To All Eternity

by Christopher Nicole

  TO ALL ETERNITY

  Christopher Nicole

  © Christopher Nicole 1999

  Christopher Nicole has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1999 by SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.

  This edition published in 2018 by Endeavour Media Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Part One

  A Matter of Honour

  The Mission

  The Bride

  The Raid

  Part Two

  A Business of Intrigue

  The Husband

  The Voyage

  The Flight

  The Offer

  Part Three

  A Question of Murder

  War

  The Lovers

  The Assignment

  The Hand of Fate

  To All Eternity

  ‘Assassination is the extreme form of censorship.’

  George Bernard Shaw

  Prologue

  The rain mist drifted down from the mountains, damp and clinging; it shrouded the peaks and the valleys, seemed to cling to the occasional tree, turned the track into a muddy bog; it deadened all sound save for the rustle of the rushing stream close by the path. And then, incongruously, the silence was split by the wail of a whistle, the thunderous roar of the Warsaw–Vienna express. The track was at least two valleys away, but the sound dominated the afternoon, briefly, before disappearing into echo.

  Berkeley Townsend supposed it was a sign of the times, this burgeoning, still new twentieth century, that in this most desolate part of Europe there should be an express train, hurrying on its way.

  He looked over his shoulder to make sure Lockwood was still there. Both were expert horsemen, both had the sense and the experience to allow their mounts to pick their own way through the sludge underhoof, but whereas Berkeley carried only his shotgun, Lockwood was laden with their equipment. The valet was also somewhat overweight, and his horse occasionally stumbled, bringing a snort from the red face, a hasty reaction from the heavy shoulders.

  In contrast, Berkeley Townsend was perhaps underweight for his six feet of height. His face was somewhat long as well, but was not unhandsome, dominated by the clear blue eyes, the strong chin. He sat straight, and rode like the cavalryman he had been, until recently, and often wished he still was.

  At Cambridge he had studied languages; that, he supposed, had been a mistake, if he intended to enter the army. Perhaps he should have been a schoolmaster.

  “I’ll be glad to be going home, sir,” Lockwood commented.

  “I’ll say amen to that,” Berkeley agreed.

  A dog barked, and then another, and through the mist the roofs of houses came into view. The village of Seinheit had only one street, and this had been empty in the inclement weather. Now windows opened as well as doors; the tiny hamlet had few visitors. But the two horsemen were quickly recognised, even if they were not locals and were, indeed, foreigners. People waved and called greetings as the two horses walked slowly down the street, accompanied by the dogs; the horses belonged.

  The horsemen turned through the arched gateway into the inn, situated at the far end of the street. A groom hurried forward to take their bridles, and Berkeley slipped gratefully from the saddle.

  Dittmann, large and round and red-faced, appeared in the doorway. “Welcome back, Herr Smith. Three weeks! I was beginning to think the good count had got you.”

  “He wasn’t at home,” Berkeley said, stamping mud from his boots as he limped up the steps. Although the wound caused by a Dervish spear, ten years ago at Omdurman, had long healed, it had been sufficiently serious to end his active service career, and was inclined to make itself felt when it was damp. “What I would like, Herr Dittmann, is a very large glass of beer and a hot bath. I assume you have kept our rooms?” His German was very nearly perfect.

  “Oh, yes, sir. Your rooms are waiting. Anja! Beer for Herr Smith.”

  “And for Herr Brown,” Berkeley said.

  Anja, a plump fifteen-year-old replica of her father, giggled as she scurried behind the bar.

  Berkeley went into the taproom, laid down the shotgun, and stood before the fire. It was July of this year 1908, but Seinheit was high up in the western Carpathians, and was already cool, while the damp made it positively cold. He slapped his hands together and steam rose from his clothes. Behind him, Lockwood brought the gear in, then joined his master.

  As did Dittmann, who said, “You mean you saw nothing of the gentleman at all?”

