“Enough to sully his ability on the slopes?”
“Oh yes,” said I. “Surely.”
“That was the conclusion of the police investigation also.”
“What else did you learn from the police report?” I enquired.
“Apparently, on this particular morning, Henry Muntjac had risen early, still under the influence of alcohol from the previous evening and, despite his brother’s protestations, had gone out alone to enjoy the fresh snow on the piste. When he failed to return, his brother, the Duke, went in search of him. The snow had fallen overnight, and there was no difficulty following Henry’s lone ski tracks to his battered body. The Duke telephoned for assistance, but Henry Muntjac was almost beyond recognition, let alone help.
“The body was identified at the scene, and transported to the hospital. Based on the Duke’s account of events and the autopsy findings, the police concluded accidental death.”
Urban-Smith turned his attention once more to the pictures of the deceased upon the screen of my open laptop. “Observe Henry Muntjac’s earring?” said he. “When I was at school, for a boy to have a piercing in the left ear suggested that they were homosexual.” He pursed his lips and looked skywards. “Or was it the right? I cannot remember.”
“I suspect it makes little difference when one collides with a tree,” I suggested. “Unless it were a fruit tree.”
“Ha-ha!” he spluttered. “Oh, Rupert. If tastelessness were currency, you would be a wealthy man. Ha-ha!”
*
7. Conundrums
Saturday the 27th
The following morning, I took a taxi to Golders Green, arriving at the offices of Hunt and Hunt promptly at nine forty. I paid the driver and tipped him a ducat for his trouble.
“Niech was Bóg błogosławi, panie! Moja rodzina będzie święto dzisiaj wieczorem. (May God bless you, Sir! My family will feast tonight.)” He doffed his cap, stomped his boot to the floor, and the taxicab leapt like a startled mare and roared away into the traffic amidst a chorus of car horns and screeching tyres.
As per instructions, I telephoned Urban-Smith, leaving my mobile telephone in my breast pocket so he could hear any goings-on, then entered through the glass double doors of Hunt and Hunt. I was greeted at the reception desk by an attractive young lady, who identified herself as Chenelle.
“Please take a seat. Mr Hunt will be with you shortly.”
I did as instructed, having declined her kind offer of a warm beverage, and spent a few minutes flicking through the magazines in the waiting room.
“Mr Hunt will see you now.”Chenelle opened the office door for me and ushered me inside.
Barnabus Hunt’s office was most splendid, with great leather chairs and a leather topped desk. Legal volumes abounded, mostly on bookcases around the panelled walls, but several were laid out upon his desk (“most probably to create an impression of studiousness and learnedness,” Urban-Smith had speculated when I later described the scene to him).
Hunt was an expansive, middle-aged Englishman, with a broad smile and broader belly. He was about my height, but I suspected almost double the weight. His manner was welcoming, his handshake firm and confident, and his navy suit was immaculate and expensive. A white cotton handkerchief had been carefully folded into his breast pocket, perhaps to pass to clients, grief-stricken upon receiving the invoice for his services.
“Please have a seat, Doctor Harker. I understand that you are assisting Mr Urban-Smith in his capacity as Mr Drake Weathers’ representative.”
“Indeed I am.”
“Both the Duke and I are familiar with Mr Urban-Smith’s name and reputation. My son is a great admirer of his. He is studying law at Manchester.”
“And I have no doubt that he will prove to be a great credit to you, Mr Hunt.” I indicated the padded A4 envelope upon his desk, bearing the return address of Utterly Legal Services. “The collection materials are in here, I assume,” said I, plucking said envelope from the desk. “Might I inspect the contents?”
“Please, Doctor. Make whatever inspection you deem necessary.”
“Thank you, Mr Hunt.” I emptied the envelope onto the desk. There was a sealed plastic bag, containing the mouth swab in its plastic tube, a second smaller envelope in which to return the sample to Utterly Legal, and several pieces of A4 paper, including a covering letter, instructions for the mouth swab and, most importantly, the consent form for the Duke to sign. Finally, there was a form for me to complete and sign, verifying my credentials for the specimen’s collection and handling. I briefly read the covering letter and noticed that it specified once again that the specimen was only to be used for this single paternity test, and that the Duke forbade any further interpretation of the results. I asked Mr Hunt to explain the significance of this particular condition.
