The Desolate Garden

by Daniel Kemp

  Nobody dared to argue the point with me when I refused, none too politely nor gently, to a particularly noxious Seniors offer to partake in this tradition. I hit him once and promptly knocked him out, then calmly turned from the rowdy crowd and walked away. Overnight I became my dormitory 'fellows' champion and, on more than one occasion, was offered up to resolve a matter which they had with other Seniors. I, for my part, had no inclination to refuse!

  I was, however, no warrior more a worrier, as she drove to the Moors that Sunday afternoon. When I had the time to think I wondered if her husband's death had made her suicidal and when at last we stopped, that was exactly what I asked her.

  “Now, you look here, Lord Harry bloody Paterson. Don't question things that are nothing to do with you. My private life is precisely that; private. If ever I decide to speak about it, it will be my decision, not yours. Got that? As far as my driving ability is concerned then you are perfectly safe with me. I love to drive fast. I hold an advanced driving certificate, which I gained after completing the Metropolitan Police Advance and Defensive driving course at Hendon. The top academy for such things in the world. I am also the holder of the women's lap speed record in Formula Three cars, and on 500cc motorcycles, at both the Brand's Hatch and Silverstone circuits. So button up, Harry, and don't pontificate on things you know nothing about.” My views on self-preservation clearly did not harmonise with her own.

  We both sat in an uncomfortable silence for a while, me determined not to apologise and Judith, in her state of disgruntlement, staring straight ahead. I broke the stalemate with a deep sigh and, at the same time, offered my cigarettes.

  “At least it was invigorating. Would one of these help?”

  “I've got my own, thank you. Joseph left 200 in my room yesterday. You know, if you didn't keep tripping up over your ego, you wouldn't be such a pain.”

  The silence had returned, only this time it was Judith that spoke first, having discarded the melancholy mood I had caused.

  “You're holding something back, Harry, and I don't mean about hidden facilities at that house of yours. Why would Peter Trimble want you in the first place? Why not use an experienced field agent? I don't think it was only for your expertise in the chemical industry. I believe it was for your name, your title and it all stemmed from that tie-up between the bank account, and Maudlin's denial of having anything to do with it. Now, from where I'm sitting, only you can provide that link, and I believe you know what that is. You've painted a rosy portrait of your family bond, yet conveniently forgotten your father's reaction after that shooting weekend when obviously the backing of the bid for the takeover, of those BP assets in Antwerp, were discussed. He would have been over the moon, surely, with the chance to help his country and all that. I bet he partied into the morning!

  You're trying to lock me out because of some egocentric reason, and that's not going to help in discovering who murdered your father if that…is what you want to find out! I'm going to be completely upfront with you, and tell you some things about me that just might, hopefully, help in opening you up. I have a master's degree in Psychology, Sociology and Psychotherapy, and I also lecture on experimental Psychoanalysis when I get the time. I was headhunted whilst at Oxford to join Joint Intelligence, and have been there since 2002 when I was 27, so now if you're quick you'll know I'm 36…anyway a divergence. Back to the point. I've had one file to concentrate on since that day, and it's directly handled by Peter. It's cross-referenced with a file coded Garden of which, with my classification, I've been privy to only smidgins. I've been fed crumbs for nine years just to keep me drooling. Then I get this break; unkind on your Dad, but wicked for me. Someone wants to wipe away a memory or take revenge. And I'm backing the first of those options!”

  She was on a private crusade, as if to fight evil dragons. The intensity of that glare in her green wide eyes and the tightening of her upper lip that said, come on, I'm ready for you, was there for all to see, but it was only I that witnessed it; and I was happy that it was not me she had in her sights.

  “I need you to work with me Harry, seriously. I need to find the rhythm that's running through those two files: Garden, and Cockpit Steps, my one, about all of you in the Paterson clan.”

  “I wouldn't know who wanted revenge on my father Judith. I really can't think of anyone. To my knowledge he has never done anything that would warrant someone to hold a grudge and kill him.”