  “The gentleman does not exist,” Berkeley said. “Except in certain imaginations.”

  “What a pity,” Dittmann said. “You will be leaving now?”

  “Well, when next the stage is in. The day after tomorrow, isn’t it?”

  “That is when it is expected. Now, I must tell you, Herr Smith, that we have other guests.”

  Berkeley raised his eyebrow.

  Dittmann grinned. “I know. We are not always so popular. This is a couple on honeymoon. Very . . . how shall I put it?”

  “Much in love,” Berkeley suggested.

  “Why, yes. That is it exactly.”

  “Well, we’ll try not to get in their way.”

  Anja presented a tray, and Berkeley took a long drink of beer.

  “By God, that tastes good.”

  Lockwood obviously felt the same way.

  “Now, a hot bath.”

  “Anja!”

  She hurried off to fetch the tub.

  Berkeley finished his beer and went up the narrow staircase, Lockwood following with the bags as well as the shotgun. He had been Berkeley’s batman in the army, and rated him highly, although of course the officer took a lot of things for granted. He put it down to the gammy leg.

  The corridor at the top of the stairs, leading between the bedrooms front and back, was as narrow as the staircase, and as Berkeley reached it one of the doors to the rear rooms opened and a woman came out. He checked, because with her bustle it would be a very tight squeeze if they tried to pass each other; equally, she was well worth looking at.

  Of medium height, she wore a well-cut blue gown and black boots. Her hat was broad brimmed. She had a good figure, that was obvious, and a handsome rather than pretty face. Her real beauty lay in her auburn hair, at the moment gathered in a loose pompadour beneath the hat, but glowing with colour to set off her green eyes.

  She smiled at him, and stepped back into the doorway. “You first,” she said, speaking German with a pronounced accent. “You must be the Englander, Herr Smith.”

  “Why, yes,” he said. “However did you know that?”

  “Herr Dittmann told me. He is very full of you; the Englander who has come to find Count Dracula. But you did not succeed.”

  “And how do you know that?”

  She smiled, and then did become beautiful. “If you had, Herr Smith, would you not have two little holes in your neck? And very big teeth.”

  “Good point. I didn’t find him, because he doesn’t exist, Frau . . .”

  “Oh, forgive me. I am Hedda Harlinger.”

  “My pleasure, Frau Harlinger. Now I must get out of these wet clothes. Perhaps you and your husband would join me for a drink before dinner?”

  “I am sure that will be a pleasure, Herr Smith. But . . . how did you know I have a husband?”

  Berkeley smiled. “Dittmann told me.”

  “He’s a great gossip,” she agreed.

  *

  “What do you reckon, sir?” Lockwood asked, in English, while Anja filled the tub. The Englishmen shared two rooms, with an adjoining door, as they had shared most things during their years in the ar
my together, and since Berkeley had embarked upon his new career.

  “Suspicious, Harry?”

  “Well, sir, she didn’t look like a honeymooner to me.”

  “How many honeymoons have you been on?”

  “Well, sir . . .”

  “Just pulling your leg. Thank you, Anja.”

  Anja gave one of her giggles and left the room. Lockwood hastily closed and locked the door.

  “Everyone knows we’ve come to the Carpathians looking for Count Dracula,” Berkeley said. “They may think we’re mad, but there is no reason for anyone to be suspicious of us.” Unless, he thought, they could have a look inside my bag. He opened it and spread the sketches carefully on the bed, making sure no water had got at them.

  “She’s too old,” Lockwood complained.

  “Eh?” Satisfied the sketches were undamaged, Berkeley stripped off and sank into the hot water with a sigh of relief. There was no room for his legs in the tin tub, but he would deal with them later. Instinctively, his fingers caressed the scar tissue that stretched up the front of his left thigh.

  “Well, sir,” Lockwood said, “I would put her down at about forty. Maybe more.”