“The Duke is a very particular and fastidious man,” he explained. “He dislikes disorder and unpredictability. He is most earnest to know that once this test has been performed, then that will be the end of the matter, and that he shall hear no more from Mr Weathers or his representatives.”
“Tell me,” I asked as casually as I could muster whilst pretending to examine the mouth swab, “how long have you represented the Duke’s interests?”
“Ever since I began working as a solicitor; almost thirty years now. My father represented the 10th Duke before he passed away.”
“Has you father retired?”
“Yes he has,” Hunt confirmed, “but I still use the company name, Hunt & Hunt, in readiness for my son’s joining of the firm.”
“I read of the tragic death of the Duke’s brother, Henry,” I said, with what I imagined to be a sympathetic air. “Was the Duke much affected?”
“Oh, indeed,” said Hunt earnestly. “Most deeply. I have never known a man so profoundly moved by the loss of a sibling.”
“How so?” I pressed.
“You are aware that Henry died whilst skiing. It was the Duke who discovered the body after the accident. Naturally, the trip was cut short, and the Duke returned immediately to Muntjac Hall. Upon his return, he locked himself away in his private chambers and remained therein for almost two months. During this time, he saw no one and spoke to no one, save his wife, who was the only other person to whom he would grant access. She brought to him all his meals and correspondence. Even the maid was not allowed to come in to clean, the Duke choosing to do so himself. I have to tell you, Dr Harker, his staff and acquaintances despaired of him; it seemed as though he would never recover from his shock, but he did.
“Those chambers proved to be his chrysalis, and he emerged transformed. He was more relaxed, cheerful and agreeable then I had ever seen him before. The whole process of bereavement, mourning, and then acceptance must have been something of a catharsis for him, allowing him to seize upon the positive aspects of his life and shed the negative ones like a snake sheds its skin.
“It goes to prove the old adage; that which does not kill you only serves to make you stronger.”
“Woof, woof, woof.” From my pocket came the unmistakeable sound of Mrs Denford’s bichon frise, Gonzáles, bellowing at the top of his lungs. I fumbled at my breast pocket and withdrew my phone hurriedly.
“Sorry,” I spluttered, “it’s my new ring-tone. I won’t be a moment.”
I scampered over to the far end of the office and hissed into the telephone. “Fairfax, shut that dog up, for Heaven’s sake.”
“Sorry, Rupert. Working on it.”
After several seconds, the yapping faded away, and I replaced the telephone in my pocket and wiped the sweat from my brow.
“Terribly sorry,” I said, returning to the conversation. “Where were we? Oh yes! The Duke’s catharsis. Mr Weathers gave me to understand that the Duke has also renounced gambling, drinking and spousal abuse.”
“I’m sorry, Doctor, but I am not at liberty to discuss my client’s personal habits.”
“Of course, of course,” I muttered, once again feigning an inspec
tion of the mouth swab. “Client privilege and all that.”
At this juncture, there came a confident rapping upon the door, and in strode the Duke, clad in jeans, jumper and overcoat. I recognised him immediately from his photograph. Present and correct were the powerful build, bushy black hair and lustrous facial topiary, yet absent was the disdainful sneer and feral look in his eyes that set him apart from his sibling.
“Barnabus,” he said, extending his hand, “good to see you. And you must be Dr Harker.” His handshake was relaxed and confident, despite the awkwardness of our meeting. “Shall we begin?”
“Of course, of course,” I agreed. “First, however, may I say how sorry I am for your loss?”
He sighed and his eyes flicked down to his polished black boots for a moment. “Thank you, Doctor. It has been a most trying time.”
“Absolutely,” I concurred. “This will only take a few minutes. Before we start, do you mind if I look inside your mouth?”
“Inside my mouth?”
“Oh yes,” I replied in what I hoped was a reassuring tone. “Standard procedure in cases like this.” As I rummaged in my pockets for a torch, I seized the opportunity to ask the first of Urban-Smith’s questions.
