Flora Mackintosh and The Hungarian Affair

by Anna Reader

  Flora stretched her hands outwards, and slipped them through the crack of the window three inches above her head. Easing it open as carefully as she could, she gripped on to the window frame and looked down at Bertie. “Let go of my ankles,” she asked confidently. “I’m going in.”

  “Careful there,” he said, letting go as instructed and leaving his hands hovering by her legs in case she should lose her footing.

  Flora braced her arms, made sure of the placement of her hands and, finding a couple of uneven stones with her feet, pushed herself up until she was able to ease her torso towards the window. She slithered easily through the gap, dropped down onto the carpeted floor below and immediately tried to acclimatise her eyes to the darkness. She could hear a grandfather clock ticking somewhere nearby, and the kinds of creaking which were the hallmark of any old building - otherwise, the room was silent. She leant out of the window and waved at Bertie. “I’ll let you in at the front door,” she announced, disappearing immediately from view.

  As soon as she was out of the room, Flora paused to orientate herself. She reasoned that she must be in one of the tributary corridors that fed into the first floor landing, and tried to steady her breathing as she made her way past the row of closed doors and towards the atrium at the heart of the castle. When she reached the landing she was able, in the half-light cast by the moon, to make out a solid wooden staircase and a thick carpet of indeterminate colour; the Catherine Morland in her had half-hoped for glinting suits of armour and perhaps even the odd mace or broad-sword, but that gothic vision was, alas, seemingly not to be. At least her ancestors were looking down upon her from a series of imposing portraits – that would have to do.

  Flora walked across to the head of the stairs, placed her hand on the ornately carved bannister and made her way down to the front door. Arriving on a wide Turkish rug which covered the stone floor she froze mid-step, thinking that she could hear a muffled sound in the half-darkness, before persuading herself it was nothing and moving forwards to let Bertie in.

  “And what do you think you’re doing?” a husky, rather slurred voice demanded in Hungarian.

  Flora screamed and spun around to find a plump woman of advanced years standing in front of her in shapeless, calf-length cotton dress, faded grey socks which had slipped down to her ankles, and a pair of fluffy slippers. She was holding a weak torch, clasping a woollen shawl around her shoulders, and eying Flora suspiciously through a pair of bleary, myopic eyes. The creature also emitted a distinct aroma of schnapps, causing Flora to recollect the caustic references made by the baker’s wife to Uncle Antal’s house-keeper.

  “Flora!” Bertie bellowed, having heard his companion’s blood-curdling cry and hammering insistently on the door. “Is everything alright in there?”

  “Fine, thanks,” Flora shouted back to him. “I think I’ve found the housekeeper!”

  The elderly woman continued to scowl suspiciously, and advanced towards Flora holding her torch like a bludgeon. Flora smiled as sweetly as she could. “Hallo,” she said in Hungarian with a slight laugh, holding her hands out to show that she was unarmed, “I’m Anasztázia. Laszlo Medveczky was my father.”

  The old woman sneezed, coughed and glowered at Flora. “Baron Medveczky died years ago,” she replied, still staring at Flora with eyes full of mistrust.

  “Yes he did,” Flora agreed, speaking very slowly as she suspected that the woman was not entirely lucid. “Luckily for me, not before I was born. Uncle Antal sent for me.”

  Mention of her uncle seemed to go some way towards mollifying the woman. “Mr Antal asked you to come here?” she asked, tipping her head back and shining her torch into Flora’s face in order to get a proper look at the girl.

  “He did indeed,” Flora said, raising a hand in a bid to make this exchange feel rather less like an interrogation. “As I say, I am his niece. And may I ask who you are?”

  This seemed to take the woman back somewhat, and she lowered her torch. “I am Magda,” she announced with pride. “I take care of the castle.”

  “Well, it’s a huge relief to find you here, Magda,” Flora said breezily. “Now if you don’t mind, I shall open the door so that my guest can come in out of the night air.” Before Magda could respond Flora had stepped forwards, turned the key, and removed the plank of wood sitting in brackets on either side of the door and barring Bertie’s entrance. “We’ll also require two beds to be made up, if you would be so good.”