  Carefully brought up as an officer and a gentleman, Berkeley did not make a habit of estimating women’s ages. But now he thought about it, Lockwood was undoubtedly right; there had been a wealth of experience in those eyes, that face.

  He soaped himself thoughtfully. “So just who do you think they are?”

  He and Lockwood had fought shoulder to shoulder in the Sudan, and Lockwood had saved his life after he had received the wound that had ended his active service career. They trusted each other, and each other’s judgement.

  “I don’t know, sir.” He held the towel for his master as Berkeley stood up. “I agree with you that it’s highly unlikely they could be after us. But . . . if they’re honeymooning, I’ll eat my hat.”

  “All without laying eyes on Mr Harlinger. They could be eloping.”

  “Now that would be interesting,” Lockwood said. For all his somewhat stolid exterior, he was a romantic at heart.

  “We’ll investigate, this evening,” Berkeley said.

  *

  “The Morning Post. That is a famous newspaper.” Otto Harlinger returned Berkeley’s card. He was an even less likely spouse for Hedda than Lockwood had supposed might be the case. He was hardly taller than his wife, yellow-haired, with a fair moustache and slightly built.

  “Thank you. We like to think so.”

  “And they sent you here to search for Count Dracula? As recounted by your Mr Stoker? I’m afraid I have not read the book.”

  “It was a runaway bestseller in England, oh, about ten years ago.” Berkeley said, sipping his beer. “Then they made it into a play.”

  “And Mr Stoker is a friend of yours?” Hedda Harlinger asked.

  “No, no. It’s just that the book has been reissued, and my editor thought there might be something in the story. Something real.”

  “So you have had a . . . what do you say in English? A wild goose chase?”

  “I’m afraid that’s about it.”

  “Yet the story sounds very exciting,” Hedda said. “Do you think it has been published in German?”

  “I am sure of it.”

  “Then I must obtain a copy when we return to Vienna. Do you not think that would be a good idea, Otto?”

  Otto was not listening, at least to her. “The dogs are barking,” he said.

  “Somebody must be coming,” Berkeley suggested.

  “At this hour?”

  “Quite a few of them,” Berkeley said, listening to the hoofbeats.

  Harlinger stood up; his already pale face had turned quite white.

  Dittmann hurried in, also looking agitated. “A squadron of hussars.”

  “Coming here?” Hedda asked.

  “I am afraid so. What will you do?”

  She looked at her husband, who was now trembling. “We must get away.”

  “There is no time,” Dittmann said. “Listen, they may just be passing through. I will find out. Meanwhile, act naturally.” He looked at Berkeley. “Dinner may be a little delayed, Herr Smith.”

  “I can wait,” Berkeley said. “You’ll excuse me a moment.”

  He went upstairs. Lockwood stood at the window which looked down into the courtyard.

  “We’ve been scuppered,” the valet said. “Like I said . . .”

  Berkeley stood beside him, watched the white-clad horsemen dismounting in the yard. “I don’t think they’re after us.”

  “Those people?”

  “Yes. Those people.” Berkeley opened his bag, again took out the sketches he had made of Austrian military emplacements in the mountains, folded them, and placed them in his wallet; their value would have to withstand a few creases. Also lying in the bag was the new Browning automatic pistol with which he had been issued before leaving London. He glanced from it to the shotgun. But there were some twenty Austrians in the yard. Long odds, and in any event they couldn’t possibly be after him. His business was to keep a clean nose until he could get across the Swiss border, and that was a long way away.

  There was a knock on the door. He straightened, looking at Lockwood, who had instinctively moved towards the gun. Berkeley shook his head, and nodded towards the door. The Austrians were still in the yard, being greeted by Dittmann.

  Lockwood made a face, but opened the door instead. Hedda Harlinger almost fell into the room.

  “Please,” she gasped. “Will you help me?”

  Berkeley nodded again, and Lockwood closed the door.

  “Help you to do what?”

