To All Eternity

by Christopher Nicole

  “Can’t we get a special licence?”

  “Well, we could. But it’ll be expensive. And it’ll take at least three weeks to organise the reception.”

  “I only have a month’s leave,” Berkeley pointed out. “So we had better start now.”

  “Yes, of course,” Alicia said. “Now, lunch . . .”

  “Wash ’ands,” Caterina said. “And face.”

  “Oh, good heavens,” Alicia said. “You poor dear. And I haven’t even showed you to your room. Do come along.” She went to the door, and there checked, to look at Berkeley. “You . . . ah . . .”

  “Of course we are going to share a room, Mother. We’re married.”

  “It will have to be the spare bedroom. Yours only has a single bed.”

  “Then the spare bedroom it will be. Shall I come up with you?”

  “I think we should have a chat,” his father said.

  Caterina was looking from face to face, anxiously.

  “You go up with my mother,” Berkeley said. “I’ll be with you in a little while, and we’ll sort things out.”

  The two men waited until the women had disappeared, then John Townsend refilled their glasses.

  “Quite a beauty.”

  “I think so.”

  “But not, hopefully, only skin deep.”

  “No.”

  “Two months,” John Townsend said, sitting down. “A truly whirlwind romance. Love at first sight, and that sort of thing.”

  Berkeley also sat. “Something like that.”

  “I don’t suppose you’d care to tell me the truth of it?”

  Berkeley considered. His father was a shrewd man. “You know most of it.”

  “Tell me what I don’t know.”

  “It’s not very flattering to me. Well, I had to stop for the night in this village, at a house owned by Caterina’s mother. She wasn’t there at the time. One thing led to another, and Caterina and I were caught in flagrante delicto when the mother returned the following morning. I told you it wasn’t a very pretty tale.”

  “It’s also not a very truthful one,” John suggested.

  Berkeley shot his father a look.

  “Oh, I don’t want to pry into your military affairs, Berkeley,” John said. “But when you produce a wife like a conjuror with a top hat, I think I am entitled to probe just a little. Frankly, Caterina doesn’t look the sort of girl who would climb into bed with a complete stranger on the occasion of their first meeting. And if she were, then she would hardly be a suitable wife for my son.”

  Berkeley had no desire to quarrel with his father; the two were friends. “Well,” he said, “that is actually what happened. Save that I wasn’t a complete stranger. I met Madame Slovitza some time ago.”

  “Madame Slovitza being Caterina’s mother.”

  Berkeley nodded.

  “Now deceased.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “And you met her some time ago. Presumably in Hungary, or somewhere central.”

  “Yes,” Berkeley said. “I was able to do her a favour, and she said if I was ever in her part of the world to look her up. This I did, and met Caterina. So we were not actually strangers, although we had never met. Her mother had told her a great deal about me.”

  “It must all have been very good,” John remarked, drily. “But just let me get this straight. You met the mother in Hungary; you visited her in . . . Thrace?”

  “Yes.”

  “And going by her name, she is Serbian.”

  “Yes. Well, the populations in the Balkans are apt to be a little mixed up.”

  “I can imagine. So, Madame Slovitza found you in bed with her beautiful daughter, and reached for her shotgun.”

  “It wasn’t quite like that.”

  “Of course it wasn’t. You felt obliged to do the decent thing because Madame Slovitza was dying? She must have been dying, and quite obviously, as she did so a few days later.”

  “Ah . . . yes,” Berkeley said. “She had been ill for some time.” Which he felt was not all that much of a lie, when referring to a woman who had risked her life almost on a daily basis for several years. “And, well, you see, Caterina had no one left. Her father died some years ago. Don’t get me wrong; it really was love at first sight, Dad. I think I would have married her anyway, all things being equal, but of course after a decent courtship. As it happened . . .”

  “All things weren’t equal. Well, I would say you came out of it with considerable credit. Does she love you? Or does she just regard you as her saviour? She’s quite a lot younger than you, isn’t she?”

