ONE ONE
Into the Teeth
of the Storm
Call me Ishmael. Ishmael Jones.
I got the phone call in the early hours of the morning. I was in the main bar of some hotel in London. Don’t ask me its name; they all blend into each other after a while. I have no home of my own. Never have. Too risky. I just move from hotel to hotel, using this name or that. Makes it that much harder for people to find me. But the Colonel always knows where I am. That was part of the deal we struck, all those years ago.
It wasn’t much of a bar, but then, it wasn’t much of a hotel. Not a salubrious, or even a cheerful place. The lighting was too bright, the fittings and furnishings more functional than comfortable. And the background music was such an offence to the ear that I ended up having to bribe the barman to shut it down. I sat on a stool at the bar, so I wouldn’t have to keep getting up to order more drinks. It was that bleary-eyed time in the early hours when the night life just gives it all up as a bad idea and admits defeat. I was the only customer left in the bar. Everyone else had gone home, or gone to bed, or both. The bartender was standing around with his arms folded, looking worn out and resentful. Wishing I would leave, so he could shut the bar down and turn in. But I wasn’t going anywhere. I didn’t feel tired, or sleepy. I wouldn’t for several days. I keep strange hours because I lead a strange life.
I looked at myself in the mirror behind the bar. My reflection met my gaze with a cold, mistrustful stare. A very familiar face because it hadn’t changed in so very long. Not the one I would have chosen, but good enough. I was tall, slim, dark-haired and handsome enough if you weren’t too choosy. A long rangy figure who appeared to be in his mid twenties. Dressed well, but anonymously. The kind of stuff you can buy anywhere, so you can fit in anywhere. An easy smile, a casual look, and dark eyes that gave away absolutely nothing. Someone who had learned to walk through the world without making ripples because he couldn’t afford to be noticed. Who lived under the radar because he couldn’t afford to be found out. A man who drove on the dark side of the road. I toasted my reflection with my almost empty glass. I thought I looked pretty good, for someone whose appearance hasn’t changed a bit since 1963.
And that was when my mobile phone rang. Or, rather, shuddered in my pocket. I always keep it on vibrate. Because a sudden ringtone can make people look at you, and remember you. I took my time hauling the phone out. I knew who it was, who it had to be. The Colonel’s the only man who has my number, these days. I work for the Colonel and the Organization he says he represents. Whatever that might be. Some day, I hope to find out exactly who and what I’m working for. It would be nice to know. But as long as the Colonel continues to protect me from all the people who want to find me, and as long as he keeps pointing me in the direction of really bad people who need taking down, and as long as he keeps paying me really good money to do it . . . I’m happy to go along.
I put the phone to my ear. “What do you want, Colonel?”
“And merry seasonal greetings to you, dear boy,” said the Colonel. “How would you like to come and join me for Christmas, in the grand old country house of Belcourt Manor? Deep in the heart of rural Cornwall, far away from all the hustle and bustle of the big bad city. Good food and good booze, and who knows? Maybe even silly hats and party games till dawn. Only several hours’ hard driving from where you are now, if you start straight away. I need you with me at the Manor, as fast as you can get here. The situation is . . . somewhat urgent.”
“What’s the mission?” I said.
“Oh, not a mission at all, as such, old bean,” said the Colonel. “More like, a personal favour to me. Tell you all about it when you get here. Never know who’s listening in, these days. It used to be just us, but then the Government insisted on getting involved. I don’t like how it feels down here, at the Manor. Could be wrong, of course. I could just be jumping at shadows. In which case, we’ll all have a jolly old time eating too much, drinking too much, and dozing off in front of the television. The usual deeply religious Christian celebration.”
“But you don’t think you’re wrong, do you?” I said.
“Of course not, dear boy. Or I wouldn’t be calling you. Will you come?”
Of course I said yes. I couldn’t turn him down, not after everything the Colonel had done for me. He gave me the address in Cornwall, and enough general directions so I could be sure of getting there even if my satnav threw a wobbly, and then he hung up. Before I could ask him any questions. Like what it was at the Manor that had spooked him so badly. Or what it was he wanted me to do for him. I put my phone away and nodded to the quietly seething bartender to fill my glass again. One more large drink, and then off into the night, and the dark, one more time. To do things in the shadows that the everyday people don’t need to know about. Because someone’s got to slay the dragons, even if the armour isn’t as shining as it used to be. And because if you have to hide in the shadows, it helps if you thin out the predators that want to hide in there with you.