  Magda’s mouth gaped to reveal her largely toothless gums, and she stared at Flora in a mixture of awe and outrage. It was many years since she had actually been asked to do anything (Antal had spent a great deal of time abroad, and when he was home subsisted mainly on bread and cheese) and whilst she admired Flora’s evident power of command, she certainly didn’t enjoy the memories of servitude her tone aroused.

  Bertie bounded through the open door, handed Flora her bags, and nodded at Magda in greeting. Flora fished a cigarette out of her case, placed it between her teeth, and was on the verge of striking a match when it occurred to her that perhaps she ought not expose this ethanol-soaked woman to a naked flame; the local doctor would no doubt have his hands full already with the winged German.

  “This is Magda,” Flora said in English, clasping the cigarette between her small, perfectly white teeth until such time as it became safe to smoke.

  “Hallo there, Magda!” Bertie said brightly, offering a hand to the housekeeper in a very cheery display of bonhomie. The sight of this friendly, extremely handsome foreigner seemed to calm Magda’s sense of doom - even though she could not understand a word he said - and she shook his hand with something approaching coquetry.

  “I shall see about your beds,” the housekeeper announced grandly to Flora, prepared now, having seen Bertie, to ensure that they had a comfortable night’s sleep. “I shall also light a fire in the library.”

  “Thank you,” Flora replied graciously. “I wonder if there’s anything to eat?”

  “Pickled cabbage,” Magda said with a sniff, her flurry of goodwill fast exhausting itself. “And perhaps some potatoes. Although I make no promises.”

  “Never mind,” Flora replied stoically, thanking whatever benevolent deity had given her the foresight to procure an emergency loaf of bread. “I don’t suppose we have any gin?”

  “No gin,” Magda announced, as she prepared to hoist herself upstairs to try to identify in which nook she might have stowed the linen. “There’s schnapps. And Mr Antal has some brandy in the library.”

  This was excellent news, indeed. As Magda made her way upwards, muttering darkly under her breath and coughing violently after ever five or six steps, Flora and Bertie began to explore the ground floor in search of the library. After trying several doors which appeared to lead into a variety of morning rooms; drawing rooms; store cupboards and closets, they at last found their sanctuary. Bertie managed to find a light-switch by the door, much to Flora’s relief; she had feared that it might be nothing but candle-light for the foreseeable future - which was all well and good for a quiet supper à deux, but less helpful in the midst of a mysterious jaunt to the continent featuring murderous Germans.

  “Magda said there ought to be some brandy in here somewhere,” Flora said, scanning the room for a likely decanter. “Keep your eyes peeled.”

  “Aha!” Bertie cried in triumph, raising a bottle of Armagnac in the air. “What shall we drink to?”

  “Let’s drink to you, Bertie,” Flora said magnanimously, as Bertie poured two healthy measures into a pair of rather dusty crystal glasses sitting on the drinks cabinet, “and your excellent navigational skills.”

  “And to your eagle-eyed shooting,” Bertie replied, returning the compliment and handing a glass to Flora.

  Flora took a large sip, and sighed in contentment. “Now, Magda said something about a fire,” she said, “but I have grave doubts about letting her anywhere near a box of matches. So I think I shall have a go.” She walked confidently towards
the wicker basket stacked full of logs by the fireplace and fell to her knees, crystal glass in hand. “Why don’t you divvy up the rest of that pie and some of that bread?” she suggested as she began selecting some choice bits of kindling. “We can have a picnic.”

  When Magda entered the room an hour later, sweating profusely and feeling distinctly light-headed after the ordeal that was stripping and remaking two beds, she found the pair sitting by the light of a blazing fire, chatting happily and making short work of the brandy.

  “There are rooms ready for you,” she rasped, looking at the Armagnac with longing. “I’ll bid you good night, then.”

  “You’re a saint, Magda, thank you,” Flora replied with a smile, feeling decidedly mellow and really quite pleased to be back in Hungary, upon reflection. “Szép álmokat.”