  “Please. Those men are looking for a man and a woman. If you would say I am with you.” Her tongue gave a quick sweep round her lips. “As your wife, or . . . or your mistress, as anything . . .”

  “We would still be a man and a woman,” he pointed out, more because he felt the need to say something to allay their mutual embarrassment than as an objection to her plea.

  “They are looking for an Austrian man and woman. Well, for . . . not for an English man and woman. I speak English,” she said, switching to that language with very little added accent.

  Berkeley looked at Lockwood, who pulled his nose.

  “What about your husband?” Berkeley said.

  “Otto is not my husband. He will manage on his own.”

  They listened to booted feet stamping on the floor beneath them, and raised voices.

  “Please,” she begged. “It will only be for a short while. Dittmann will get rid of them.”

  Dittmann, Berkeley thought. A gentleman who would bear investigation.

  “With respect, sir,” Lockwood said.

  He was a stickler for the matter in hand. From their point of view, the matter in hand was, having completed their mission, to get out of Hungary just as quickly and safely as possible.

  Hedda Harlinger could see the indecision on his face. “If they take me,” she said, “do you know what they will do to me?”

  Berkeley made his decision; he well knew what they might do to her. “If you’re to be my woman,” he said, “your things should be in here. Harry, would you nip across and collect Mrs Harlinger’s belongings.”

  Lockwood looked as if he would have protested again, then went to the door.

  “There is only the one bag,” Hedda said, “and two gowns in the wardrobe and some toiletries.”

  Lockwood gave a heavy sigh, and went into the corridor. Berkeley turned back towards the woman, and saw to his consternation that she was taking off her dress.

  “Just in case they come in,” she said, and sat on the bed to unlace her boots. Hastily he turned away from her, although she remained sufficiently well petticoated to be modest.

  The heavy feet were now on the stairs. Lockwood could well be caught. He went to the door.

  “Where are you going?” Hedda asked.

  He looked back at her; she had rolled under the covers, which
were drawn to her chin.

  “Just checking,” he said, and opened the door.

  The Austrians were just reaching the corridor, four men following an officer. They stared at Berkeley, and he gave them what he hoped was a friendly smile.

  “You are the Englander,” the officer commented.

  “John Smith, at your service,” Berkeley said. “Anything I can do to help?”

  “Just keep out of our way,” the officer said. “Go to your room, and stay there.”

  “Ah,” Berkeley said, “but you see . . .”

  The officer was already opening the door of the rear bedroom, his revolver drawn. “You,” he said. “Who are you?”

  Lockwood had Hedda’s bag under his arm.

  “My man,” Berkeley said.

  The officer looked from one to the other.

  “Just fetching something,” Berkeley said.

  Lockwood hastily dropped the bag on to the bed.

  “I wish to know what is going on,” the officer said. “I wish . . .” He was distracted by a shout from downstairs, and moved to the window, to watch Otto Harlinger sprinting across the field behind the inn, making for a copse about a quarter of a mile away. “Shoot him down,” he snapped at his men.

  “Here, I say,” Berkeley protested, as he was thrust to one side by the soldiers moving to the window, carbines thrust forward. They were firing before he could say, or do, anything more. Harlinger threw up his arms and fell.

  “You could have killed him,” Berkeley shouted.

  “Very probably,” the officer agreed, and leaned out of the window. “Bring him in, Sergeant,” he called.

  Several soldiers emerged from the back door of the inn and ran towards the still figure.

  “That was cold-blooded murder,” Berkeley said.

  “It was an execution, Herr Smith. Of a highly dangerous man. But it is the woman we really want. Have you seen her?”

  “You mean Frau Harlinger?”

  “I mean Anna Slovitza,” the officer said. “Perhaps she was posing as his wife.”

  “We had a drink downstairs before dinner,” Berkeley said. “They seemed a very pleasant couple. And now, to shoot Herr Harlinger down in cold blood!”