I struggled to my knees and stared up at her. Clara was a beautiful woman, but anger had transformed her face into a grotesque mask of hate. Her eyes were wide, her skin flushed, and spittle played upon her lower lip, which shuddered with deep emotion.
“Yes I did,” I said defiantly. “I killed him, and I would gladly do it again.”
Clara gave a guttural snarl and struck me across the cheek with the butt of her gun, and I fell once more, one half of my face a ball of searing agony. I sprawled upon the floor, clutching my head while the blood ran hot between my fingers.
“Look at me!” Clara hissed, but the pain was too great. “Look at me!” she screamed, and kicked me in the back. I cried out with pain and tried to crawl away, but she stamped upon my calves and thighs until I desisted. Fragments of brick and orange dust collected beneath my fingernails, which split and cracked as I scrabbled at the warehouse wall and tried to haul myself up from the floor.
“Look at me, Rupert!” she cried again. “I want to see your face when I kill you.” I grunted and moaned and whimpered as I rocked and writhed until I finally ended up sitting with my back against the wall, gasping and spluttering, and my heart pounding like a jackhammer.
The warehouse echoed with shouts and gunfire as the battle raged on. The air was thick with acrid smoke, and I rubbed at my eyes, trying to clear my vision. Flames flickered all around, and as the pain coursed through my body, I thought of my dire catalogue of sin and wondered if a similar Hell would await me after I died.
Burning petrol cast Clara in silhouette as she stood back and spat onto my chest. She raised her gun, but her hand was shaking wildly, and she had to grip hard with both hands to bring the weapon to bear.
“I should have done this weeks ago,” she said with a smile playing about her lips. “Goodbye, Rupert.”
There came to my ears not one, but two great roars. A great gush of blood and fire erupted from Clara’s fist, and she dropped heavily to the floor, screaming in pain. Her right hand hung at an odd angle, bone protruding from the inside of her wrist, and a steady stream of blood running down her fingers and onto the dusty floor.
Urban-Smith strolled into view from my left side, a smoking pistol in his grasp and a sneer upon his lips.
“Fairfax!” I gasped. “I had no idea that you boasted such great marksmanship. What an incredible shot.”
“I was aiming for her head,” he replied, “but on this occasion, fortune favours the unworthy.” Urban-Smith stood over Clara, regarding her with a mixture of contempt and triumph. “It seems that destiny has granted you a reprieve, Miss Schwarzkröte.”
“Damn you,” cursed Clara between clenched teeth. “Damn you both.”
I considered rising to my feet, but my legs were battered and bruised, and each movement brought me to tears, so I simply closed my eyes and listened to the roars and cries of battle playing out at the other end of the warehouse. It seemed that the fighting was nearing its conclusion, and within a few minutes, all resistance ceased as one side succumbed to the other.
“Mr Urban-Smith.” A familiar voice caused me to open my eyes and turn my head. Urban-Smith inclined his head, but did not relinquish his pistol.
“Miss Balsakov,” said he. “You received my message.”
“Yes. Your brother telephoned me.” She looked around the blazing warehouse. “You have made quite an impression here.”
Lubya Bolsakov stood with her legs apart, clad from head to foot in black combat gear and boots, clutching a silenced submachine gun. A pair of sturdy guards flanked her, similarly dressed and armed.
“However did you find us?” I asked her.
“There is only one road in and out of Brocklegate Cemetery, Dr Harker. Once we had pinpointed the location of Mr Urban-Smith’s telephone call, it was a simple matter to identify your vehicle using local traffic cameras. We established that you were heading south on the M11, and despatched a driver to follow your progress.” She surveyed the wreckage of the Apple of Eden with a frown. “Were you able to save any of the archive’s contents?”
“None,” replied Urban-Smith.
“Pity.” Lubya Bolsakov chewed her lower lip. “What of Saxon Schwarzkröte?”
“He’s dead,” I replied, “but this woman is his daughter.”
“Is she now?” Lubya Bolsakov said casually. “Are you the one that killed Sir Godfrey Pingum?”
Clara bared her teeth in response and hissed like a cornered tomcat. Without another word, Miss Bolsakov raised her gun and, before I could cry out an objection, fired three shots. Clara Schwarzkröte collapsed to the floor and lay still, blood flowing from the ragged remains of her head and forming a crimson pool upon the cold, dusty floor.