  “I didn't expect you to. We've got to lift the lid on what Maudlin did together, and find out what he bought with his money before the war and if I'm right, what he kept paying for after it. That's what I need your knowledge for!”

  “I don't know how I can help you.”

  “Yes you do, Harry. You can make me deliriously happy by telling me that your father found the missing link and told you, and then H, you can confirm my suspicions, and tell how you went digging and came up with zero. Now, I know that I'm right and you're playing for time, hoping I go away and you can carry on being the Inspector Clouseau in your own private 'Pinky' pantomime, but you're not going to get anywhere doing that. You haven't had the access to what I've had, and you're not likely to. I've got what you want dates, names, and coincidences. You've got the ability to make those opaquely unconnected occurrences glue together, and make the whole thing stand up.”

  I wish I could say that I sat and thought for a while, but I didn't. I discarded the valued memories of patriotic Patersons and seemingly betrayed them. I was free now from Morpheus, the mythological god of dreams, and in full conscious control of my thoughts. It was the renascence of my conscience, and a relief to share.

  “I know about the money. It was from the bank,” I revealed, blatantly.

  Turning in her seat towards me and leaning forward, she eagerly asked “Was there more, lots more, Harry? And did it start in the late fifties?”

  There was a strength and ferocity to that question, a belief in the knowledge of my reaction and answer. To what coloured door did I have the key to, and what was on the other side if we open it, I wondered?

  “Look, Harry, over there. Snowdrops, can you see? I told you that if we looked, we would find them. Spring…it's a new beginning,” she said, sitting back buoyant and perky; now in the driving seat.

  Chapter Ten: Hops and Juniper Berries

  My mind was muddled. What had made me give up that knowledge so easily? Was it her charm, or a weakness in me? I hadn't seen any droplet of spellbinding liquid added to my tea at breakfast that would have magically changed me into a blubbering traitor, but here I was, passing on the family's hidden secrets without resistance. I had previously considered myself strong and reliable but what was I now, I wondered?

  I suggested the Spyglass and Kettle as a divergence, a time to gather my thoughts, and Judith agreed. This time the drive was sedate and beyond reproach, but we had missed my favourite roasted treats. I had never taken a women before to my debauched tavern. Now it seemed appropriate to share it, as we were about to share more relevant revelations in the forthcoming days. There were conspicuous head-turnings and restrained greetings from the raucous locals, and pure indifference and slight annoyance from the less frequent patrons, who did not know me. I had always felt at ease here amongst friends who treated me as no different from themselves. I was not the son of a Lord, just Harry, a bit of a scoundrel who had a few amusing stories to relate. Overall, good company.

  There is a part of the pub, near one of the log fires, that had been christened 'The Worrier's Corner.' It was normally occupied by elderly pairings, discussing the woes of humankind today compared to their time, and their standards. Nothing was ever overheard emanating from that corner that was not better done, tasted, used or made in their days compared to today. Perhaps they were right in their collective refusal to participate in the righteous grind of progression, which can often seem onerous and exacting in the increasing anarchic society the elderly find themselves in.

  “Always wore a shirt and tie to the pub on a Sunda
y…not like today, when anything will do. There's no respect nowadays, you know,” one of their number had once rebuked me, when I'd arrived from the middle of ploughing and had been rightly told to leave my boots outside.

  As I approached the bar, Judith had noticed that the 'Worries' were leaving, the call of a nap after lunch being more pressing than another pint of John Smiths and continued arbitration, so, unaware of the native connotation given to the spot, she sat in one the vacated settees.

  “Sorry to hear about your father, Harry. We were all shocked. How are you? I take it that the funeral will be here and not in London?” An unnecessary question, I thought from Jim, the landlord, before I realised that my father's absence from Harrogate for the preceding years had not gone unnoticed.

  “Of course, Jim,” I replied. “He had too much work down there to get home; it wasn't your beer,” I light-heartedly joked.

  “Has a date been fixed yet? We would all like to come and pay our respects. I've been asked a thousand times if I've heard anything,” he asked, whilst getting my order.

