Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1

by Ian St. James

  Not since Dorothy had been alive had anyone given Mark a gift. He gave few himself. He was not a generous man. His relationships with people, especially staff, were cool and impersonal. Now with twelve people wishing him a happy birthday he felt quite unable to respond. But the proceedings were not over. Williams looked up to the landing.

  Heads turned to stifled gasps of surprise. Only Williams and Timothy had known about this. The boy stood at the very end of the landing, leaning on a cane, with a slim leather folder under his arm. With a nervous glance down to the hall, he began to walk towards the top of the stairs. His movements were slow and stiff, painful to watch and painful to make because when a knee buckled awkwardly his hissed intake of breath was heard in the hall below. Cook's hands flew to her mouth. She stepped forward. Williams waved her back. He cast a warning look at the others, but nobody noticed - all eyes were focused on the staircase.

  Tim paused at the top, gauging the curved sweep of the stairs. Fifteen steps down to the half landing, and another fifteen from there. He moistened his lips, propped his cane against the balustrade, gripped the banister with both hands, and began to descend. His concentration was total. "Take it slowly," Mr Williams had warned, "get both feet on the same stair, then start off again. Take a stair at a time."

  Watching anxiously, Mark felt confused. He stood with the gifts in his hands, flanked by Kate and Wyndham Williams. The whole thing was unreal, yet there was nothing unreal about the boy on the stairs. He was solid and purposeful, good-looking in a grey flannel suit, the long trousers of which hid the scars on his legs. Nothing like the child Mark remembered. Gone were the red eyes and white, tear-stained face. Instead the boy's cheeks bore a faint flush, his well brushed hair looked healthy and vibrant - an air of determination marked every line of his body. Even so, Mark crossed his fingers.

  The grand staircase in Belgrave Square had launched many an elegant entrance, but none so dramatic.

  The boy hesitated at the half-landing, taking a fresh hold on the leather folder tucked under his arm, while rubbing his thigh with the other hand. His thigh was not troubling him. He was wiping the sweat from his palm and flexing his fingers for a better grip on the banisters before stepping forward again.

  Mark found himself counting the stairs, under his breath. One ... followed by a long pause as the boy's other foot came down ... two, as the boy's first foot stepped forward again. Timothy never looked up. His eyes focused on his feet, while his left hand edged slowly down the banister, gripping so tightly that his knuckles shone white. Other people were counting. Mark was deaf to their voices at first, until he whispered "six" and realised that they were all saying six. And by the time he said "ten" people's voices were louder. Cook's hands were clasped and held up to her face. "Eleven" she called, then gnawed the knuckle of one fist. Beads of sweat stood out on the tutor's face. Beyond him, the butler's usual impassive expression had given way to moist-eyed excitement. "Twelve!" he shouted triumphantly. Everyone in the hall was willing the boy on. "Thirteen!" Mark roared amid rising excitement. It was impossible to know if Tim heard. He gave no sign of it. His head remained down-turned as - at last - his first foot reached out and cautiously lowered itself onto the hall carpet. "Fifteen!" they shouted, and would have rushed forward but for Williams. "No!" he snapped like a whip crack. It was enough to keep them in their place, but nothing could restrain the outburst of clapping, and the relieved shouts of "Well done. Oh well done!"

  Tim looked up then. His second foot was safely down on the carpet and his left hand locked firmly onto the end of the banisters. He smiled shyly - his eyes going straight to Mark Averdale who stood watching from the study doors fifteen yards away.

  Mark would have gone forward, but for the touch at his elbow.

  Williams wanted him to stay. Even so Mark hesitated - and in the same moment the boy began to move.

  My God, Mark thought, the boy has left his cane on the landing. With a cane he might do it, but without one ... Yet Tim had taken three steps, without crutches, or sticks, or anyone at his side to catch him. The smile on his face could not hide the strain - neither could strain mask his courage.

  Past conversations with Williams echoed in Mark's ears - "The boy is determined not to let you down. If he does walk, that will be the reason."