“Why?” I spluttered. “Why did you do that?”
Lubya Bolsakov gave a slow sigh.
“Sir Godfrey and I were close. Very close indeed.” A tear ran down her cheek. “We were lovers a long time ago, after I first came to this country.”
Urban-Smith and I exchanged confused glances.
“I don’t mean to doubt you,” I said, “but you don’t seem Sir Godfrey’s type.”
She leant forward, grasped me beneath one arm and whispered into my ear, “I wasn’t always a woman, Dr Harker.” Her grip was powerful, and her forearms bulged beneath her tight jacket as she pulled me to my feet. My legs threatened to buckle, but she held me firm until I was able to remain upright.
Propped between Urban-Smith and Miss Bolsakov, I was able to limp back through the warehouse to its main entrance. All about us were agents of The Fervent Fist, kneeling or lying upon the floor, arms secured behind their backs, and with FSB paramilitaries guarding them at gunpoint. I counted at least a dozen bodies sprawled amongst the overturned barrels, shattered crates and other debris of the battle. Behind us, the Apple of Eden and the flatbed lorry were a mess of tangled steel, and a stream of burning petrol was slowly making its way across the floor from the lorry’s ruptured fuel tank.
At the warehouse’s entrance, Miss Bolsakov paused, cocking her head to listen. Sirens were approaching from the east.
“Please can you wait for me outside?”
Urban-Smith and I made our way out into the dark, while Miss Bolsakov turned and strode back into the warehouse. Her voice rang out clear in the chill air. “мы должны уйти сейчас. Yбить их всех.”
Shots echoed all around the warehouse, and there was nothing that Urban-Smith or I could do; Bolsakov’s men left no witnesses.
*
27. Resolution
Urban-Smith and I were whisked away in an unmarked car and dropped at the nearest Accident and Emergency department, where the attending staff seemed all too willing to accept a drunken fall downstairs as an explanation for my extensive injuries. They x-rayed me from top to tail, and I was pleased to discover that, apart from a few cracked ribs, all of my injuries were confined to the soft tissues and would resolve without treatment. As before, I was advised to remain in overnight for observation, and as before, I refused, preferring to recuperate at home.
On my return to Chuffnell Mews, I crawled to bed and slept almost constantly for the next sixteen hours, waking on Monday morning with an aching hunger for scrambled egg and bacon. From my pounded head to my stomped upon legs, every part of me was heavy and sore, and I was grateful for the strong painkillers which the hospital had provided.
I stumbled downstairs and staggered into the kitchen in search of sustenance.
“Good morning, dear,” cried Mrs Denford cheerfully as she hustled and bustled amongst the pots and pans. “Ready for some breakfast?”
“Yes, please.” I lowered myself gingerly into a chair.
“Look here, Rupert,” said Urban-Smith, brandishing the morning Scrump at me. “The newspapers are reporting it as a gas mains explosion. There is no mention of corpses, gunfire or Russian paramilitaries.”
“Another MI6 cover up?” I postulated.
“Absolutely. I sense Mr Church’s hand at work behind the sce
nes.”
“Won’t The Fervent Fist come after us for revenge?”
“Of course not,” he said, seemingly amazed at the suggestion. “We are nothing to them, just a dusty speck upon a window. Schwarzkröte’s failure will likely come as little surprise to the other factions of the Illuminati. The man was clearly insane. I daresay that there are dozens lined up in the wings to take over from where he left off.”
“You mean that we made no difference?” I was crestfallen. “After all we have been through, all for nought?”
“I did not say that,” he chastised, “but one battle does not make a war, and The Fervent Fist shall lick their wounds and fight on, as shall we.”
“Hurrumph,” I hurrumphed. “Speak for yourself. I have come to a terminus, and shall go no further. As a matter of fact, I am thinking of taking a sabbatical; Australia perhaps.”
Urban-Smith sighed and set aside his Scrump. “I cannot blame you, Rupert. Few men could endure as you have.”
“Yes,” I mused. “I shall contact Beefy after breakfast and ask him to put out some feelers, and this afternoon, I shall take a train to the coast and spend a few days limping along the promenade. I notice that you keep a walking stick by the front door. Perhaps I could borrow it?”