  “No, it's been a complicated matter, but when I'm able to make the arrangements I'll get Joseph to pop in and tell you. Does he still come in on a Monday night for his cribbage match, or has he beaten everyone here so many times that he now goes elsewhere to find his opponents? He tells me that he's a master of the game,” I commented, still managing a smile.

  “Well, he's been playing it long enough…should have learnt something by now. It was him who told me, last Monday. I'd missed it in the papers. Don't have much time for them, comic books the majority of them. As for the news on the telly, I give that a miss as well. All doom and gloom. Except for that one in the morning on BBC, Simon someone, he cracks a joke or two when he can, and if he can't; at least he smiles. Always finds something cheerful to say. It would be a better world if there was more like him.” Jim was an effervescent character who, according to stories, had been an actor in younger days, prompting one of our number to question whether he had swallowed the scripts on more than one occasion! Without pausing in his pouring, he changed topics.

  “Did you get a chance to see the game in Dublin? We were poor, weren't we? It's good to see you, and in such good form. I'll tell your lot to leave you in peace, if you'd like?” he solemnly offered.

  I thanked him for his consideration, then waved and mouthed a 'No' to the beckoning gestures from the far end of the bar before carrying Judith's gin and slimline, along with my usual, to our fireside chairs in readiness for the first delve into the truth.

  She had her back to me with her mobile phone to her ear, looking intently at the flames as I put the glasses down. “Yes, I see. He's here now. Of course I will. Later today, if that will do? And you'll collect…fine.”

  As she closed her phone she turned from the fire, but the severity of the flames still remained. Where the happiness had been, an intense morbid gloom had replaced it, blending the hearth to her face as well as to her hair. I saw her cheeks indent as she clenched her jaws together, another characteristic of hers when troubled.

  “That was Trimble, I've got some bad news I'm afraid.” She leant across the dividing beer stained table and touched my hand.

  “Your brother Edward has been found dead in his apartment this morning. He was murdered, H. No question. We're to resettle you out of harm's way until this is cleared up. Peter has his cleaners in at the bank, searching for needles in haystacks, but it's imperative that we finish the puzzle in double quick time. Who knows…you may be next on the list.”

  There was no need of concerns over breathalysers on our retreat to the Hall, as the drinks had been left untouched. I watched the fading view of the pub as it passed into the distance from the wing mirror of the Porsche saloon, and the immediate chance of discovery as to the origination of my troubles passed, too. I packed some bags, whilst Judith packed hers, left notes for the estate manager, and gave reasons of arrangements to be made in London as my excuse for the unplanned return. To the unflappable Joseph, I gave a more detailed reason.

  “Edward has been murdered, Joseph. It seems as though he and father had ventured into an investment arrangement with another company in a buyout of a failing corporation. One of the directors of that enterprise lost a great deal of money before Dad's involvement, and according to the police, is suspected of committing these heinous crimes. They are searching for him now, so I'm leaving you to reassure the staff. When I'm able to confirm the date of the interments I will; however, from what I can gather, they may need more time with the bodies. You know what petty officials are like and all the boxes they love to tick.”

  Joseph disliked officialdom, believing that as head of this house, there was no paid employee in any service, of any description, that was above him. We had shared a dram or two, on leave in my Army days, when many degrees of authority had been discussed; and I had learnt, from hard experiences, that it was best to stay on the better side of Joseph rather than deal with his petulance.

  “I'll tell you one thing, Sir. They're all the same, these politicians, no matter what colour they wear. Incapable of telling the truth and never did a day's work in their lives most Liberals, and all the Labour ones. Read about the lives of real people in books, but never experienced it. Then they spout on about how we have to live ours. Take this socialist lot, bringing us all down to the lowest denominator. No grammar streaming, yet they send their own children to private schools. Denounce private medical care, but where do they go for their health needs? Some dirty filthy NHS hospital where you have to be able to understand Swahili? I don't think so! Why is it that those who have come from nothing, perpetuate this class division, always referring to the working classes as though they are no different? They like to associate themselves with the ordinary man, until it comes to peerages or jobs in Europe, earning astronomical money for themselves and their own. They're in it for the power and prestige it gives them; nothing else. Give me a man who creates opportunity any day, rather than one who wants to regulate us all and leave himself exempt.”