  The boy was walking. Painfully, awkwardly, favouring his right leg, but walking. His expression was set in a fixed smile and his eyes found Mark's with a message. "It's not much, but I'll get better at it, you see if I don't." Like telepathy, Mark thought before dismissing the idea. He didn't believe in telepathy. Even so he had sensed what was in the boy's mind. Mark abhorred public displays of emotion, yet he almost burst with pride. "His devotion to you is total," Williams had said - and Mark could see the devotion in the boy's eyes.

  Timothy halted in front of his guardian. Triumph outweighed his weariness. His whole face shone with excitement. He proffered the leather folder, "May I congratulate you on your birthday, sir, and wish you many more to come."

  Life in Belgrave Square was never quite the same after that. The leather folder never meant as much to Mark as his precious photographs nothing in his life was as important as Kate - but Tim O'Brien won a special place in Mark's affections from that day onwards. Mark came to prize the folder for what it represented, a bond between him and the boy. After that they met for an hour or so whenever Mark was in London and - predisposed to like each other by the cunning Williams - they actually did like each other. After all they had much in common, mostly a notable pride in the Averdales, which in turn meant a commitment to the struggle for Ulster.

  Mark spent an ever increasing amount of time in London from the beginning of June. Frustration with Belfast was only one of the reasons. Foremost was Kate, of course, Mark was as fascinated as ever by her but also there was the boy, in whom Mark was now taking a genuine interest. There was also Mark's mistress in St John's Wood. Not a weekend went by without him spending a night in her bed - and finally, there was the ever increasing threat of war.

  The brutality of war sickened Mark, but he was realistic enough to realise that it would mean the end of the slump, and perhaps huge profits for him - profits which could be used subsequently to rebuild Brackenburn and establish an unrivalled art collection.

  So Mark lobbied government offices for armament contracts and made himself generally conversant with the political situation. The more he learned the more apprehensive he became. This would be a war like no others. London could be destroyed by enemy bombs. So could every city of England. Where then would be a safe hiding place for Kate?

  If war came he would send her to the United States. The decision was the most painful and agonising of his whole life. He searched for alternatives but could find none. His contacts at the War Office were adamant. If war came, the whole of England would be vulnerable to enemy bombing. Not only that, the country would be hard-pressed to repel an invasion.

  Mark had a distant relative in Dayton, Ohio, about whom his bankers made discreet enquiries - and when they reported that the relative was comfortably off, Mark wrote to the man, asking if Kate could be given sanctuary "in the event of war, and of course just for the duration." The suggestion was accepted immediately.

  As summer moved on, Mark Averdale made what arrangements he could. He tried to prepare for every eventuality - until, on 25 August, one event took him by surprise. The IRA exploded a huge bomb in Coventry. Mark was sickened and disgusted, but not unduly alarmed until the following Tuesday when he was back in Belfast and the RUC telephoned to say Matt Riordan had been involved. Mark was never more frightened in his life. That murdering bastard was in England, within a hundred miles of Kate - maybe even closer, after all he would hardly stay in Coventry. Suppose he fled to London? Suppose he holed up somewhere, waiting for the hue and cry to die down? And suppose he came across Lord Averdale's London address in the telephone directory?

  By seven o'clock that evening, a uniformed policeman was posted outside the house in Belgr
ave Square. By eight Mark was back from Belfast, clutching a dozen copies of the evening paper. The charcoal sketch of Matt Riordan, so lovingly drawn by his mother, stared out from the front page. Every member of the household was given a newspaper. Wide-eyed at their master's agitation, they studied the face of Matt Riordan.

  "That man murdered my wife. He razed Brackenburn to the ground. He organised the Killing at Keady. He should be shot on sight like a rabid dog. Memorise that face, for one glimpse of it may be your only chance of staying alive."

  Mark's obvious fear caused panic below stairs. Cook gave notice and refused to spend another night in the house. An upstairs maid left with her. Elsewhere Rose Smith had her bed moved into Kate's room. By noon the following day, two uniformed constables guarded the house. Extra locks were fitted. Windows were barred. Mark gave instructions that the children were to be confined to the house - and the house itself was made ready to withstand a siege.