I drove my rented car a lot faster than was safe, pressing on into the winter storm with cold determination. The wind howled like a demon on the loose, and everywhere I looked heavy falling snow was burying the open countryside under gleaming white shrouds. The road ahead was almost completely blocked, but I just aimed my car like a bullet and put the hammer down. Everything forward, and trust in the Lord. I hunched over the steering wheel, peering through the windshield at the deadly white world outside.
The wipers were doing everything they could, but the wind was blasting so hard now that it was practically snowing sideways. I’d been driving for hours without a break, and what had started out as a pleasant snowfall when I was leaving London had quickly degenerated into the kind of vicious blizzard that ends up in the history books. More and more, I was driving by guesswork and instinct.
My satnav kept telling me I wasn’t far from my destination, but I wasn’t sure I believed it. I was out in the middle of nowhere, hammering down a narrow country lane, surrounded by miles and miles of endless white. It felt like I was driving on the moon, surrounded by nothing but open space, and not a landmark anywhere. The car’s tyres lurched and skidded over the undulating snow, sometimes digging in unexpectedly; and then the steering wheel would do its best to rear up and hit me in the face. Or deep snow ridges would throw the car back and forth so violently that it would end up bouncing off both sides of the road; and then I had to fight the wheel for control until I could force the car back in the right direction. So far, I was winning, through a combination of stubbornness and brute strength . . . but it was starting to look like a race as to which would wear out first: my hands, or the steering column.
The calm-voiced announcer on the car radio (no doubt sitting safe and warm in some BBC regional studio) seemed to be taking great pleasure in informing me that I was caught right in the middle of the worst storm since modern records began. That most of the roads were snowed under, the trains weren’t running, and the airports were all shut down . . . And that no one should try and go anywhere unless their journey was absolutely necessary. Stay at home, stay inside, where it’s safe. The announcer allowed himself a small chuckle. We all like a little snow at Christmas, but this is overdoing it, just a bit. So stay warm, and have a very happy Christmas. I turned the radio off. It was either that, or reach down the radio and rip his heart out.
With the radio off, the roar of the heater filled the car; it was doing its best to take the edge off the cold and mostly failing. The best you could say was that it was probably warmer inside the car than out. Any normal man would have known better than to be out in conditions like this, but I’ve never been a normal man.
I clung grimly on to the steering wheel and kept my foot down hard on the accelerator. Because I was determined to reach remote Belcourt Manor, even if I had to drive through hell itself to get there.
My first meeting with the man who called himself the Colonel was almost fifteen years ago now. In one of the better bars, in one of the better hotels in London. Full of well-dressed people, looking very prosperous. Lots of friendly chatter, none of it aimed at me. I didn’t want to talk to anyone, and they could tell. I was just hiding out in the middle of a crowd, trying to figure out how best to disappear from the bar and the hotel without paying my bill. I couldn’t risk using any of my credit cards, with any of my current names, for fear of attracting attention. And I was going to need what cash I had on me.
I hadn’t made up my mind where I was going yet, preferably some small and understanding country, with pleasant weather and no interest in extradition treaties, and a flexible attitude towards people who just wanted to be left alone. There used to be a lot of places like that, when I was starting out, but the world is a shrinking place, these days.
The Colonel appeared out of nowhere. Just sat down beside me at the bar and fixed me with a cheerful smile. I looked steadily back at him. There aren’t many people who can sneak up on me. I’m really very hard to surprise.
He nodded briefly to me. “Hello, Ishmael,” he said. “I’m the Colonel. I’m here to offer you a job, or perhaps, more properly, a position.”
“Not many people know me by that name,” I said. “And most of them are dead.”
“I think that says more about you than anything else,” said the Colonel.
I looked him over, taking my time. He was a big man, just hitting thirty. Broad shoulders, powerfully built, holding himself with easy confidence and a practised casualness. Sharp features, piercing cold blue eyes, a quick and mostly meaningless smile. An expensively tailored suit, though he wore it like a uniform. And perhaps, for him, it was. The closely cropped blond hair and severely trimmed moustache suggested a military background. Or, at least, ex-military. He looked like a man who’d had blood on his hands, in his time.
He ordered a single malt whiskey, with water in a separate glass, and the bartender jumped to obey. The Colonel had that kind of voice. He raised an eyebrow at my empty glass, so I seized the opportunity for a double brandy. Alcohol has no effect on me, but I’ve learned to enjoy the taste. The Colonel and I just sat and looked at each other until our drinks arrived, like two fighters in a ring checking each other out before the bell rings. The drinks arrived, and we toasted each other, and drank.
“So,” I said. “You’re not here to kill me?”
“No,” said the Colonel. “Or you’d be dead by now.”
“Then you can buy me as many drinks as you like,” I said. “And as long as you keep on buying, I’ll sit here and listen.”
