite well in that regard themselves!

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

  Table of Contents

  Books By This Author

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two: The American

  Chapter Three: Soft Box

  Chapter Four: Pingo

  Chapter Five: New Haven

  Chapter Six: September Party

  Chapter Seven: Big White Rat

  Chapter Eight: There Were No Summers

  Chapter Nine: Burn Out

  Chapter Ten: Ringing Phones

  Chapter Eleven: Charlie Reilly

  Chapter Twelve: Farms And Islands

  Chapter Thirteen: What's For Dinner In Detroit?

  Chapter Fourteen: Beside The Water

  Chapter Fifteen: All Things Secret

  Chapter Sixteen: In Search Of A Heart

  Chapter Seventeen: Banana Trees

  Chapter Eighteen: A Smudge

  Chapter Nineteen: Toxicology

  Chapter Twenty: Bombs

  Chapter Twenty-One: Pay-As-You-Go

  Chapter Twenty-Two: Three Seats But Many Voices

  Chapter Twenty-Three: The Second Hour

  Chapter Twenty-Four: Abenazo

  Chapter Twenty-Five: Bridge Of The Ford

  Chapter Twenty-Six: Troubles

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: Blythe's and Lies

  Chapter Twenty-Eight: Instincts

  Chapter Twenty-Nine: The British Columbia Regiment

  Chapter Thirty: Escape

  Chapter Thirty-One: Swinging Doors

  Chapter Thirty-Two: Reasons For Leaving

  Chapter Thirty-Three: Twenty-One Days and Counting

  Chapter Thirty-Four: Sleep

  Chapter Thirty-Five: The Others

  Chapter Thirty-Six: Pinks and Blues

  Chapter Thirty-Seven: Scores

  Chapter Thirty-Eight: Obnoxious Gases

  Chapter Thirty-Nine: The Second Coming

  Chapter Forty: Pushkin

  Chapter Forty-One: Glitz and Glitter

  Chapter Forty-Two: A Mess

  Chapter Forty-Three: Lions

  Chapter Forty-Four: A Man Of Talent

  Chapter Forty-Five: Away

  About the Author

  Books By This Author

  Heirs and Descendants

  The Desolate Garden

  Percy Crow

  Lies and Consequences

  What Happened In Vienna, Jack?

  Once I Was A Soldier

  The Widow's Son

  Novellas

  The Story That Had No Beginning

  A Shudder From Heaven

  Why? A Complicated Love

  Three Children's Stories

  Teddy And Tilly's Travels

  “That Percy Crow is like his namesake the bird. Evil creatures! They'd tear your skin off if you were to fall asleep for too long.

  Chapter One

  Part One: Lord Clive Townsend

  “Sorry, my Lord, but it's your phone! I did shout across to you that it was ringing, but you were otherwise engaged with,” she hesitated, as if searching for a word that neither offended nor was discourteous, “your lady companion. The caller said his name was Townsend. Added that his boss needed to speak to you urgently. He emphasised both the boss and the urgency of the matter. He was a very assertive man, sir! I wouldn't have answered it normally, but it was the third time!” It was Susie, the new stable manager, with my phone in her outstretched hand as though it would contaminate her if held any closer.

  I stared at the number displayed on my ancient Nokia mobile in a state of both trepidation and relief. Lord Clive Townsend was a very old friend of my now depleted family and although his call was expected, the speed with which he had got back to me was a surprise. I could feel the noose being lowered over my head as I pressed redial.

  “Good morning, Clive! Harry Paterson here.”

  “Morning, Harry, I'm sorry to disturb you so early on a Sunday, but I guess you must know why I'm calling,” without a trace of emotion in his impassioned voice he stated.

  “Percy Crow?” I softly replied.

  “Precisely, Harry, you have it in one! I gave your report a thorough going over last week when I received it. Everything seems to stack up; unfortunately. I've sent a car for you. It should be pulling into your estate any time about now. Come as you are, old boy, it will be just the two of you. He's cleared his appointments and has the house all to himself. Very informal chat, you understand, keep it short and concise without too much detail at this stage. That wouldn't be helpful at all. I'll fill those in after you've gone, old boy.”

  “If you had said that you wanted to see me, I would have driven down myself, saving you the trouble of the car thing.” Bloody cheek in sending a car, I thought. Pompous oaf!

  “No trouble on my part. In any case you weren't home to tell. We have your Isle of Jura single malt, the forty-year-old version in the cellar. To my knowledge he has never tried it. You would make a grand drinking partner for its introduction.”

  “I would be delighted to indulge you and him, Clive, but I haven't showered yet. Got home yesterday afternoon and I've been out riding since six-thirty this morning clearing my head. Grooming my horse Finnegan when you rang. I'll be a fair while until ready to see anyone, let alone your boss! Your driver can get some refreshments in the kitchen while he waits. Will you tell your man, or shall I get my butler, Joseph, to explain?”