  I remember that evening clearly. I'd chanced upon Joseph in the Spy Glass, and listened to him harangue the Socialist Government of the day, quoting shed loads of cases in education and health to substantiate his argument. His conviction was overwhelming. I held no such vehement views being, as I suspect like the majority of us, indifferent or rooted in tradition. I sought refuge in prudence that night, and have stuck with that philosophy ever since.

  “I'm ready, Harry. Are you?” Judith was in the Great Hall, as her bags were departing through the door. There was an apprehensiveness in her question, and an anxious expression on her face.

  “Impetuosity can get you killed,” I remarked.

  “Not while I'm around with this,” she replied, lifting aside her pink coat and exposing the gun in her shoulder holster.

  “Have you one, Harry?” she asked; needlessly.

  * * *

  Edward had been tortured to death. He'd been tied up and gagged, then cut with varying degrees of ferocity until his throat had been sliced open. There were dozens of disparate lacerations, reported by the on-scene pathologist, all seemingly done to cause increasing levels of pain. A long term friend had been the unfortunate one to find his mutilated body, when he had let himself in to the apartment that Sunday afternoon, after Edward's non-appearance at a gathering the previous evening. He had called the police, who in turn had called Trimble, who was left with the hapless task of forwarding on the pitiful news.

  Our drive to Judith's house on the edge of Clapham Common was one full of contemplation; of the past and the immediate future. I was to stay at her home while the bank was closed, and Trimble's men went through the contents in search of the answers. “In 1946, they started again for a steady ten years. Nothing substantial compared to the whole, nothing over three million per year then, in 1956, £66 million in paper bonds disappeared the same day, 16 September; the first time the initials RD appeared. From that date until 1970, the rest of the £306
.5 million walked out. Maudlin covered the missing bonds in two ways my father told me. One by shrewd investments, writing most of his windfalls against the missing bonds, but also by false arithmetic, by simply carrying forward the wrong balances in his ledgers. If you didn't look hard, you wouldn't find them, father had said,” I told her, as she fed me questions, intent on the road ahead.

  “That fits,” she announced clinically, eyes fixed straight ahead.

  “What fits what?” I asked, surveying the road for clues.

  “We lost track of someone connected to an eventual big fish in '56,” she confessed to me.

  “Like to tell me who?” I enquired.

  “No, not yet, H… I'm still mulling things over in my mind. But don't worry. I will reveal all in my own good time, I promise. Don't want you slipping away now, do I? I'm going to get a coffee at the next stop; I think it's going to be a long night. Do you want one, Harry? I've not got your brand of whisky at home!”

  Chapter Eleven: Yellow Forsythia

  When Paulo Sergeyovitch Korovin married Tanya Malonovna Kuznetsoka, originally from Lithuania, it was not because love had brought them together. It was more a case of obligation on Korovin's part, and the aspirations and connivance of Tanya. Paulo's mother could speak little Russian, and when she fell ill, and Tanya nursed her, it was through Paulo's interpretation that her symptoms and requirements were conveyed.

  Tanya and her five siblings were poor even by Northern Russian standards. Her mother suffered from chronic bronchitis and was only able to work few hours in the machine factory, a two mile walk from their communal apartment block. Her father, who had lost a leg in the October revolution of 1917, received scant recompense for his sacrifice other than the pride he was constantly reminded he should have. The illness suffered by Paulo's mother, on the other side of the partitioning wall, came as manna from heaven to the Kuznetsoka's, as the family were willing to pay for their daughter's time, and handsomely at that. For two and a half years this arrangement went on, until death took Andrea away, and Paulo repaid Tanya and kept his promise.