The Colonel dropped a generous bribe in front of the barman and gestured for him to disappear for a while. The bartender made the money vanish, and then made himself scarce. Several people trying to order a drink raised their voices in protest. The Colonel looked at them, and they went away too. And they hadn’t even noticed the Colonel’s concealed gun. I’d spotted it the moment he sat down. I wasn’t worried. I have secrets of my own.
The Colonel looked me over, like a racehorse he was thinking of buying, or at the very least, placing a decent-sized bet on. “I have heard, my dear Ishmael, that you are no longer working for Black Heir.”
“Not many people know me by that name,” I said. “And even fewer have heard of that very secret organization. Heard, you say? From whom?”
“Word gets around,” the Colonel said easily. “Especially in our line of work. Secret agents gossip like teenage girls, just because they know they shouldn’t.”
“You do know what Black Heir does?” I said.
“The United Kingdom’s very own department for alien affairs,” said the Colonel. He sipped carefully at his drink, as though it might surprise him. “Real aliens, that is. Visitors from Beyond, and all that. They will keep coming here, even if no one on Earth knows why. Someone has to clean up the mess they leave behind and cover up the damage when things get out of hand. The general public is much better off not knowing who and what walks among them, unseen. I was given to understand that you had a really good track record at Black Heir. A real gift for tracking down those who had gone . . . off reservation. And for keeping a lid on things, with a deft and only occasionally violent hand. So I have to ask, why did you walk out on them, Ishmael?”
“I don’t approve of their new direction,” I said steadily. “Someone higher up the political food chain decided that the old ways, of containment and observation and handing out the occasional spanking, just wasn’t good enough. So from now on, official policy is: kill the aliens. Friend and foe and everything in between. Then dissect their bodies and steal all their belongings. I told them this was a bad idea, and they told me to shut up and do as I was told. They should have known better.”
“Too tender-hearted?” said the Colonel.
“I don’t believe in making unnecessary enemies,” I said.
“What a very sensible attitude!” said the Colonel. “Why can’t we all just get along, eh?” He gave me a thoughtful look. “I have to tell you that the current directors of Black Heir are very unhappy with you. They really don’t like it when one of their own goes walkabout. Especially given all the things you know, and all the things you’ve done.”
“I know there are people looking for me, with bad intent,” I said. “I’m safe enough here. Black Heir won’t risk trying anything in plain sight. Because they know it would get messy. My leaving shouldn’t have come as much of a surprise. I did make my feelings perfectly clear. I won’t kill something just because it’s different. Whatever name I use, and whoever I work for, there’s always a line I won’t cross.”
“So I understand,” said the Colonel. “You’ve worked for a great many subterranean organizations, down the years.”
“You don’t know that,” I said. “You’re just guessing.”
“Perhaps. But these are educated, informed guesses. Come and work for me, Ishmael. I could use a man like you.”
I smiled. “There are no men like me.”
“Exactly!” said the Colonel. “That’s why I want you.”
“To do what?” I said bluntly.
“To search out secrets, investigate mysteries, and shine a light into dark places. And, now and again, punish the guilty that no one else can touch. Pour encourager les autres. I know, dear boy, sounds almost too good to be true, doesn’t it?”
“Most things that sound too good to be true usually are too good to be true,” I said, meeting his guileless gaze with one of my own. “What if you and I were to have a difference of opinion, at some point, over whether something really needed doing. Or whether someone really needed killing. What then, oh my Colonel?”
He shrugged easily. “On every occasion, I will see to it that you are provided with all the information you need to do the job. I will never ask you to do anything you’re not happy with. I represent a large Organization, with a great many agents. I always make it a point to fit the right man to the right mission.”
“But why me?” I said. “Why do you want me?”
“You have qualities I admire,” said the Colonel. And that was that.
“I don’t know you, Colonel,” I said. “Which is odd because there aren’t many in our line of work I haven’t at least heard of. I have made it my business to know who’s out there. So who are you really? Who pulls your strings? Who do you answer to?”
“I am the Colonel, and I represent the Organization. That is all you’ll ever need to know. Safer that way, for all concerned.”
I looked into my glass and was surprised to find it empty. “What makes you think you know anything about me, Colonel? The real me?”
“What does anyone really know about anyone else?” said the Colonel. “I have followed your career with great interest, for some time. From a safe distance.”
“No one was ever supposed to know what I do,” I said. “No matter who I was working for. That was always part of the deal.”
“You’ve done very well at being invisible,” the Colonel conceded. “Always been very good at moving unseen, in the darker places of the world. I like that. I can use that.”
I gave him my best hard look. “What’s the catch?”