“Your late brother was a most accomplished photographer, was he not?”
“Indeed, indeed,” said the Duke, with a hint of pride. “Finest photographer you could ever hope to meet. Nature mostly; badgers, horses, wildfowl and the like mostly.”
“Yes, indeed. Did he have any family, besides yourself?” This was Urban-Smith’s second question.
“My brother was unmarried. Unlike me, he chose the bachelor’s life; not an option when one is the eldest son of a Duke. There is the matter of the title to pass on, you see.”
“Naturally,” I concurred. I finally located my torch and the Duke opened his mouth for me to peer in. I inspected the inside of his mouth carefully, but I could see nothing unusual. I removed the mouth swab from its packaging and broke the seal.
“Tell me, Your Grace,” said I, surreptitiously observing him out of the corner of my eye, “do you wear an earring?”
The Duke said nothing, but his left hand spoke for him, rising to the side of his face, coming to rest upon his cheek. He stroked his beard thoughtfully.
“No, Doctor. Other than my wedding band, I wear no jewellery. I consider it rather effeminate.” He gave a single snort of laughter. “Upon this point, my brother and I were apt to disagree.”
I liberated the saliva swab from its case, and the Duke opened his mouth so that I could rub it against the inside of his cheek. I continued the process for sixty seconds before pushing the swab back into its receptacle.
The three of us signed the consent form, Mr Hunt acting as witness, and I placed said form along with the swab into a padded envelope.
“Are we done, Doctor?”
“We are.”
He extended his hand once more. “Farewell, Doctor. I trust that our business is now concluded. I know that the result of this test will be no different from the last.”
“I am sure that you are correct, Your Grace.”
I shook hands with the Duke and Mr Hunt, and we bid each other good day. As I left Mr Hunt’s office to make my way back towards Golders Green underground station, I pulled my telephone from my pocket.
“Still there, Fairfax?”
“Absolutely. All done?”
“Yes, indeed. It all sounds above board.”
“Things are not always as they seem, Rupert. What was the Duke’s reaction to being questioned about his ears?”
“He seemed most taken aback,” I said. “His left hand flew to his face, and he tried to cover the movement by stroking his beard; exactly as you speculated.”
“Were you able to get a look at his ears?”
“I’m afraid not. His hair covers them completely.”
“Pity. Are you on the way home?”
“Not yet. I have a spot of shopping to do first, but I’ll be back for lunch.”
“Right you are. TTFN.”
I was due to meet up with Nell and Clara that evening, so on my way to the station, I stopped by a kosher adult bookstore on the Finchley Road, hoping to purchase a provocative, tight-fitting, rabbi costume.
The bookstore, Tzitzkes & Tuchuses was located above a delicatessen a few hundred yards north of the station. Ignoring the disapproving looks from passers-by, I made my way up the narrow concrete staircase and onward into the emporium.
“Can I help you, young man?” As I entered the shop, I was greeted by a balding elderly man in a short-sleeved shirt and ill-matching yellow tie. His baggy trousers were held up by braces, and a battered yarmulke perched atop his bald dome as if it had fallen there from a tree as he passed beneath.
“Just browsing, thank you,” I assured him, as I stopped to inspect the racks of magazines that covered the east wall of the shop.
“Whadda you want?” he insisted. “You want magazines? We got magazines. You want DVD’s? We got DVD’s. We got everything. You like shiksas? Oy, do we got shiksas? Look here. You like bacon? We got shiksas eating bacon. We got shiksas dressed as bacon. Whadda you want?”
I could see that I was going to get no peace from the man. I selected a few journals at random and approached the counter.
“Do you happen to have a rabbi’s outfit?”
“Ah!” He wagged his finger at me and gave me a sly wink. “Do I have just the thing for you?” He dropped down behind the shop counter and rummaged beneath it until he found a flat cardboard box with the words, Randy the Rabbi, emblazoned upon the sides.