  “Twelve years or so. I don’t think that has anything to do with it. I believe she loves me. She gives every indication of it.”

  “If that is so, it would make me very happy,” John said. “Believe me, your mother and I shall welcome your wife as if she were our own daughter, if she will accept that.”

  “I shall encourage her to do so,” Berkeley said.

  “Excellent. Now, there is just one other matter.” He gazed at his son.

  “Yes,” Berkeley said.

  “Was there an understanding between you and Julia?”

  “There was no formal engagement,” Berkeley said. “I asked her to marry me, certainly, and she put me off.”

  “But as I remember you told me before leaving for Greece, she didn’t actually refuse you.”

  “She suggested I ask her again when I returned.”

  “Exactly. I’m afraid she seems to have regarded that as an understanding. She has been visiting here regularly. Her demeanour is that of someone soon to become part of the family. My impression is that she has made up her mind that, when you returned and asked her again, she would say yes.”

  Berkeley stroked his chin.

  “Bit awkward,” John said.

  “She cannot have it both ways,” Berkeley protested. “She told me to ask her again. There was no agreement that I should not ask someone else in the interim.”

  “I suspect she took that as read. It’s a damned tricky business, particularly in your profession. Remember the Duke of Wellington? He proposed marriage to Kitty Pakenham when he was a very junior officer, and she turned him down because he did not appear to have any prospects. When he returned from India a famous soldier and a general, she reminded him that he had once proposed, and he felt obliged to marry her.”

  “The Duke of Wellington,” Berkeley said, “has a great deal to answer for. And that was over a hundred years ago. Times change.”

  “Not for an officer and a gentleman. He set a precedent.”

  “Well, Dad, there is damn all I can do about it now.”

  “I still think you need to do the decent thing.”

  “Which would be?”

  “You must go and see Julia, and explain the situation to her before we publicise it.”

  “I think I’d prefer to write her a letter.”

  John shook his head. “It needs to be done personally. If you are an officer and a gentleman.” The two men gazed at each other. “As you have proved in the case of Caterina,” John added, gently.

  *

  “Where are you going?” Caterina said after lunch, as Berkeley pulled on his riding boots.

  “There is someone I must see.”

  “Can I not come with you?”

  “Not this time, darling.”

  She hugged herself. “You are leaving me all alone, in a strange house, with strange people . . .”

  “Your mother and father-in-law, who are prepared to take you into the family and love you like their own, if you will give them the chance.”

  She pouted. “I wish to be with you.”

  “And you will be, always, just as soon as I have paid this visit.”

  “I would like my gun back.”

  “Now don’t be ridiculous, Caterina. Young ladies don’t carry guns.”

  “Suppose I need it?”

  “You won’t. This is England, not the Balkans. We don’t have anarchists in
England. Nor do we have secret police or armies rushing about killing people. This is the safest place in the whole world. Please believe that.”

  She sat on the bed, her hands on her knees. “It is so strange.”

  He sat beside her, put his arm round her. “You’ll get used to it. Then you’ll enjoy it.”

  As usual, he could only hope he was right. But now . . . He braced himself as he walked his horse down the road towards the Gracey Farm. He had absolutely no idea what to expect, but he knew he’d rather be facing an Austrian cavalry patrol than the coming ordeal. So, shoulders back, chin out, and take what was coming like a man. He supposed it was all really a matter of interpretations. He did not think he was under any obligation to Julia. He could only hope she would accept that point of view.

  But he drew rein within sight of the farm, to compose himself. He really was very anxious. He looked left and right, but at the beginning of October the harvest seemed to have been completed; the fields were empty of men as much as wheat. Then he looked up the slight slope at the main road, and frowned. A horseman stood there, man and beast motionless, gazing at him. The man was too far away to be identified, but there could be no doubt that he knew who he was watching.

  Berkeley frowned. It was quite absurd to suppose there could be anything sinister about a lone horseman in central Northamptonshire in utterly peaceful England. Yet it made him uneasy.