To his credit, he didn’t budge an inch. And I’ve made grown men wet themselves with my hard look. He just smiled calmly back at me.
“If you say yes, you belong to me and my Organization, until I say you can leave. Is that acceptable to you?”
“Of course,” I said.
We both knew he knew I was lying, but we raised our drinks and toasted each other anyway. Because that’s how deals are made, in our line of business. And so I worked for the Colonel, and whatever his Organization was, for almost fifteen years.
I did good work for him. On his order, I broke into places that didn’t officially exist, to steal information that powerful people didn’t want to admit existed, and then I made it public for everyone to see. I travelled all over the world, passing through dozens of countries under dozens of names, from the biggest cities to towns so small that they didn’t even show up on the maps. I investigated strange situations and impossible stories, and did things about them. Always moving under the radar, never making waves. I drove on the dark side of the road, in the darker places of the world, dealing with people and things that the world was better off without. Sometimes, I killed people. And sometimes I killed things that weren’t even a little bit people.
And I never felt bad about it once.
I followed my satnav’s directions through the blizzard, hoping it knew where it was going because I’d lost all sense of where I was. The machine spoke to me in cool impersonal tones, which I preferred to any of the current celebrity voices. I’ve never liked machines that pretend to have personalities. Technology should know its place. Actually, the thing hadn’t talked to me in some time, because there weren’t any side turnings. I hoped it was still working.
On the brief occasions when the wind did drop, presumably to work up more spite and malevolence to throw at me, all I could see ahead and around me was snow and more snow, stretching away into the grey distance. Not a living thing to be seen anywhere.
The last village I’d passed through, half an hour back, had been two rows of dark-stoned houses, crouched together for warmth and support. Dim lights glowed from curtained windows, while people hid from the killing force of the cold and the deadly violence of the storm. I could have stopped, if only to check my location and maybe grab some hot food and drink . . . but I couldn’t shake off a terrible sense of urgency. The Colonel never asked for personal favours. He just didn’t. So I drove on, into the snow and the wind and the storm, fighting the car as it did its best to slam me into snow banks, or send me spinning out of control as it skidded round a corner.
The satnav finally condescended to point out a non-signposted side road that I’d never have spotted without its advance warning. I hit the brakes, but they didn’t want to know, so I just waited till the last moment and then hauled the steering wheel all the way round. I hung on grimly as the car threw itself into the side road. The wheel fought me savagely, and I fought it back, holding it firmly in position even as the steering column made ominous, unhappy noises. For long moments the car just slid sideways, none of the tyres able to gain any traction . . . and then suddenly they found gravel underneath the snow and dug in, and the car leapt forward.
The falling snow let off for just a moment, so I could see the narrow side road stretching away before me, bounded by two low drystone walls that had all but vanished under piled-up drifts. I drove on, bouncing and shaking over snow and hidden ice. I’d had the headlights on for some time, but they didn’t help much. The windscreen wipers . . . were doing their best. I almost missed it when the road came to a sudden end. I could just make out a tall stone boundary wall up ahead of me, stretching away in both directions until it disappeared into the storm. And right in front of me, getting closer by the moment, a pair of massive black iron gates. Very firmly closed.
I hit the brakes and the clutch, slamming both feet down hard, and the car shook and shuddered as it slowed. The gates loomed up before me. I really hoped I was going to be able to stop in time. Marking my arrival at Belcourt Manor by crashing through their front gates would not make a good first impression. But the car skidded to a halt two or maybe even three feet short of the huge iron gates, and I kicked the car out of gear, hauled on the hand brake, and then just sat there for a while, breathing hard. I took my hands off the steering wheel and opened and closed them several times, till I got the knots out. I’d been clinging on to that wheel for so long that I almost didn’t know what to do with my hands any more.
The old stone walls on either side of the gates were rough and bare and featureless. Surrounding the family estate, presumably. They looked like they could keep out most things. The gates had no decorations, no stylistic flourishes. Just brutal uprights and heavy cross bars. I probably wouldn’t have crashed through them after all. Just totalled the car. Not that I cared. It was only a rental. I looked for a sign plate somewhere, to confirm this was Belcourt Manor, but there didn’t seem to be one. Presumably you either knew where you were, or you had no reason being here. The satnav chose that moment to announce You have reached your destination in a very smug tone, so I shut it off. I studied the gates through the falling snow and could just make out a numbered keypad and an intercom grille, tucked neatly away in a niche in one of the stone gateposts. I sat and looked at the niche for a while.
The Colonel hadn’t provided me with an entrance code for the keypad, presumably because he didn’t trust an open phone. But I really didn’t want to get out of my nice warm car. I sounded the horn several times, but even to me the sound seemed small and pathetic in the face of the raging wind. There was no response from beyond the gates. So I sighed heavily, pulled my coat around me, and pushed the car door open.
