Percy Crow

by Daniel Kemp

  Oh yes, before I forget. Sophie has news on that house photo thing of yours. I found a kind man at Canada House for her. After you see her come straight back to me. I've laid some new clothes for you that I bought on my shopping trip. It's the start of the smartening up routine I'm setting you on. I forbid you to wear anything other than what I've laid out for you on your trip to New York. I can't have you disgracing my name. What was her name again?”

  “Just one tiny thing, Seri, before I buzz off and do what I'm told. Could you describe what everything means in regards to Tanta's remit on The Hall, old girl?”

  “Everything means everything, Harry, except me being called anything connected with the word old. Now do get along and talk to yourself, someplace else.”

  I had twenty-one days of wedding and fashion show palaver to look forward to, neither of which I knew anything about, nor did I need smartening up, as Seri had so sweetly put it. Sophie was with George in the library, which was looking more like one of those internet cafes I had seen and passed by. There were three large screen computers on tables with the corresponding cables cluttering the floor. I could see the need for only two. My bemusement was spotted by the busy George.

  “It was Sophie's suggestion, Harry, having a spare one in case of a breakdown and the other one being in use. I thought I might just as well buy the latest models, if I was going to get two then why not three? I'm surfing the net to find a replacement for Mrs Squires. Not easy to come by, live-in cooks who are willing to do domestic chores. Thought I'd cover both positions with the one employee, cuts down the wage bill. Your wages bill at The Hall must be enormous. How do you manage it all?”

  “Mainly through wise investments made in the past, George. How goes the wedding plans, by the way?”

  Surfing the net! A Sophie-ism, I expect. Next he'll be telling me he's voting Labour and waving red rosettes from the front balcony. Eton Square was in for a shock when Sophie took up residence.

  “They're flying along. First banns read out last Sunday at both St Luke's and St Peter's, just two Sundays to go as planned. I've made a list of the guests I want. It's not very big actually, only six people on it. Mrs Squires will be up there by then, so only five for transportation. Sophie has about thirty on her list, and it's still growing. That's what she's doing now, Harry, looking up an old school friend. Found one in New Zealand, then one in Hong Kong. She's just arranging flights for them.”

  “Are you in with the local boy scouts group, George? Might need to borrow some tents at this rate,” I smiled, as I said it.

  Marquees indeed! Egg and cress sandwiches under a bivouac canvas sounded a good idea to me. No wonder my wage bill crossed George's mind. Next thing I'll hear will be Sophie wanting me to buy her an aircraft to ferry her school chums in. I was beginning to hope that my offer to host the entire ceremony was not going to be exploited by Sophie's unmerited largesse. If I moaned, I'd only have Serena on my tail. Discretion being the better part of valour I decided to hide my artillery in the nearest trench, not firing a shell at anyone.

  “Ah, hello, Harry! Be right with you,” it was spendthrift Sophie. “Having a problem with connecting flights from Singapore to Heathrow for the Wednesday before the wedding, but not to worry. I'll get it done. I've forgotten how many guests you said you can put up in that house of yours. Was it eighteen or eighty you said? Only joking, Harry! I've managed to find rooms for most in surrounding hotels. One night stays for the majority, that's all. I wont't be treading on your generosity too heavily.” She removed those glasses of hers, stretched her back, rubbing her wrists as though she'd been surfing the net all day! Gosh, thanks Sophie, I thought but never said.

  “Seri tells me you had some luck with the photograph. Was it of a house in Vancouver as I thought?”

  “Indeed it was! A very notable person lived there. Now it's a museum owned by a trust fund. I have all the details written down here in this envelope,” she passed it to me. “They were extremely helpful at Trafalgar Square, but I do miss not seeing the pigeons there anymore. Doesn't seem right somehow.” Rats with tails, as far as I was concerned. Good riddance, another silent thought best keeping to myself.

  “Thank you for that, Sophie, but it appears I was barking up the wrong tree. According to this the man who lived there died in 1947. I was searching for a man who died five years later, so they can't be same one alas. Back to the drawing board I go. Let's hope Katherine has some good news when I see her. Thought about inviting your sister, George?” I enquired of a shy-looking brother. “I'll get her address for you and pass on the good news when I'm there. Perhaps she could lodge a complaint at the Russian Embassy about the missing pigeons, Sophie. Can't imagine what they now use to fly messages home.” I tried hard to smile and managed to force one out.

  Five years?

  Perhaps, they didn't just want to muddy the waters, they built a dam to hold them back.

  * * *

  I left Katherine's plush apartment more or less straight after her delicious meal, hoping that my invitation to Milan would not only be accepted but I was right in all my assumptions. The twenty-second of September loomed as large in my mind as did the Saturday before; the wedding day. Serena had purchased a whole new wardrobe from my tailors in Savile Row, laying it all out while I was back in London, at Eton Square. Even my underwear and socks had been changed. After trying everything on and finding it all fitted, I followed her suggestion of visiting the tailors where I was pleasantly surprised that her guess at my measurements had been spot-on for the bespoke suits she ordered. Both Jimmy and Katherine having favourably commented on the new clothes Serena had directed me to wear, I was beginning to enjoy the new international me. My wayward attention was on that, along with the bust of Pushkin and the translated Cyrillic script found by Joseph and Mrs Franks at Drogheda, as Joe greeted me at the revolving doors on my exit.