  Timothy, strangely, was the only one not alarmed. As soon as he'd seen the newspaper he had recognised Riordan as one of the men who had been at Keady. But Lord Averdale was terribly wrong to blame this man for the killing. Tim knew that was not true. The man in the picture had carried him down to the stream - he had saved Tim's life - and Tim knew it.

  He agonised over what he should do. He dared not say a word to contradict his guardian or incur his displeasure. Yet he had to tell someone, and as he prepared for bed he blurted the whole story out to Wyndham Williams.

  Williams was immediately on guard. He had seen that the mere mention of Riordan's name sent Averdale into an uncontrollable rage. Williams argued that Tim might be wrong, after all he had been in pain, in shock, half submerged in the stream ...

  "But I'm not wrong," Tim persisted. "It was this other man, the one with black hair. I told you about him. He was in the lane, with the pistol..."

  Williams dared not accept that. He had performed a miracle of rehabilitation. Thanks to him the boy had a future with Averdale. But a word spoken in defence of Riordan could destroy the whole relationship. Months of work would be undone. Williams argued and persuaded - it must have been Riordan, Riordan was known to be in the IRA, he was known to be a wicked, ruthless man ...

  Williams' argument added to Tim's unhappy confusion. His mind was full of the man with black hair. Finally he could argue no more. Wearily he fell asleep, having promised never to mention the matter again.

  Williams breathed a sigh of relief.

  Mark Averdale stayed in London until the Thursday, when a management crisis dragged him back to Belfast. Neither Scotland Yard nor the RUC had any news about Riordan. Mark ranted and dictated a blistering letter to The Times - but was unable to do anything positive.

  The following day Hitler's troops invaded Poland. As Mark journeyed once more to London, he realised that war was now inevitable - and on.

  Sunday, Chamberlain's broadcast had barely finished when the air-raid sirens wailed out over London for the first time.

  Mark bundled Kate down to the basement a minute later.

  Fate seemed destined to be cruel. All Mark wanted was to look after Kate. He had arranged his life, steeled himself to wait for her to grow up. Now he was faced with war and the terrible decision to send her away.

  Rose Smith was summoned to the study after dinner that night. Mark's face was drawn. He was obviously tired and worried. He wished he knew more about the nurse. Something about her worried him. Nothing he could put his finger on, perhaps it was just her lack of femininity. She was so plain, with her mannish short hair and thick horn rim spectacles. Still, he had to admit, her references had been excellent, and Kate seemed happy with her. Even so, Mark disliked conferring so much responsibility on someone about whom he knew so little. But what else could he do?

  He told her about America at once - that Kate was to be sent to a relative who lived in a place called Dayton, Ohio. He would like Miss Smith to accompany the child and remain as her nurse for the duration of hostilities. Of course it was a big responsibility, but she would be well rewarded if she gave satisfaction.

  She seemed pleased - at least Mark assumed the faintly sneering smile expressed pleasure. She asked when they would go and could she have time to consider it. Mark said a month to the first and gave her twenty four hours for the second - knowing he would have to find a replacement in a hurry if she refused. After which he dismissed her and poured himself a whisky. She still worried him and he wondered why. Perhaps it was just the pain of sending Kate away - maybe he would feel the same about any nurse. Bleak with foreboding he retired to his room and spent an hour caressing the bronze statue before going to sleep.

  The news was common knowledge the next day. Tim wondered if he would be sent to Dayton, Ohio too? He hoped not. War sounded exciting. Besides, he wanted to stay close to his guardian. Then came a shock. Mr Williams was rushing around the house, telling everyone that his papers had come through from the RAF. Mr Williams was going to war.

  Tim burst into tears and rushed to his room. He had come to trust his tutor. His tutor was his best friend, his only real friend - and now he was going away.

  Williams entered the room moments later. "I don't believe it," he said gently "Tough Tim in tears."

  Tim was proud enough of the nickname to stop crying - after which Mr Williams lit his pipe and they talked for a long time. "War changes all sorts of things, old chap," Williams said, "but nothing changes friendship. My being away won't alter that, I'll still be thinking about you." He ruffled Tim's hair. "Damn nuisance you're not a few years older, a brave feller like you would be made a General in no time."