That took rather more strength than I expected. Ice had built up all across the outside of the car, sealing the door shut. And even after I got the thing open, through a winning combination of brute strength and bad temper, the roaring wind just slammed it shut again, hitting the door like a battering ram. Unfortunately for the wind, I was in no mood to be messed with, so I just put my shoulder to the door and forced it open again.
I clambered out of the car, one careful movement at a time because I didn’t trust the snow and ice under my feet, and made myself stand upright in the storm. The cold cut at my bare face like a knife, and the freezing air seared my lungs as I breathed it in. The wind snatched the car door out of my hand, and slammed it shut again. I lowered my head, hunched my shoulders, and headed for the iron gates. One step at a time. My shoes sank deep into the piled-up snow, and it was hard work pulling them out again. The gusting wind hit me hard, slamming me this way and that with a bully’s enthusiasm. I just kept moving. The cold and storm might have stopped anyone else, but it wasn’t going to stop me.
I reached the niche in the gatepost, brushed away some of the blown-in snow, and then hit the call button and yelled into the intercom. I said my name loudly, several times, and added a few shouted Hellos! for good measure. There was a long pause, while snow accumulated on my head and shoulders, and then a far-off voice emerged from the grille. It sounded frankly astonished that there was anyone there.
“Hello?” it said. “Who is this?”
“Ishmael Jones!” I shouted back, fighting to be heard over the roar of the wind. “I’m expected!”
“Yes! Yes you are!” said the voice. “Of course you are! We just didn’t expect anyone to . . . I’ll open the gates!”
I refrained from saying a great many things and went back to the car. Getting the door open from the outside proved even more difficult, but I wasn’t taking any nonsense from the car now I was so close to warmth and shelter. I put one foot up against the rear door, hauled the driver’s door open and dived back inside. I had to clear the inside of the windscreen with my coat sleeve before I could see out again. I revved the engine a few times, and then edged the car forward as the gates swung slowly open. I urged the car on. The engine was making sounds I didn’t like, and I wasn’t sure how much longer the thing would last.
I’d barely got the car through the gates before they started swinging shut again. Someone at the Manor really wasn’t keen on letting in unexpected visitors. I made a mental note to learn the correct numbers for the entrance keypad, first chance I got. I hate feeling trapped. Though the stone wall that surrounded the estate was barely ten feet high; I could jump that, if I had to.
I drove on, following the gently curving drive. An old-fashioned manor house loomed out of the falling snow ahead of me, along with several smaller outbuildings. I skidded to a halt before the main house. Belcourt Manor was a huge structure, squat and square, centuries old. Only four stories high, but with a dozen windows along every floor. All of them currently concealed behind closed wooden shutters. Glints of light showed through cracks in the ground floor shutters. No lights on anywhere else. No gargoyles on the roof, and no arched gables, just basic functional guttering with icicles hanging off, and a sloping slate roof.
A medieval tithe barn stood to one side of the main house, all rough stone walls and an arching roof, while a long terrace of Victorian cottages huddled together on the far side. No lights on there, either.
Something caught my eye, and I looked quickly up at the top floor of the Manor. Had there just been a flash of light up there, as though someone had opened a shutter to look down at me? Someone interested in my arrival? I thought so. I watched for a while, but all the shutters seemed securely closed.
I looked around for a garage, or at least somewhere sheltered I could park my car, out of the storm, but there didn’t seem to be anything. Half a dozen large white objects set out before the Manor were quite clearly parked cars buried under quite a lot of snow. So I just manoeuvred my car carefully between the still white shapes and parked as close to the front door as I could get. And then I sat there a little longer, peering out at the falling snow. What was I doing here? This didn’t feel like the kind of job the Colonel usually needed me for. Something about this whole set-up didn’t feel right . . . There had been something in the Colonel’s voice, something I wasn’t used to hearing from him. If I hadn’t known better, I would have said he was scared . . .
So the sooner I got inside, got the Colonel alone, and got some answers out of him, the better. I grabbed my battered suitcase from the passenger seat, forced the car door open again, and ventured out into the snow one last time. The wind had dropped away to nothing, not even murmuring; the falling snow just drifted down, casually, almost listlessly. It was like standing in the eye of the storm. I looked past the long row of cottages and could just make out acres of grounds, with cultivated flower beds, trees and hedges, and a whole bunch of sculpted topiary shapes already losing the details of their identity under piled up snow. It probably all looked very impressive, when the weather was behaving itself.