“Of course you may, Rupert, but I must ask you to remain just one more day. We still have the matter of Drake Weathers and his parentage to attend to, although you will be heartened to know that I intend to bring the matter to its rightful conclusion this very evening. In fact, Mr Weathers is due at three o’clock. I assume you shall be available?”
“Absolutely,” I replied with more enthusiasm than I genuinely felt, for one more day is a long time when it has already been too long. Be that as it may, I was true to my word, and that afternoon found us again enjoying the company of Drake Weathers at number sixteen, Chuffnell Mews. Urban-Smith’s e-mail had assured him of a most satisfactory result, and in his eagerness, he had arrived at our lodgings almost twenty minutes earlier than agreed.
“I apologise for my impropriety, good Sirs, but I have been in a state of great apprehension since receiving your message. You have news?”
“Indeed I do, Mr Weathers. I am delighted to inform you that you are indeed a Muntjac. However, I am sorry to have to advise you that your father is dead.”
“Dead?”
“I am afraid so. You see, the current Duke of Krill is not your father, but is, in fact, your uncle. This is why he would not consent to any further examination of the DNA test, as it would have surely verified the fact. Your father died on the Alpine piste on the tenth of November last. It would appear that your mother was deceived as to the identity of her lover on the night that you were conceived. Due to their similar build, it was a mere trifle for one brother to pretend to be the other.”
“And the Duke has formally acknowledged our kinship?”
“Not yet, Mr Weathers, but I believe that he will agree to do so in the very near future.”
Weathers rose, and both Urban-Smith and I did the same. He shook our hands vigorously. “Thank you, Mr Urban-Smith. You have defended my mother’s honour, and I am forever in your debt.” He withdrew his chequebook from his jacket pocket. “Name your fee, Sir.”
Urban-Smith waved his hand dismissively. “My dear Mr Weathers, it is as we agreed at our first meeting; you have been deceived by the Duke, and my fee is waived. This has proved to be a most stimulating and singular case, and I daresay will make fascinating reading when Dr Harker decides to transcribe it for the masses.”
Weathers put away his chequebook and thanked us again before leaving. I opened my mouth to ask how my friend, colleague and landlord had come to this conclusion, but was prevented from doing so by the appearance of Mrs Denford, bearing the telephone handset.
“It’s for you, Fairfax. A Mr Hunt.”
Urban-Smith accepted the telephone. “Ah, Mr Hunt. I trust that you received my message. Yes, yes, I am aware of that, but nonetheless, I must insist. Four o’clock would be satisfactory. Thank you, Mr Hunt.”
He cast aside the telephone.
“Come, Rupert. Our appointment with Mr Barnabus Hunt, of Hunt and Hunt solicitors, Golders Green, is due in less than an hour. I shall summon a taxicab forthwith. Have you any money?”
“A little.”
“And I a little, also. Let us pray it is enough.”
*
We arrived at the offices of Hunt and Hunt promptly at four, with just enough money to pay the taxi driver and offer a small gratuity. Hunt’s receptionist, Chenelle, greeted us within.
“Please take a seat. Mr Hunt will be with you momentarily.”
We did as instructed, having both declined her kind offer of a warm beverage.
“Tell me, Rupert,” said Urban-Smith as we waited, “is it true that a man’s hair and beard continue to grow after his death?”
“Not at all,” I replied. “After death, the skin dries out and shrinks slightly, but the hair does not. This gives the illusion of the hair growing post-mortem, but that would be impossible, for to grow hair requires active metabolism. One might say that the deceased had shuffled off their mortal curls.”
Urban-Smith laughed and clapped his hands. “Bravo, Rupert! Bravo!”
Our revelry was interrupted as Mr Hunt appeared from his office. He shook our hands and ushered us inside.
“Please have a seat, gentlemen. I must confess that the purpose of this meeting eludes me. My client’s paternity test was quite definitive.”
“Indeed it was, and we can both agree that the Duke is not Mr Weather’s father, but I do have proof that he is the boy’s uncle.”
“Uncle? What proof?” Mr Hunt peered suspiciously at each of us in turn, his eyes flicking back and forth as if watching a ping-pong match.