“The frechas will go wild for this. It comes with the works. You got the beard, the hat, the tzitzits. For an extra fifteen pounds, you get the strap on tefillin. Real leather; easy to clean.” He opened the box and allowed me to examine the contents. “Feel the quality,” he said, stroking the black vestments. “You won’t find quality like that on an oysgeputst rebbitsen.”
Although the outfit was rather expensive, the gentleman assured me that there wasn’t a nafka in the village who could resist the lure of Randy the Rabbi, and so I agreed to part with the hundred guineas and continued to peruse the remainder of his stock.
I eventually settled for the rabbi costume, a DVD entitled Shtiferish Shtif-shvester, a vibrating rubber bagel, and a dozen kreplach-flavoured prophylactics.
I arrived back at number sixteen, Chuffnell Mews well before lunch, and scurried upstairs to unpack my shopping, before descending to the living room. I found Urban-Smith deep in conversation with a stout, serious-looking lady whom I estimated to be in her late forties or early fifties. Her hair was straight, shoulder-length and dyed jet black, and she wore a beige linen suit and sensible shoes. Both parties rose as I entered the room, and Urban-Smith introduced the visitor as Lubya Bolsakov, “assistant” to Colonel Maxsim Smirnitsky.
“A pleasure to meet you, Doctor,” she purred, eyeing me up and down. Her accent was neutral, generic, betraying no clue as to her origins. “Mr Urban-Smith assures me that you have his full confidence.”
“It is true,” confirmed Urban-Smith. “You make speak as freely in front of Rupert as you may to me.”
“Nonetheless, I do believe that our business here is concluded.” She extended her hand to each of us in turn, then stood aside to allow Urban-Smith to collect her coat and hold open the front door for her.
“I hope to hear from you soon, Mr Urban-Smith.” She walked stiffly away down the path and stood at the kerbside. A few seconds later, a dark sedan pulled up before her and a broad, muscular gentleman clad in black suit and dark glasses climbed out from the driver’s side and came around to open the rear door for her.
I recognised the gentleman as one of Colonel Smirnitsky’s minions whom we had encountered upon the cargo ship, The Iron Lung.
“I hope that he does not bear us a grudge,” spoke Urban-Smith softly at my ear. I nodded in agreement. The man certainly had a right to do so, having first been kicked most fe
rociously in the undercarriage by Urban-Smith, and then punched unconscious by yours truly at our last rendezvous. We watched with trepidation as the car pulled away from the kerb and cruised away towards the junction with Baker Street before turning right and disappearing from view. We returned to the living room and I lowered myself onto the sofa.
“What did Miss Bolsakov have to say?” I enquired.
“Very little actually,” said Urban-Smith, taking a seat in his favourite armchair. “Remarkably tight-lipped, these FSB types. She has given me a card with her telephone number. Should we happen to locate Saxon Schwarzkröte, the Fourth Atman or the Apple of Eden, we are to ring her without delay and before summoning any law enforcement officials. She did also state that I may ring her for advice or assistance should the situation warrant it, although her demeanour suggested that I ought to think better of it.”
“Did you formulate an impression of the woman herself?” My first impression of Lubya Bolsakov was one of utter inscrutability, but if anyone were capable of scruting her with any accuracy, it was my friend and colleague.
“She is an odd contradiction,” he mused. “She carries herself with great bearing and confidence, yet chooses to dye her hair and wear expensive clothing. I do not believe she does this through her own vanity or desire to impress others, so why do so? I suspect a military background, and these trappings are her new uniform.
“Her accent is almost unplaceable, but I detected a hint of a Karelian underpinning with traces of Moldovia and New England. Undoubtedly, she is well travelled and skilled in obscuring her dialect. In some ways, her pattern of speech reminds me of Margaret Thatcher after she received her voice coaching.
“She is trained in close combat; did you notice the way in which she sized you up as you entered the room?”
“I thought that she was admiring the cut of my jib,” I replied, brushing some imaginary dust from my lapel.
“Sadly not, Rupert. As soon as she entered the house, she was examining the layout of the hallway and then this room, looking for exits, objects that could be used as improvised weapons, and the like. She is combat ready and field trained. I should not like to encounter her as an adversary.”
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