I trudged through the thick snow to the front door, my shoes sinking in deep with every step, making loud crunching sounds. It was really very cold, but I’d faced worse, in my time. And then, when I finally stood before the front door, I discovered there was no bell button. Not even an old-fashioned pull-chain. Just a single great black iron knocker, in the shape of a snarling lion’s head with a ring in its jaws. I took a firm hold of the ring and banged it hard. I don’t feel the cold like most people, but this was a serious storm. Winter with attitude. Enough to affect even me, maybe, if I stayed out in it long enough. So I banged the knocker again, putting some power into it. The people inside had to have heard. They could probably hear it on the moon. The huge door swung suddenly open, and I barged on in without waiting for an invitation.
A blast of warmth embraced me like a favourite aunt, and I stopped dead in the hallway to let out a long, contented sigh. I dropped my suitcase on the heavily carpeted floor and stretched slowly, getting the kinks out. Clumps of snow fell off my coat, to melt and soak into the expensive carpet. Like I cared. The door slammed shut behind me, and a huge overbearing gentleman in a formal butler’s outfit came forward to tower over me. He was exceedingly tall, with a muscular build, and he was also quite indisputably black, with a gleaming shaven head. He held himself sternly erect, the better to look down his nose at me. I let him look as I beat the rest of the snow from my clothes and stamped hard to shake the ice off my shoes. It felt good to be out of the storm and inside somewhere civilized. I shook myself hard, and just like that the cold was gone from my bones, and I was toasty warm and entirely comfortable. The butler watched me dripping snow all over everything, clearly considering whether he should just throw me back out. I smiled at him brightly, and he nodded briefly.
I could see he had a great many things he wanted to ask, so I let him wait. Never show weakness; they take advantage. Instead, I took my time looking around the long entrance hall of Belcourt Manor. It was huge, and determinedly old-fashioned, with no expense spared. The walls were covered with portraits of grim-faced people, presumably family ancestors, along with traditional country scenes in a variety of undemanding and unadventurous styles. The furniture was large and sturdy, undoubtedly antique, and all of it dusted and polished to within an inch of its life. The hall was also just a bit gloomy, despite everything modern electric lighting could do. Doors led off on both sides, the entire length of the hall—which stretched away into the distance before ending reluctantly in a great sweeping stairway, with stout wooden banisters. I must have seen a larger entrance hall somewhere, but I was damned if I could think where. I’d lived in hotel suites that were smaller. So of course I made a point of appearing entirely unimpressed, as though this was all business as usual, to me. I nodded back to the butler.
“I am Ishmael Jones,” I said. “I’m expected.”
“Of course you are, sir,” said the butler, in a rich cultured voice. “I am Jeeves, butler to Walter Belcourt, master of Belcourt Manor.”
“Of course you are,” I said.
“The most recent weather reports would seem to indicate you are very lucky to have reached us at all,” said Jeeves. “The storm is growing worse by the moment, covering all of Cornwall and Devon, and most of South-West England. It seems likely that in a few hours the blizzard will have sealed the manor house off completely from the rest of the world.”
There was something in his voice, and his look, which suggested very politely that I was a damned fool for trying to drive through such extreme conditions in the first place.
“I’m stubborn,” I said. “I don’t take no for an answer.”
“Indeed, sir,” said Jeeves. “Make I take your coat, sir?”
I peeled off my heavy coat. Melting snow had soaked through to the lining, even in the short time I’d been exposed to the storm. Water dripped from the bottom of the coat like a leaky tap. Jeeves took my coat from me and held it out at arm’s length, between thumb and forefinger, as though he didn’t want to catch anything from it. I gave him a hard look.
“Take good care of that coat, Jeeves. I have had it a long time, and I am very attached to it. That coat has travelled with me through many adventures, in many wild territories.”
“I did get that impression, sir,” said Jeeves. “I have rarely encountered an article of clothing that appeared so . . . hard done by.”
“So treat it respectfully,” I said. “Or I’ll set fire to your shirt-front.”
“Of course, sir,” said Jeeves. “I shall find somewhere appropriate to hang it up. Somewhere it won’t feel crushed by the proximity of other coats of a less boisterous nature.” He then looked down his nose at my suitcase, which had also, it must be said, seen better days. Jeeves made no move to pick it up. “Do you wish me to fetch your other bags from your car, sir?”
“No,” I said. “That’s all there is. Travel light, travel fast.”
“Indeed, sir. You must positively skip along. Not to worry, sir. I am sure we can supply you with everything you might need, during your stay here.”
“Is Jeeves really your name?” I said, bluntly.