  Magda harrumphed and slouched out of the room, exhausted after her sudden burst of activity, but secretly rather relieved to have a Medveczky back in the castle once again. It had been a full month since Mr Antal had come home for a change of clothes and some Hungarian noodles, and she was beginning to worry for him.

  “I think that I shall try to get some sleep,” Flora said, pushing out of the nest of cushions they had arranged by the fire and getting to her feet. “Shall we go in search of our rooms?”

  “If it’s all the same to you,” Bertie replied, “I intend to find a comfortable sort of chair and keep watch. We may have frightened those Germans off for now, Flor, but I don’t trust them to stay away.”

  “Oh, Bertie,” Flora said, decidedly touched by this display of chivalry, “I’m sure there’s no need for all that. Besides, you need a good night’s sleep before you fly back to England. Although,” she added, suddenly struck by what Bertie had said, “perhaps we ought to do a last sweep – make sure there aren’t any open doors we missed earlier, that sort of thing?”

  Bertie nodded. “Alright. Bring your brandy.”

  The pair did a slow tour of the ground-floor, padding about in their socks and taking the occasional sip of brandy. Even in the darkness it was clear enough from rattling door-knobs and window frames that everything was secure. It also become quite obvious how large the Medveczkys’ castle really was, given that the investigation took the pair the best part of half an hour. At last, satisfied that they were safe and with their glasses drained, the pair parted ways at the top of the stairs. It was an oddly awkward moment – they’d become rather good friends during the course of the day, and didn’t quite know whether to hug, salute, or simply walk away. In the end, they settled on a firm handshake.

  Bertie waited until Flora was safely tucked up in bed and snoring gently before dragging a rocking chair from his own room and assuming guard outside hers. He wouldn’t sleep that night, but it was a sacrifice he was more than willing to make for his new friend.

  FIVE

  Flora was woken by the sound of a man crying out in the night. Sitting bolt upright in bed with a racing heart, her eyes darted about the strange room. It was still bathed in darkness, the only light offered by the slithers of moonlight finding their way in through the gaps in the curtains.

  Flora swung her long legs out of bed and padded across the carpeted floor to her satchel, which was lying on a desk by the window. Seizing her gun, she wrapped herself in an oversized silk dressing gown she had found hanging in the wardrobe, pulled a pair of what were presumably her uncle’s thick socks over her bare feet, and slowly opened her bedroom door. Bertie’s empty chair stood immediately in front of her and she very nearly crashed into it before freezing mid-step, looking up and down the corridor for signs of movement. Satisfied she was alone, she carefully edged past it and towards the landing.

  It had sounded like the cry had come from the floor below and so, employing the considerable powers of stealth she had developed during numerous furtive cocktail parties at St. Penrith’s, Flora crept down the wooden stairs and began her hunt.

  The castle was silent once again, and Flora pressed herself into the shadows as she moved silently from room to room. She began her search in the library, somehow hoping that it was Bertie who had emitted the cry, after stubbing his toe on his way to help himself to another brandy. The room was empty, only just illuminated by the dying embers of the fire. Edging her way back out into the hall, Flora hovered in the moonlight and listened closely. As she stood motionless, her back pressed against the wall and pistol at the ready, her experienced ear suddenly detected the sound of a match been struck. Squinting against the darkness, she was just able to make out a small glowing flame burst into life through an open doorway on the other side of the staircase. With her pistol held raised in front of her and the belt of her dressing gown firmly knotted in place, Flora crept across the stone floor and prepared to confront whoever might be standing in the shadows beyond.

  Her struggling eyes were just able to make out the shape of a person crouching down in the centre of the room, with their back to her and holding a lit match in their hand. Without hesitating she flicked on the light and raised the weapon, fervently hoping that she would find nothing more than a soused, somnambulant housekeeper.

  “Good god!” she said, as an astonished Bertie leapt up and spun around to reveal a lit cigarette perched between his lips and a poker in his hand. At his feet lay the lifeless body of the shorter German assassin, a pool of black blood gathering around his head. “Bertie!”