  “Hi there! I hope you enjoyed your visit. Will I be seeing you again, sir?”

  “No! Flying back to England tomorrow. But first I need a cab to Fifth Avenue, Joe. Need a jewellers to have something altered before I go home.”

  “You're going to the right place but before you go, you'll be needing this, sir.”

  He passed me a note written on a scrap of paper, before stepping forward and calling the first cab from the rank.

  “Was this left by the man I came here with?” I asked.

  “No, sir! A young boy left it about an hour after Jimmy left,” he replied.

  Stay with your convictions, you're almost there.

  In my astonishment I neglected to tip him. I wondered what Jimmy had gleaned from the note, as I hadn't a clue. When he picked me up in the morning from the Hyatt, he showed no sign of a change.

  “You sleep well last night, your Lordship? Hope your conscience didn't give you too many bumps. Leave our Highness your cell number, did you? Let's meet in London in three weeks time when I hope you've cleaned this business away, Harry.”

  “I could fit a day in, but definitely can't make London, Jimmy. I'm up against the clock for all of September, and the second week of October when I'll be abroad. Yet to decide where that'll be actually. Somewhere warm and peaceful I hope. Make it my place in Yorkshire for your visit. I'll text you a date when I'm home.”

  We were outside the jewellers on Fifth Avenue, where I'd left my mother's wedding band to be altered and added to, when Jimmy let out something that Katherine had alluded to.

  “First the wedding of George, then you're off to Italy aren't you?”

  “Yes, I am. She knows you're listening in, you know?”

  “Just making sure you're aware that I've still an investment in that apartment. I'll come in between those dates, Harry. Can't wait for a tour around your castle.”

  * * *

  I could trust no one with the autopsy report I'd had from Sir David Haig because if I was right, then scores of people had followed the wrong path too long to admit their failings. I needed a plan and an ally far removed from the ones I'
d used up until now.

  Doctor Samuel Sebel, the accredited pathologist, was not known to me, however, it didn't take me long to find out all I needed to know about his past and his present. Mrs Squires's appreciation of Wikipedia was still holding firm in her interests, being pursued on George's old computer. He had been the senior Home Office pathologist from 1961 until 1992 when he retired at the age of sixty-five to a new home at Saltash, on the banks of the River Tamar in Devon where he was enjoying his life with his son; a sailor, and there lay my way in. I had sold the two-masted schooner that Elliot, my father, had owned shortly after he'd been murdered, but although I never shared his enthusiasm for that pursuit I had kept in touch with one important person at the Royal Yacht Squadron at Cowes Castle, on the Isle Of Wight. I telephoned Commodore Spencer May one afternoon from Boodle's, explaining my predicament by substituting an imaginary friend for myself.

  “I wonder if you could help out an old friend of mine, Spencer? I'd do it myself but you know the man he needs an answer from personally. It would sound so much better coming from you.”

  “Good evening Mathew, Commodore Spencer May here. Yes, that's right, Prince Phillip will be here this coming weekend. You have got your ticket to the dinner, and you are bringing your father I hope. Congratulations, by the way, for your finish in the Around The Island Race back in June. Remarkable effort coming third in your class, sleek craft you and your father have there. Anyway, the thing is, I'm calling on behalf of a friend. Played cricket in The Parks for Cambridge, but nevertheless a top drawer chap with the highest credentials. An old army colleague of his has returned to England from Kenya, where apparently his family own half the country. He's the one who has the need. Apparently, most of his family are dead and he's trying to trace a lost uncle who died in 1952. He's tried the family people place up in London but drew a decisive blank, only coming up against confusion with three possibilities. One was a closed account of four deaths in a fire at some manor house in Ireland of that year, where your Dad preformed the post-mortem on all the bodies. Must say, bit beyond any of my capabilities, all that kind of thing. What? Yours too! I thought it would run in the blood.” He waited for the laugh to subside before continuing.

  “He tried the usual channels at the Home Offices and was told of its diplomatic secrecy, but he only wants an answer to a simple question that I can't see jeopardising national security at all. I was hoping you could help. His question was in regard to age. He knows that there were two women involved in the fire along with two men. They told him that, so it can't be too much of a secret, can it. All he wants to know is if either of the men were over the age of fifty. That's it! No names, no rank, nor details of death. He just wants to move on if it's not his lost uncle. I have his signed cheque beside me made out to the charity you chair for leukaemia research. It's for five thousand pound. It's yours either way, Mathew. Whether or not you can help. Shall I post it to your club or home address?'

  Two days before I left for America, the club secretary at Boodle's telephoned Eton Square to say I had a letter in my box. If Malcolm, aka Frank the beaver, had been right, and I had no reason to doubt him, then someone was telling so many lies that the fire from their pants must have been seen on top of the Ural Mountains.

  Neither of the men he examined were over the age of forty, Harry. He sends his thanks for your cheque, which I've forwarded on, and hopes that helps your friend.