  “I'll leave the fine details at your end, Harry, afraid I'm not that way domesticated. Surprised you are, though. Light lunch around one pm it is, then. Do hope it doesn't upset your Sunday arrangements too much, old chap, but affairs of state and all that. Do remember one thing, Harry, and do put your mind to this. There's still residue from the scandal that you unearthed a couple of years ago involving his mother's equerry. You're not exactly his favourite person at the moment, even though you managed to keep all that out of the newspapers. I'm hoping we can do the same with this lot!”

  The line went dead before I had a chance to reply. It was a command not an invitation!

  “Was that anyone important, Harry, only you look a bit off colour?” my companion enquired, as we led Finnegan, along with her own piebald stallion, across the sparkling, newly hosed down yard towards their stables away from the warm autumnal sun. Bawdily she added, “I think your young stable manager holds, what is it you English say; a torch for you? I think she also liked that word assertive; a lot! Was it she that frightened you, or the word, H?” Her laugh ripped through the air as if a horse had bolted and was galloping across the cobbles towards the paddock!

  “I think that expression comes from the days when women did what men told them to do. Holding a lighted torch whilst the man of her life trimmed his beard, would have been such an order, my dear.”

  “Well, then, it's a good job I never lived in those prehistoric times, as the torch thing would have been repeatedly smashed on your large caddish head!”

  * * *

&
nbsp; Allow me to introduce myself. I am Harry Paterson, the latest to succeed to the titles of: Lord, Earl of Harrogate as well as Sheriff of the County of Yorkshire. HP to my friends, or, to more intimate acquaintances; simply H. The Patersons are directly related to royalty, albeit from the wrong side of the blanket, but that deviance from a purity of lineage has not stopped our progress through the upper levels of this sceptred isle, in fact, the opposite is true.

  My own personal star is in the ascendency, particularly within the secret intelligence community of America, however, it must be said that our own secret services are not thought highly of at all over there, or here. Which brings me nicely to the start of this tale of subterfuge, murder and the betrayal of trust, oh yes, throw in a little abuse of position and downright wickedness as well.

  If you would now allow me, I'll begin to tell the story behind that Sunday morning telephone call.

  Part Two: A Calling Card

  Two months previously I was in my local pub on the Yorkshire moors, The Spy Glass and Kettle, having returned there from York racecourse where a friend of mine had a filly in a June selling stakes race. We numbered about twenty or so, and being a pleasantly hot Saturday afternoon the pub was packed to the rafters and beyond, with the equivalent associated noise which we added to in jubilant abundance.

  “Excuse me, but I think this must have fallen from your pocket.”

  I felt a slight nudge in the base of my back as a shorter man than myself, with short blond hair and eyes scrunched tight as if anticipating something bad, stood before me holding an innocuous white business card. I looked at it, then him, and was about to say that I didn't believe it to be mine, when he thrust it closer, turning it over quickly then back again with a strained smile across his narrow, pointed, face briefly changing into a grimace resembling severe pain. At first I thought he had something wrong with his wrist, but as I looked once more at the card I could clearly see an image of a bald-headed eagle embossed across the Stars and Stripes of America. It was the official American Embassy calling card, one I had seen many times before. I had also noticed some lettering on the reverse side that made no immediate sense but he had clearly wanted me to see it hence the anguished look.

  “Yes, I must be mistaken. I have indeed dropped it. Thank you so much. I would have been lost without it,” I said to his departing back, adding fruitlessly, “Have you a name, old sport? I'd like to buy you a drink if I could!” I was too late. He had hastily disappeared through the dense milling throng, out of the side door and vanished.

  “Even for an American that was a brusque man! How strange he should adopt such a rude attitude after his kind and thoughtful action, Harry! The world is a curious place to say the least.” My partner, who had not taken her eyes off his face, was on tiptoes shouting into my ear.

  “Perhaps he was just in a hurry, or just didn't like crowded places, Serena. There are quite a few people who don't like being hemmed in. I'm one that hates it. Much prefer my own space. Best to give him the benefit of the doubt. In any case, I have that card back and no time has been wasted speaking of trivial things. He might have stayed around chatting for hours and then what? I would have been drooling all down my face until I had you back to myself.” I laughed as a way of recapturing the attention of my alluring partner.

  Serena, or to give her full Portuguese name, Serena, Sabato, Dos Reis Abenazo, was of Jewish descent and the only child of Nicolás Abenazo, one of the most wealthiest men in the world. We had first met many years ago, but more recently about a month back, at the start of the season's polo match held at The Guards Polo Club in Windsor Great Park. My family had connections with the Abenazos down through many generations, partially through ties with horses but predominantly through a common interest in the accumulation of money. Serena and I had been living together at Harrogate Hall for the last six weeks. I had no wish at all to be distracted away from her ravishing appeal.

  * * *

  It wasn't so long back that I'd had cause to examine how I felt about women and why it was that I'd never stayed close to one of them for any length of time, preferring to have many as friends and lovers other than merely one in an enduring relationship. A previous episode, too close to be completely forgotten, had ended on a sad, bitter note, leaving me heartbroken and for a good while reticent about becoming attached to any female ever again. It was not an experience I wished repeated. However, life rarely turns out as one would wish and Serena was, in so many ways, vastly different from any other woman I had previously met. In some respects she was too good to be true, but as I'm a modest man I shall not go into the details of why that might be.