“No, sir,” said the butler. “But for the money Mister Belcourt is paying me, if he wishes to call me Jeeves, I am perfectly happy to answer to that illustrious name. Though I feel I should point out that I do not mix cocktails or provide helpful advice to those who find themselves in a bit of a pickle, and neither do I untangle emotional difficulties. I just buttle.”
“Have you always been a gentleman’s gentleman?”
“No, sir. I have led a wide, interesting and most satisfying life.”
“Only I couldn’t help noticing the gun concealed in a holster at your back,” I said. “And the knife in a sheath up your left sleeve. And the powder burns on your shirt cuff, indicating you fired a gun recently.”
Jeeves looked at me for a moment. “You can see all that, sir?”
“I’ve been around too,” I said.
“A butler’s responsibilities are many, sir,” said Jeeves. “If you’d like to wait here while I take care of your coat, I’ll take you in to see Mister Belcourt. He was most insistent that he wished to speak with you, the moment you arrived.”
“I’m more interested in speaking with the Colonel,” I said. “He is why I’m here, after all.”
“Ah,” said Jeeves. “Mister James Belcourt.”
I raised an eyebrow, despite myself. “James?”
“Yes, sir. Eldest child to Walter Belcourt.”
“The Colonel . . . is James Belcourt,” I said. “Well. I never knew. This is his family home?”
“Yes, sir. He arrived late yesterday evening.”
“And where is he right now?”
“I really couldn’t say, sir. I’m sure he’s around, somewhere.”
I was actually shocked to discover the Colonel’s real name so casually. In all the years I’d worked for him, I’d only ever addressed him by his rank. He never once discussed his life outside our working relationship. And as long as he never asked me anything, I never asked him anything. Some things are all the more binding, for being left unsaid. And then I looked round sharply as a harsh commanding voice barked my name. The master of the house, and of the family, was striding down the hall towards me. I’d known he was there for a while, but it had seemed only polite to wait until he made his presence known.
“Thought it had to be you!” Walter Belcourt said cheerfully, in a loud and carrying voice. “Heard voices in the hall, thought: that must be our impetuous young guest. Ishmael Jones, how do you do!”
The old man stomped steadily down the hall, leaning heavily on a plain wooden walking stick. A good-looking woman edging reluctantly into her forties moved smoothly along at his side. Walter Belcourt looked to be well into his seventies, but he seemed sharp and hale enough, despite resembling nothing so much as a stooped and fiery-eyed vulture. Once a large man, he was now much reduced, all bone and gristle, with a face that had fallen in on itself. He was mostly bald, with a few tufts of flyaway white hair. His blue eyes were still sharp and knowing. His bristly white moustache reminded me irresistibly of the Colonel’s. Walter wore a country squire’s tweed suit, with tall woolly socks and heavy footwear, for long walks in the countryside. He finally slammed to a halt before me, took a moment to get his breath back, and then smiled briskly. He thrust out a hand and shook mine firmly. Just to make it clear who was the boss in Belcourt Manor.
“Any friend of James is always welcome at the Manor!” he said cheerfully. “Come far, did you?”
“I drove down from London,” I said. “Made pretty good time, allowing for the weather.”
“Good God, man,” said Walter, honestly taken aback. He looked shocked and a little impressed. “You drove . . . all that way?”
“In this weather?” said the woman at his side. Walter ignored her.
“The Colonel seemed to think it important I get here as soon as possible,” I said. “And I always do what the Colonel says.”
Walter let loose a quick bark of laughter and nodded quickly. “The Colonel. Yes . . . James always did prefer to be addressed by his rank. Even if he won’t tell me what it is he actually does. Won’t even say which regiment he’s a part of . . . Still! None of my business, I suppose. Security, and all that . . . Yes . . . Glad to have you here, Ishmael! Just a family Christmas gathering, nothing too formal. Just good food, good drink, and better company! Eh?”
“Such a pity James could never find the time to join us for Christmas before,” said the woman at his side. “How many years has it been, dear?”
“Now, Mel,” growled Walter. “You know how busy the boy is . . .” He fixed me with his fierce gaze again. “You work for my son . . . In the military?”
“I work for him,” I said. “And I think that’s all I’m allowed to say. You know how it is.”
Walter grinned suddenly and actually winked at me roguishly. “Military intelligence, right? Couldn’t tell me anything if you wanted to. I get it, I get it. Probably why James is still just a Colonel, after all these years . . . But then, he always knew what he wanted out of life. What mattered to him, and what didn’t. Always went his own way, that boy!”
I nodded respectfully. It was hard to think of the Colonel as a boy, after all the years I’d known him.
“He hasn’t been back to visit his old home in . . . I don’t know how long,” said Walter, frowning. His gaze softened, became suddenly doubtful, lost in the past. He looked at me vaguely, as though he’d forgotten why he was talking to me. “What . . . what was I saying?”
