by Adam J Watts
Copyright © Adam J. Watts 2018
The author asserts the moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
All Rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior consent of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner.
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Acknowledgements:
Winston Walliss (friend, colleague and local legend) -- to you I extend my sincerest thanks. It really was as much fun as you told me it would be and could not have been achieved without your help.
Kenneth 'Monty' Wragg (my biggest fan and harshest critic) -- you probably didn't realise it, but you were an inspiration to me. I am truly grateful for your constant encouragement and belief in my abilities. My only regret is that you weren't around to see the finished product... I hope I did you proud.
To my family, friends and loved ones -- Thanks for always being there to remind me of the things I can achieve if I simply put my mind to it. Your love and belief is inspirational and this book is only a small part of that.
Next, a quick word for Mick Marsh - without whom I could not have made the necessary changes to the German language sections. I appreciate your help and experience.
Last, but not least my ‘Manager’, Brittany -- you gave me the kick up the backside I needed to promote my work effectively and I am extremely grateful.
You’re the best!
Chapter One:
Winter of discontent ~ 1938
A north easterly wind cut across the street -- the kind of current that brought with it bad news. Illuminated by the glow of an isolated streetlamp, a solitary docker scrunched up his face and bustled along the pavement.
Samuel Beasley barely noticed a breeze.
Seb had waited until Ed was asleep before venturing out into the darkness. He'd been staying with the fledgling inspector during his stint on the Emerald Isle and was truly grateful of the free lodgings.
As he meandered through the streets of Dublin, he could not shake off the sense of being followed. This feeling had always baffled him, but it was something undeniable, something primeval.
He stopped suddenly and pretended to check his watch.
10.30pm. Swiftly he sneaked a look over his shoulder, but saw nothing.
Paranoid.
There was, of course, no-one there and so he continued on his late night walk.
It wasn't long before he reached his intended destination, The Sandhog.
The Sandhog was a working man's public house and apart from being the self-same establishment Mrs Callahan and her lover had frequented the night of the murder, it appeared to be a decent place to spend the remaining half hour before closing time.
Seb didn't drink as such, but on this occasion he ordered a Guinness to prevent any suspicions from arising.
'You're not from round here, are ye?’ The landlord enquired harmlessly enough.
'Just passing through, mate,’ Seb replied in as cheerier tone as he could muster.
The publican smiled, bearing a set of tainted teeth.
'Well, you're more than welcome here.’
Although he had never been a lover of folk music, Seb found himself tapping along to the many Irish reels on offer that night. He might even have gone as far as saying he enjoyed it. He must have been absorbed, because what happened next he never saw coming.
'Would you mind awfully if I sat here?' the voice enquired.
The old man appeared to come out of nowhere. Either the Guinness was stronger than he expected or this chap was exceptionally quiet.
'Not at all,' Seb replied, trying to appear genuinely welcoming.
As the older gent descended into the winged chair opposite, Seb's subconscious kicked into second gear. He's not local, he's well-dressed and overly polite. He wondered whether or not he should be worried.
'Thank you,' his guest replied, before posing a further question, 'Another drink?'
'No, I'm fine thanks. Got work in the morning.’
To this response the old man's expression changed.
'Drink with me. We both know you haven't worked in weeks.’
If they weren't before, the heckles on the back of Seb's neck were now on end.
'I'm sorry?' Was the only response his vulnerable mind could come up with.
'My apologies Samuel. I'm forgetting my manners.’ With this he winked, 'The name's Gerald. Gerald Stratton... And I have a proposition for you.’
A smooth transition into third gear took place and Seb was beginning to ask himself the right questions. The pub was neither packed to the rafters nor deserted, but there were certainly enough locals in here to disregard any hostile intentions.
'How do you know who I am?'
The old man found amusement in Seb's question.
'How I know who you are is irrelevant my boy,' he announced before taking a sip of the single malt he had previously swirled around the glass, 'A good starting point would be what I am offering.’
There was little point in arguing.
'Ok. How can I be of service, Mr. Stratton?’
Once again, a wry smile crept across the weather-beaten lips of the old man in the Crombie.
'It's Sir actually, but you can call me Gerald.’
The remainder of the whisky was devoured in one gulp and Gerald picked up where he left off. 'Don't ask any questions I cannot give you the answers to and this conversation will be over in a jiffy.’ He raised an eyebrow, 'Fair game old chap?'
Seb eyed the enigmatic Stratton cautiously, before simply nodding in agreement. 'Excellent.’
As expected, the next ten minutes were overtly one-sided. Sir Gerald told his disciple how things would play out and Seb extended his visitor the courtesy of listening.
'You hit the nail on the head when you said service my boy. For it is a service I wish to obtain from you.’
He would be lying if he had claimed that the scope of Stratton's knowledge did not scare him. He seemed to know everything worth knowing about Samuel Errington Beasley.
'So you're offering me a job?' Seb surmised with a chuckle. 'I have a very good job to go back to at home. What makes you think...'
'Not quite Samuel. That would be outside my remit.’
He paused -- whether for dramatic effect or to simply gather his thoughts. 'Some exceptionally powerful individuals recommend you accept their most generous of offers.’
Seb didn't like the sound of that and felt the need for clarification.
'Recommend?'
'It's exactly as it sounds, Samuel.’
'Like a threat,' he replied solemnly.
The old man cackled.
'If you like, but I prefer the term proviso.’
'Is that so?'
'Let's just say there is one more detail I omitted from my pitch.’
Unfortunately Seb was aware of the fact to which Gerald eluded.
How could they know? Whoever they are. And if they do know, why was he still alive to tell the tale?
He elected to change the subject, but suddenly his thoughts were invaded by the charismatic tones of the old man.
'My employers know all about your little secret, Samuel.’