  Kind Regards,

  Spencer May

  * * *

  It took Meredith Paine less than an hour on the transatlantic safe link, from his office in Curzon Street, Mayfair to the Langley headquarters of Admiral Toby Macalister, to devise his own strategy to both men's satisfaction and only a further three days to put that into play. He drove himself to Eastleigh Lodge, in The Forest of Dean, to pull off one of the most audacious swoops in the history of British intelligence, confident that the timid narcissism that Lord Cecil Montague wore wrapped as a comfort blanket around his body would be his target's downfall. He was right. On the seat beside him was his only weapon, a fabricated red dossier marked; Highly Sensitive.

  After parking his car, between the lily filled lake and the typically English country garden, he noisily crossed the gravel drive to the Lodge where one room was lit. As when Sir Michael Riven first approached asking for my help, Meredith was entertained in the dining room at Eastleigh but that's where any comparison ended. There was no warm welcome, no dinner served, and Montague's room was purely perfunctory, devoid of adornments of any kind. With shaking bravado he asked: —Well, here I am. Now what do you want? That was the only time Montague was assertive, he was never given another chance. Meredith made most people feel small, but not many felt as small as Montague. The top of his head only just reached above Meredith's elbows. On being ordered to sit, the timorous beast that he was, he did.

  Meredith Paine laid the four-finger-thick red dossier on the bare oak table, turning it so that Montague could read its inscription, then spoke in a thunderclap raging manner, that reverberated between Cecil's ears.

  “That's what this is, you disgusting little apology for a man, a highly sensitive issue, one that I've been told to cover up. Buck House has instructed me to find a way to save your arse, Montague, which I'm more inclined to brand traitor in huge burning letters on. This file contains the Americans, get that you snivelling toad, the Americans not us, have unearthed on your treachery. But as your pinky-coloured eyes can now see, it's in my grasping hands.

  Those in Royal circles found it to be so stomach churning obnoxious to that title they bestowed on you, drawing and quartering was mentioned. In secret, mind you, so they would escape the embarrassment. None of today's lot have seen blood spilt on English soil and fewer still would like it. Others, the softies, argued that the disgrace would be discovered no matter what. Some disgusted liberal-minded Yeoman at The Tower would no doubt tell someone's wife who would blabber it all around Billingsgate market, with all the fish in the world then knowing. It was they who won the day. Much to my department's contemptible annoyance! What you're going to do is give me the name of your cowering accomplice at the Ministry of Supply, and every other person involved in this game of espionage you play at. When you do that, two things will happen. First, you be allowed to keep your title. Second, the accident that Percy Crow and I will arrange to wipe that burning arse of yours from the face of world; won't happen.”

  Standing to his full height, Meredith slammed the dossier devoid of secret papers but with a large copy of the Players Of Year Cricket Almanac hidden inside, violently on to the table. It shook, but not in the same way that the exploding noise had caused Montague to shake. He trembled in uncontrollable fear.

  “Painful, I would think, if that face of yours was dunked in acid, Montague. But I'm sure Mr Crow would oblige if I asked him. He hasn't said a kind word about you since he came to me via Russia and Germany.”

  Meredith put the dossier on his lap, removing a small lined note book and ink pen, then added the killer blow.

  “Incidentally, before you begin to write, if you know the slightest detail of a Russian spy inside a research and development project into missile materials going on an American State named Tennessee, now would be the time to consider wiping what the Americans have on you, clean away. Think of it as your spiritual cleansing. Or, alternatively sleep with a Rottweiler beside your bed and gun in it for the rest of your life. While on the subject of our canine friends, Percy tells me you were in the habit of keeping Dobermans patrolling that place of yours in Ireland in the wee dark hours. If that's still the case, put them somewhere bolted up tight when I tell you to. Hate to think of the necessity of shooting them.”

  Cecil's deformed right hand ached by the time he had finished writing. However, he did not know the name of any person from Tennessee other than a Davy Crockett of the Alamo Mission fame. That wasn't what Meredith wanted, at all.

  * * *

  Georgina Franklin, aged twenty-seven, single and attractive, was at
her desk in the British Colonial Office when her blue telephone rang. It was an external number calling.

  “Oliver Lyttelton's office, Georgina Franklin speaking,” she answered.

  “It's Grace, Georgina! Can you speak?”

  “Oh yes, Grace, I can. I was going to ring you to see if anything new was happening this coming weekend.”

  “Then I have good news for you. Three strikingly beautiful, pure as the driven snow young ladies are waiting as we speak along with an equally handsome number of boys. All freshly picked with you and Wilson in mind. Shall I hold them until Saturday evening? Usual fees of course. Did think about an increase as they are so lovely, but as you two are our most valued clients, waived it to the very back of both Cecil's and my minds. I won't be able to hold them for long though.”

  “Have you tried Wilson's line, Grace?”

  “I have, but I was told he was in a Cabinet meeting with the PM. Thought you might have better luck.”

  “Give me an hour and I'll get back. Positively drooling here, Grace, and I'm sure he will be too.”