  Springing into action, Bertie placed the poker on the light blue carpet and moved towards Flora. “I hoped you wouldn’t have to see this, Flor,” he said grimly, as he guided her towards a chair and offered her his cigarette. “I’m afraid that we’ve had an uninvited guest.”

  “What happened?” Flora asked, finding it almost impossible to tear her eyes from the dead man’s inert body. “Are you alright?” She wasn’t a squeamish girl, but this was the first time she had seen the aftermath of a violent death, and Flora found that she was extremely grateful to be sitting down.

  “Yes, I’m fine,” he replied, scanning the room. “Although I wouldn’t have been if this little devil had had his way.” Bertie looked down at the revolver curled in the dead man’s hands, and shook his head in disgust.

  Noticing her discomfort and the way the colour had drained from her face, Bertie tried to position himself in front of the German’s head, and very quickly suggested that they should adjourn to the library.

  “I’d love to, Bertie,” Flora replied as calmly as she was able, “however I fear that I am not entirely in command of my legs. They seem to have turned to jelly.”

  Without saying a word Bertie took the gun from her hand, gathered her up, carried her across the hall and deposited her very gently in an arm-chair by the dying fire in the library. It was all done in the most business-like manner, and rather than feeling herself overcome by the kind of giddiness which would surely have affected many eighteen year old girls clasped in Bertie’s strong arms, Flora found that she was instead jolly grateful for his quick thinking and practicality. “Thank you,” she said, smiling at him as he poured a brandy from the decanter and handed her the glass.

  “Not at all,” Bertie replied, helping himself to a glass and pulling a second cigarette from his pocket, which he lit with an admirably steady hand. “If you feel up to it, my dear, I ought to explain what’s been going on.”

  “Please do,” Flora replied, having recovered sufficiently to find herself suddenly gripped by curiosity. “I must say, though Bertie, that if this is what it’s like to spend an evening with you, please remind me never to accept an invitation to one of your parties.”

  “That’s the ticket,” Bertie said with a slight grin, appreciating Flora’s very swift return to form. Pausing to puff on his cigarette and collect his thoughts, Bertie eased himself into a chair opposite Flora and began to talk.

  “It was like this, Flor. After you’d gone to bed I dragged a chair across the landing and positioned myself outside your door. It was tolerably comfortable - I think I even nodded off once or twice, I�
��m afraid - but shortly after the clock in the hallway struck two, I heard a noise; creaking hinges, that sort of thing.

  In any case, it sounded as though it was coming from the hallway, so I crept over to the staircase to investigate. Once I reached the landing, I could see a faint light moving around below me. I half thought that it might be Magda, but it seemed impossible that she could be making so little noise. So, I came halfway down the staircase and pressed myself into the shadows, watching as the light drifted from room to room. It appeared very much as though the person was looking for something, since he didn’t spend very long in each room and was moving at considerable speed. Eventually the light moved into your uncle’s study, and didn’t come out again for some time. I slipped the rest of the way down the stairs, and snuck in after him. And that’s when I realised that it was one of our German friends come to visit.”

  Bertie paused to refill Flora’s glass, then to reach for a blanket which was lying on the sofa behind him. As the shock of seeing the body wore off, Flora was beginning to feel the biting cold which gripped the castle at night, and her teeth were chattering like castanets: the blue silk dressing-gown, whilst undoubtedly beautiful, didn’t offer much protection from the elements. Bertie draped the blanket around her shoulders and peered down at her. “Are you alright, Flora?” he asked anxiously, rubbing her upper arms. “We can always finish this tomorrow,” he reassured her. “Perhaps we ought to get you back to bed; I can take care of the body.”

  “This dressing gown is rather thin, that’s all,” Flora said matter-of-factly. “And I certainly won’t be able to sleep until I know what happened. Do go on.”

  “Alright,” he said through narrowed eyes. “But you must promise me you’ll go to bed if you feel you need to.”