There was no need for Seb to give a response.
'The succinct answer is this: there is going to be another war, Samuel and this country could make good use of a man like you.’
Seb interrupted, 'I own a printing business…?' The words tumbled from his mouth in an ungamely fashion.
'Come, come my boy. We both know you are capable of far greater things than merely reporting the actions of others.’ Slowly the old man rose from the chair and flicked up the collar on his overcoat. 'Now is your chance to realise that potential.’
Seb glanced down at the sticky table top and before his mind could register the movement on the periphery of his vision.
Gerald was gone.
The only trace of his existence was a small white card bearing a solitary line of text.
It was an address in London.
Seb flipped over the card as quickly as his trembling hands would allow. The action revealed a hand-written sentence.
Button up, my boy. It's snowing outside... G.P.S.
Seb didn't feel a need to squint through the grubby porthole window on the far side of the dingy room. He already knew the outlook was bleak.
Chapter Two:
Unlike father, a likeable son ~ Autumn 1937
Samuel Errington Beasley -- Seb to his friends -- took to the stage and felt a great sense of pride. He had overcome adversity and taken up his rightful place within society.
His family had always had high hopes for Samuel, but he suspected none of them had imagined him as a Cambridge scholar. There was -- after all -- genuine concern for the future, after the untimely death of his father in a motoring accident.
He shook hands firmly with the dean, accepting his well-wishes before turning to face the auditorium. There -- on the balcony -- he could see his mother. She was once again sobbing, but this time her tears were those of pride and adulation.
Unfortunately any feeling of contentment was short-lived as his eyes darted across the many silhouettes. The one face he longed to observe amidst the sea of souls was not present at the ceremony. She was with Edward and the thought made Seb cringe.
As with most social functions or celebratory events, there was an after party. Food appeared as if on a conveyor belt and wine flowed as freely as the conversation. Cuisine was something Seb could appreciate, but alcohol was a vice in which he did not indulge. He preferred to keep a clear head at all times. It was just better this way.
Across the room, someone was making a bee-line for him and his doting Mother. As the figure moved closer, the finer details became clear. The man in question was none other than Henry Burton, acting MD of the family publishing business.
After his father's tragic demise, the Errington Publishing Group had been placed in trust for Samuel pending his graduation. It was only natural that a father should want his son to take the reigns and with the absence of a last will and testament, this decision was ultimately decreed.
A moment's delay ensued as the portly figure of Henry squeezed his way past the thronging masses. The place really was crammed to the rafters.
'Jolly good show old boy,' Henry proclaimed, raising his voice above the drone of several hundred guests.
'Yes, they certainly know how to party down here,' Seb replied.
Henry's rotund exterior rolled with laughter, before he composed himself and spoke once more.
'I'm not showing my appreciation for the catering Seb. Although it is an excellent spread! I'm congratulating you on your success.’
With this, Seb threw his surrogate father a telling glance and embraced him heartily.
As quick as a flash his Mother intervened, tapping her Son on the shoulder.
'Steady on, boys. We must at least try and keep up the pretence until we get back to the hotel.’
All three of them laughed at Beth's remark.
'Aye, 'appen we'll keep up appearances eh lad?’
Before Seb could reply his attention was caught by something in the far corner of the hall. It was a vision in blue -- a slightly sullen vision, but beautiful all the same.
'Sorry Henry. I've just spotted someone I know and this might be my last chance to talk with them. Do excuse me.’
'Of course. If you need me, you know where I'll be.’
Seb laughed, but did not give an answer. It didn’t take a graduate to realise Henry would be found loitering in the vicinity of the buffet.
'I'll catch up with you later Mum,' Seb said, giving his Mother a peck on the cheek, Eleven o'clock at the main entrance okay with you?'
'I'm sure I can mingle until then.’
She smiled before turning away and heading in the general direction of the dance floor. Elizabeth Beasley was no floozy, but she did enjoy a good dance. Unfortunately this was a passion she had little chance to embrace whilst married to the late Errington.
Second only to some carefully choreographed footwork of his own, Seb was within striking distance of the woman in blue.
'Cait. Wonderful to see you. Did Edward pass out today too?'
Slowly she turned to face him. She looked happy to see her friend and embraced him as such, but something was clearly troubling her. It must have been the thousandth time he'd seen it, but Seb never tire of the way Caitlin bit her bottom lip.
'Oh Seb. Yes, Edward received his psychology degree this morning. He's here somewhere, although I haven't seen him yet.’
'You mean he didn't accompany you to the ball? You arrived separately.’
She looked forlorn and sighed before dignifying his question with what Seb knew to be a stock answer.
'You know Edward. He'll have arrived with the boys and be well on his way to paralysis by now.’
She yawned deliberately.
'And you put up with behaviour like that because?'
'I could do far worse than Edward Irwin, Seb. As a matter of fact, my parents met Ed recently and commented on how well I had done for myself.’
'Interesting. So they know the man you plan to marry is a borderline alcoholic and devout womaniser do they?'
The remark obviously stung Caitlin as she instantly turned away from Seb. He hated himself for saying it. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt her. All he ever wanted to do was be there for her.
'I'm sorry, Cait. That was insensitive of me. I just don't like to see you treated this way.’
'You worry too much Seb..’ He shook his head softly.
'I worry in proportion, my dear. Shall I walk you home? I doubt Eddie will miss you now.’
'I suppose you're right. It's too noisy in here anyway... very well. You can accompany me back to my dormitory, Mr. Beasley.’
With that, the first genuine, heart-felt smile appeared on Caitlin's face and Seb smiled back warmly.
It was a brisk October evening and the moon was low in the sky as the pair sauntered through the grounds. The cloud cover was significant, but not too dense that they could see clearly the path in front of them.