  However, there was nothing to be done about it at the moment; he had more important matters to deal with. He approached the house. As usual, the dogs gave the first warning of his approach; they brought out the groom to hold his bridle as he dismounted.

  “It’s Mr Berkeley,” a housemaid called, and a moment later Julia emerged from the front door, cheeks pink, hair loose.

  “Berkeley!”

  She came towards him, both arms outstretched. He caught her hands and kissed them; she subsided, slowly, a faint frown between her eyes.

  “We were wondering what had happened to you.”

  “It’s a long story.” He looked past her at her mother and father, all smiles.

  “Welcome home, Berkeley,” Paul Gracey said. “Good to see you.”

  “Did you have a successful trip?” Joan Gracey asked.

  “On the whole, yes,” Berkeley said.

  They escorted him inside, and he was offered some tea.

  “I think Julia and I need to have a talk,” he suggested.

  “Of course you do,” Joan agreed.

  Berkeley looked at Julia, who moved to the garden door.

  “I’ve a bottle of champagne,” Paul Gracey whispered to Berkeley. “Just give me a signal, and you’ll hear the cork pop.”

  “Ah . . . yes,” Berkeley said, and followed Julia into the garden.

  She had not bothered to put on a hat, and was walking slowly towards the bench by the orchard. “Did you find lots of fine horses?” she asked over her shoulder.

  “Not really.”

  She stopped and turned, then went on to the bench and sat down, her hands in her lap.

  Berkeley sat beside her.

  Julia waited for several seconds, then she said, “You’ve something on your mind.”

  “I’m nervous as hell,” he said.

  She turned her head. “You, Berkeley? You weren’t nervous last August.”

  “That was different.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  Berkeley drew a deep breath. “Something has happened, since last August.”

  She raised her eyebrows, but didn’t speak.

  “I . . . I have got married,” he said.

  The frown was back, far deeper than before, as was the pink in her cheeks.

  “I felt I had to come and tell you,” he said. “The moment I got home. That was this morning.”

  “Did you think I would be interested?” Her voice was cold.

  “Ah . . . probably not. But you see, the announcement of the wedding will be in the newspapers in a couple of days’ time, and I didn’t want you to read about it there. I mean . . .” He was flushing. “I felt I had to tell you in person.”

  “That was very good of you. Very gentlemanly.” She used the word as if indicating it was probably the only gentlemanly thing he had ever done. “Is your wife from around Northampton? Perhaps I know her.”

  “You do not know her. My wife is Serbian. Well, half-Serbian and half-Bosnian.”

  Her mouth opened a little, then closed again. “One of your purchases, perhaps.”

  He felt that really deserved a slap on the cheek, but he had done enough damage. He stood up. “I had hoped we might remain friends.”

  “Friends, Captain Townsend? Were we ever friends?”

  There were tears in her eyes. Oh, Lord, he thought. “I really must be going.”

  “Back to your wife.” Each word was like a drop of vitriol.

  But now he was angry; he had done his best to be civilised. “Yes,” he said. “Back to my wife. I’ll bid you good afternoon, Miss Gracey.”

  He went up to the house, leaving her sitting on the bench.

  Paul Gracey was waiting by the door. “Overcome, is she? Women are like that. I’ll pop that cork, and you can take a glass down to her.”

  “I’m afraid Julia and I are not going to be married, sir,” Berkeley said.

  “Good God! Not get married? But it was settled long ago. Wasn’t it?”

  “No,” Berkeley said.

  “But . . . you’re not going to tell us she turned you down?” Joan Gracey asked from the back of the room.

  “No, she did not, Mrs Gracey. I came here this afternoon to inform Julia that I am now married.”

  There was a moment of utter silence. Then Paul Gracey said, “Good God!”

  “You’ll leave, sir. Now,” Joan Gracey said, and hurried out of the door to be with her daughter.

  “I’m sorry about this, Mr Gracey,” Berkeley said.