  The relationship I had with her had started slowly, now I wasn't sorry that it had been so. I am, by nature, a straight to the point type of man and on our first meeting I was tempted to go for the jugular, as it were, right from the off. That old hackneyed, varying opening line of mine; 'you look so utterly delicious in those clothes that it's impossible to imagine anyone so divine. But I'd bet my title that your naked body would look a million times better without them,' was millimetres away from my lips when her father interrupted me, clasping hold of my arm drawing himself closer in a protective, paternal manner.

  “In his younger days, my good friend Lord Harry Paterson had a, how should I say, Harry; interesting reputation with women, Serena. You are now more circumspect around friends I hope, Harry.” He added a sniggering laugh, but I perfectly understood his admonishment. As to whether Nicolás had accepted me as his daughter's lover I know not, but his veiled criticism of my inbred behaviour caused me to take stock and reassess my life. It was going nowhere subjectively. I had all the material things that the wealthy could wish for, but emotionally I was a long way away from any state of complete happiness.

  * * *

  “That's not some flirty woman's calling card is it, Harry? You would say if it were, wouldn't you?” She was seventeen years my junior, but at the age of twenty-seven far from naive, nor was she gullible. Being silly and girlish was another matter entirely.

  “I would not. I would keep it a secret and make you green with envy. Mind you, that would clash badly with this week's hair colouring, I fancy. Not visually pleasant at all! Blue hair above a green face, with your green eyes pointed and angry, will just not do. Isn't there a rhyme; 'blue and green should never be seen?' I doubt you'd have those colours on display in any of your fashion shops, my dear.”

  “Sometimes you can be quite poetic but on other occasions you're just so foolish Harry, that you're beyond description. Is that an old family saying, or one of those silly English things that are meaningless? Of course blue and green go together! Never seen a clear blue sky above a green field? Fashion shops, indeed. You can be somewhat condescending, H. Show me that card, I insist,” indignantly she retorted, having good reason. Serena owned the highly fashionable women's clothing brand name of Zabreno, selling garments that were infinitely expensive in not only a string of her own worldwide boutiques, but in revered clothing establishments and departmental stores around the globe. She was a famous fashion designer for the social elite. That bracket did not include me.

  “Maybe I got it wrong, and it's two other colours that clash. I am, as you well know, a forgetful person.” I grinned like the proverbial Cheshire Cat about to lick the cream from the top of the milk.

  Her one marriage had lasted just short of a year, leaving her tight-lipped about it, but not reticent in her anti-American feelings.

  “Do you really think you should? It's not something you'd want to see normally, Serena. It could remind you of some of those infused American memories that you're trying hard to forget. Why give yourself a problem on such lovely day? There's so much time left for us to enjoy it.” She had never spoke about the reasons for the breakup, and I had never asked. I accepted her on face value, a dangerous thing with women but I liked a little mystery in the ones I kept close.

  “Oh do stop pissing about, Harry. Show me the bloody card or I'll not be in your bed
tonight. Nor any other night come to that!” I knew she meant it.

  “Okay. Be it on your head. As blue as it is.” She took the card and for a brief moment simply stared at it, as a child would stare at a lion in a cage before accepting that it presents no danger behind bars.

  “My apologies, H, you were being sweet as always. You are my chivalrous English knight and I, your mere slavish mare, sire.” She'd looked at the front of the card, then examined the back.

  “You have friends there? At the embassy, I mean?” she asked, her agitated mind now settled it seemed.

  “I do, an old one,” I said, as I quickly took the card from her grasp. “We go back many years. He recently arrived in England and it's his. Suspicious of our telephone system, I expect, sent it to me a few days ago.” I lied, but was not aware of how close I was to the truth.

  “Is that his name hidden as an anagram on the back of it? Or, are you both spies trying to get this year's fashion designs of mine without little me knowing, Harry? If you are then they're not worth it, as I haven't any new spectacular ones yet, but I'm working on it! Plenty of time for my creative juices. If your friend invites you to the local American hangout, please exclude me. I'd ruin the evening for you.” Her dislike for all things American was obvious as she screwed her face up as if tasting something vile. I had decided not to delve too deeply into it but that did not stop me chipping away at the edges.

  “They are not all one dimensional, you know. Some do realise that there's a world beyond their own shoreline with people living there who matter. I've had the honour to meet a few. One broken marriage should not make an enemy of a whole country. Before you ask, I just made that up.” Pocketing the card as unobtrusively as I could, I moved the conversation away from it.

  “Yes, sounded like it too, Harry. Your diplomatic side was a little short of content and feeling. A bit goody-goody and too pious for me! When I want a shortened sermon I'll ask at the synagogue for a private one.” Serena's slow deliberate movement of her lips to form that seductive smile of hers combined with her golden caramel-coloured skin was what had captured my heart, but my heart was a fickle organ that beat in tune to a solitary, selfish tenor of life.