Urban-Smith leaned back in his chair and smoothed the front of his jacket. “I prefer to discuss that with the Duke himself.”
“I’m sorry,” said Mr Hunt, shaking his head firmly, “but the Duke has made it perfectly clear that he has no desire to meet with your client, or any representative thereof.”
“Might I suggest that you speak to the Duke, and inform him of what I have told you? Could you also please advise him that I have sufficient evidence to take the matter to the police, should he prefer me to do so.”
Mr Hunt sat bolt upright. “The police? This is no criminal matter, Mr Urban-Smith.”
“Nonetheless, please convey what I have said, exactly as I have stated it. My colleague and I will wait for you in your reception area.” With that, Urban-Smith rose and left, and I followed.
A few minutes later, the office door opened and Hunt beckoned us in.
“It is as you say, Mr Urban-Smith. The Duke wishes to meet with you immediately at Muntjac Hall. He has asked if I would attend also, to act as his legal advisor.”
“Splendid! Do you have transport? I am afraid that both Dr Harker and I are rather light.”
“Of course, I shall drive. It should take a little over an hour. Perhaps you would be able to enlighten me during the journey as to the nature of this proof of which you speak.”
“All in good time, Mr Hunt. What I have to say is best spoken of but once, and then no more.”
*
Muntjac Hall is a beautiful old house in the heart of the Essex countryside. Set in thirty acres of grounds, the house itself is approached by means of a gravel road, which the three of us bounced upon in Hunt’s grey Mercedes. Hunt grimaced every time a pebble flew up and struck his paintwork, much to Urban-Smith’s amusement.
We rang the bell, and the door was opened by a frightful creature who looked older than the house itself. The poor man’s back was deeply bowed to the extent that he was almost staring at our feet. He introduced himself as Butler, the butler.
“Have you dropped a contact lens?” asked Urban-Smith sympathetically.
“Indeed, I have not,” replied he. “It is the family affliction; all the males are affected on my father’s side. Our family t
ree is in the shape of a corkscrew.”
“You poor chap!” said I.
“I believe the Duke is expecting us,” said Mr Hunt.
“Of course, Sirs. Walk this way.”
Butler turned and hobbled down the hallway, swinging his arms like a gibbon and dragging his right leg behind him.
“If I could walk that way, I would have joined the circus,” I whispered to Urban-Smith as we followed Butler, the butler, into the hallway.
As we passed between occasional tables, upon which perched figurines, vases and family photographs in lavish frames, I admired the beautifully ornate carvings within the wooden panelling and the coving, while the previous ten Dukes stared haughtily down at us from their portraits.
Butler, the butler, led us to the library where our hosts, the Duke and Duchess of Krill, anxiously awaited our arrival. The Duke was dressed in blue denim jeans and a thick grey jumper, and his wife, a slim, attractive brunette with dark eyes and high cheekbones, wore a floral dress and black leggings.
The Duke rose to exchange handshakes with the three of us, and indicated to us to be seated.
“Thank you, Butler; that will be all.”
Butler withdrew, closing the heavy library door behind him, and the Duke took a seat next to his wife.
“Good stock, those Butlers,” said he. “Been serving our family for generations.”
“You should never have to worry over a dropped shilling,” said Urban Smith.
“Indeed, indeed!”
“You know why we are here, Your Grace?”
“You believe that Mr Drake Weathers is, in fact, Mr Drake Muntjac.”
Urban-Smith puffed out his chest, delighted as ever to have an opportunity to expound.
“Indeed I do. With your permission, I shall present my conclusions based upon the available evidence. Please feel free to interrupt if you require clarification upon any point.
“At the start of November, you hired a cabin in the Austrian Alps and, along with the Duchess and your brother, headed into the mountains for a week of skiing and relaxation. Due to financial and personal difficulties, your brother had been under no small amount of stress, and had been consuming rather more alcohol than was his usual habit. Whilst on the slopes, he misjudged and, breaking from the prescribed run, became expressly acquainted with an Austrian pine. Mercifully, his death was immediate; his autopsy showed multiple fractures including his neck and skull. Henry Muntjac returned to his childhood home, and now rests in the family crypt.
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