  Life was changing for everyone. Rose Smith accepted the responsibility of taking Kate to America, and the two of them embarked upon a whirlwind tour of the shops - accompanied everywhere by the bulky figure of a Scotland Yard detective, for Riordan was still on the run and Mark was taking no chances.

  Wyndham Williams performed a last act of friendship for Timothy.

  Having established that the boy would not be sent to America, but taken back to Belfast with Mark Averdale, Williams set about finding his own successor, determined to leave Tim an ally in the house of the Averdales.

  September passed in a blur. Mark spent hours at the War Office and the Admiralty. His hunch had been right - war would provide work for Belfast. An extra 13,000 men would be needed in the shipyards, and as many again in the engineering works. And there was talk of Short and Harland's new aircraft works wanting 18,000 more. The slump was over at last.

  There was no question of Mark joining the Armed Forces. Belfast's heavy industry would be vital in the coming battle, and there was no telling who would threaten it first - Nazi Germany or the IRA. Sinister rumours were circulating about Eire. De Valera was still preaching neutrality, but how long would that last? The man had devoted his life to attacking the Empire. Once more Northern Ireland was under siege - and once more it was time to cry 'No Surrender!' And time again for an Averdale to stay firmly in Ulster.

  Yet - strangely - no bombs fell during those opening weeks of war. Life in London went on as before. Mark hesitated about Kate. He agonised endlessly, even now, with passages booked. But people were evacuating, certainly the wealthy and foreign nationals, who were leaving the country in droves. The American Ambassador was pictured waving goodbye to Rose Kennedy as she sailed for America. Mark knew he had to go through with it.

  Saying goodbye nearly killed him. After putting Kate aboard her ship in Liverpool, Mark thought his journey back to London would take forever. Finally he reached the sanctuary of his room, where he collapsed in abject misery. His only consolation was that when he saw her next she would be that little bit older - that much nearer to becoming Rouen's nymph at the poolside.

  It was time to close the house in Belgrave Square. Kate and Rose Smith had gone to America, Wyndham Williams had gone to the war, and the staff had dispersed in various directions.

  Mark Averdale set out to return to Belfast, taking with him young Timothy O
'Brien and Mr Tompkins, the boy's new tutor.

  Tim left London without regret. His future lay in Ulster. From now on his life would be intertwined with Mark Averdale's. When they boarded the train at Euston, Tim settled into a corner seat and almost sighed with anticipation.

  A moment later, Tim's mood was completely shattered. Just as the train began to move, he glanced out of the window. On the platform, little more than a yard away, was a newsagent's kiosk. Placards were daubed with a headline - 'Irish journalist leaves hospital.' An Evening Standard was clipped in a wire display frame. A big picture almost covered the front page - a picture of a man with an arm in a sling, being helped down some steps. Tim gasped. He strained for a second look. Suddenly he was back at Keady. Gunfire rang out, sharp pains stabbed his legs. It was the man who had been waving the pistol.

  Tim craned his neck, staring at the photograph as the train inched slowly past the kiosk. He was sure he was right. It was the same man. The same thick black hair, the same square jaw!

  By the time the train had lurched out of the station, Tim was bathed in sweat. That man was in London. Tim had almost seen his name. If only he had a copy of the Standard.

  Chapter Six

  Matt Riordan was still on the run. He cursed his decision to return to Belfast. Internment had been reintroduced in Northern Ireland. Men were being carted off to prison without proper trial or access to lawyers, even without evidence of a crime - just on suspicion of being members of the IRA. For Matt Riordan, wanted for murder, with a price on his head, Belfast was the most dangerous place in the world.

  He remained because he was ordered to remain. He and Ferdy Malloy were among the few senior IRA men still at large. Dozens had been arrested and interned for the duration of the war - incarcerated in the Crumlin Road Jail, or on the prison ship Al Rawdah, an old hulk moored off Killyleagh in Strangford Lough.