The woman at his side slipped an arm firmly through his. “You were just telling Mister Jones here how pleased you are that James has come home for Christmas, this year.”
“Of course!” said Walter, his gaze immediately snapping back into focus. “Of course I was! Where is that boy? Arrived late last night, straight to bed, didn’t even join us for breakfast . . . Where has he got to?”
“I’m sure he’s around, somewhere,” said the woman. She squeezed his arm, meaningfully.
“Ah! Yes! Allow me to present to you my wife Melanie!” said Walter. “Don’t know what I’d do without her. This is Ishmael Jones, dear.”
“I know, Walter,” said Melanie. She bestowed a welcoming smile on me and gave me the tips of her fingers to shake.
Melanie was very blonde, very trim, utterly assured, and good-looking in a characterless way. Up close, I could see she was well into her forties, though she dressed younger. Fashionable enough, and entirely undeterred by expense. She also wore strings of pearls round her neck and diamond earrings so heavy that they brushed against her shoulders. I could see signs of surgical improvement, in her face and in her neck.
“I’m Walter’s second wife,” said Melanie. And given the difference in age between the two of them, the words trophy wife drifted across my mind. Melanie considered me thoughtfully, frowning just a little, as she realized my details didn’t add up to any kind of man she was familiar with.
“Ishmael Jones . . .” she said finally. “What an unusual name.”
“I like it,” I said. “I chose it out of thousands. I didn’t like the others. They were all too ordinary.”
Melanie nodded vaguely, suspecting a joke had just gone over her head, but not ready to admit it.
Walter stepped quickly in. “We’d almost given up on you, Ishmael. What with the weather, and all. Beastly stuff. I mean, we all like a little snow at Christmas, for the festivities, but this is beyond a joke, eh? Eh?”
“Yes, dear,” said Melanie.
“Still, James was certain you’d be here,” said Walter. “Now, what are we all standing around in the hall for? Big fire in the drawing room, to warm a traveller’s bones, and a hot toddy, to warm the inner man. That’s what you need. Come along! Jeeves . . . Jeeves! Where is the fellow?”
“Here, sir,” said the butler, hurrying down the hall to join us. I’d spotted him sneaking away with my coat and suitcase, while I was talking with Walter. Jeeves bowed briefly, to Walter. “I have placed Mister Jones’ bag in the Rose Room, sir. I trust that is acceptable.”
“Fine, fine,” said Walter. “Just the one bag, Ishmael? Never mind. Jeeves can rustle up anything you need. He’s in charge of everything practical round here. Aren’t you, Jeeves?”
“Of course, sir.”
“What is it exactly that you do, Mister Jones?” said Melanie.
“I work for the Colonel,” I said.
“Yes,” said Melanie, drawing out the word till it sounded more like no. “I got that. But what do you do for him, exactly?”
“Whatever he asks me to,” I said. I met her challenging gaze steadily. “He asked me to join him here, so here I am.”
“But this isn’t work,” said Melanie, with the air of one scoring a point. “This is Christmas. A time of celebration.”
“I’m always working,” I said. “Wherever I am.”
“Don’t press the young man, Mel,” said Walter. “You know there are things he can’t talk about. Can I at least ask you, Ishmael, how long have you worked for my son?”
“Must be fifteen years now,” I said.
“But you’re not even thirty yet!” said Melanie. “Did the Colonel take you straight out of school?”
“I’m older than I look,” I said. “But then, aren’t we all, these days?”
Melanie’s left hand went instinctively to her throat, where she’d had the most work done.
Walter plunged in, to fill the gap. “Must be more than fifteen years since James was last here for Christmas!” he said. “Good to have him back, of course, but . . . You probably know him better than I do these days, Ishmael . . .”
“The Colonel has always played his cards very close to his chest,” I said carefully. “He only ever tells me what he thinks I need to know, when I need to know it. But I would be happy to sit down with you, at some point, and share my experiences of the Colonel with you.”
“Yes,” said Walter. “Yes, I’d like that.”
“My daughter is here too,” said Melanie. “Penelope. Lovely girl. Almost indecently intelligent. The two of you should get on well together. I’m sure you’ll have lots in common.”
“Really?” I said. “That would make a change.”
“Penny! Yes!” Walter said cheerfully. “You’ll like her, Ishmael, everyone does. Now come along, do; come through into the drawing room and meet the others.”
He turned abruptly and strode off down the hall, his walking stick thudding loudly on the carpet, Melanie floating along at his side. Jeeves had already disappeared again, off about his business. I followed Walter and Melanie down the hallway, thinking: Others?