  “Good God!” Gracey said again. “I suppose you’d better go.”

  “Yes, sir.” He started to hold out his hand, then changed his mind. “Good afternoon.”

  He had to wait for several minutes while his horse was brought from the stable; the groom had not expected him to be departing so suddenly. He mounted and walked the animal out of the yard and up the road. At least the mysterious figure had disappeared.

  He had not yet reached the high road when he felt an enormous impact.

  Berkeley did not immediately lose consciousness. He was aware of hitting the ground with a very heavy thud, which left him breathless. There was no other pain at the moment, but he knew he had been shot.

  Vaguely he heard shouts and the sound of running feet. Then he did slide into oblivion, unsure whether or not he was dying. But when his eyes opened again he was in a bed, and now the pain was severe.

  Faces peered at him. Joan Gracey. Paul. A maid. And Julia, hovering, features contorted with fear and horror.

  “His eyes are open! He’s alive!” Paul exclaimed. He bent over the bed. “We’ve sent for the doctor. And your parents.”

  “And your wife,” Joan said.

  Berkeley opened his mouth, and it closed again of its own accord before he could speak. The whole lower half of his body seemed gripped in a vice of pain.

  “Laudanum,” Julia said. “He must be given laudanum.”

  The morphine mixture was brought and he was fed a little. Then he fainted again.

  More familiar faces: his mother and father, and Caterina, weeping as she held his hand. And of course Harry Lockwood, looking more concerned than Berkeley could ever remember. The Graceys had faded to the back of the room. And Dr Cheam, who he had known all of his life. The doctor’s face was severe but composed, and Berkeley felt a little more in control of himself. He gathered he had been tightly bandaged.

  “Two ribs,” Cheam said. “You’re a lucky fellow, Berkeley. That bullet was meant for your heart.”

  “Always aim for the head, if you can,” Berkeley muttered, attempting a s
mile.

  “Oh, Berkeley, my darling,” Caterina said in German. “Who could have done this?”

  “I think we need to find that out.”

  “You said things like this did not happen in England.”

  “It seems I was wrong.”

  “How soon can he be moved?” John Townsend asked.

  “I have sent for an ambulance.”

  “We take him home?” Caterina asked.

  “He must go to hospital first,” Cheam insisted. “He needs more care than I have been able to give him here, and he needs a transfusion. He has lost a lot of blood.”

  They heard the sound of hooves on the drive.

  “It’s here,” Cheam said, with some satisfaction. “Now, please, my people will move him.”

  “He not die, doctor?” Caterina begged. “Like my mother.”

  The slip for the moment went unnoticed.

  “He’s not going to die, Mrs Townsend,” Cheam said.

  Berkeley turned his head to look from Caterina to Julia. One stood on either side of the bed, and they were looking at each other. For the first time he realised that he had been undressed. He wondered who had done that.

  “I’m sure he’s not going to die, Mrs Townsend,” Julia said.

  *

  Berkeley was exhausted: that was partly loss of blood and partly the various sedatives with which he was being fed.

  “Aspirin,” he muttered. “Why don’t you try aspirin?” The latest wonder drug.

  The pain continued to be intense.

  “I don’t think aspirin is going to be too much use in this case,” Cheam said.

  “Now, how do you feel?”

  It was the next day.

  “Bloody,” Berkeley said.

  “Are you up to answering some questions? Inspector Watt is here.”

  “I suppose I’ll have to,” Berkeley said, trying desperately to think. The would-be assassin had to be from the Balkans, but from which side of the fence? He did not think it could be the Austrians. Even if they had managed to work out that Mr Jones and Mr Smith were one and the same man, and that both were really Berkeley Townsend, surely they would go through the proper channels to have him arrested, as they had in the summer, rather than just attempt to have him murdered? No, it had to have been a member of the Black Hand. As far as Gregory Masanovich was concerned, Berkeley had not only deserted the organisation, but had also kidnapped Anna Slovitza’s daughter; which made him both a traitor and a criminal.