‘What? Oh, no, none. Well, there are the death threats, obviously. And the drudgery. And the years of running for our lives in strange countries. And the other death threats. And your complete inability to put on a corset without choking yourself. And being chased from my home by a dead man. Other than that, it’s been wonderful.’
‘Oh.’ She seemed genuinely dejected.
‘You goose!’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t have swapped it for the world. In fact you and Sir Roderick gave me the world.’
‘Thank you, pet. I couldn’t have done any of it without you. But I could really do without the being-pursued-by-a-dead-man part of it myself. He really is dead. I saw him.’
‘I did, too, my lady. Could Harry have made a mistake? Is it really him?’
‘We shall find out soon enough. Is this Reading?’
It was, indeed, Reading. We’d soon be at Paddington and Harry should be waiting for us. I’d not seen Harry for a few years and, despite the unnerving circumstances, I was rather looking forward to it. He had been in London when we first returned from India in 1901 and we had seen him often for the first six months. He had been the most excellent fun to be around but then he had been posted abroad somewhere (I never did find out where). He and his sister shared a mischievous sense of humour and a sideways view of the world which never failed to amuse me and I don’t remember ever having laughed so much as I had when the two of them got together. I didn’t imagine there would be a great deal of laughter this time, though.
The London suburbs seemed to stretch out much farther along the railway line than I remembered, which made the last part of the journey seem to crawl by. I felt that by the time we reached the built-up areas we should be just moments from our destination, but it took an absolute age before we were finally drawing into Brunel’s magnificent Paddington Station.
With only a single bag each, we had no need of a porter and we were already making our way hastily down the platform while others were still gathering their traps. I had had an eye open for pursuit since we boarded the branch line train at Chipping Bevington, but there had been no obvious signs there, nor at Bristol Temple Meads. If anyone had boarded the train between there and London I judged they would have been among the first to alight and would now be loitering on the platform so as to catch sight of us. But there were no obvious candidates and everyone I saw was simply going about their business, completely oblivious to the two women heading towards the station concourse, carrying their own bags.
Harry was waiting for us next to W H Smith, exactly as planned. If you were casting the role of Dashing Spy for a play, you’d pick Harry. Tall, as dark-haired as his sister, and with a way of carrying himself which somehow conveyed authority. He also had a smile which could brighten anyone’s day and he turned it upon us as we approached.
‘What ho, Emily,’ he said, reaching out to take her bag. ‘You found the place all right?’
‘Yes, dear,’ she said. ‘Apparently the train drivers all know the way. It’s as though they come straight here.’
‘Good-oh. Oh lord, I see you brought that blessed servant again. I thought you said you were going to get rid of her.’
‘Good afternoon, Mr Featherstonhaugh,’ I said, with a curtsey. I made my usual point of mispronouncing it as “Featherston-huff” which in turn drew his usual raised eyebrow and rueful smile.
‘It’s “Fanshaw”, you silly girl, as you very well know,’ he said, indulgently playing along. ‘And how are you, Miss Strong-Arm? Beaten up any sailors lately?’
‘No sailors, sir, no. A couple of civil servants who got too lippy, but no sailors.’
He laughed and motioned for us to follow him.
‘Let’s get a cab,’ he said. ‘Not too keen on hanging about in the open just now.’
As we walked, I said, ‘But I thought you told us Ehrlichmann was on his way to Bristol.’
‘And so he is, dear girl, but friend Ehrlichmann is not a “lone wolf”, as they say. He is – or at least was – an agent of the Imperial German government and they, let me tell you, have people absolutely everywhere these days. We’ve got our eye on most of them, but you never know. Better to be safe than sorry.’
There were three motor taxis waiting on Carriage Road in the station and Harry ushered us into the first. He gave the driver an address in St John’s Wood and we set off.
Harry’s flat was on the third floor of a mansion building and once we were inside, he took a careful look out of the window at the street below. He seemed satisfied and at last seemed to relax. He asked if we’d like some tea and ambled out to the kitchen. I offered to do it, but he would have none of it.
‘It’s a fine state of affairs when a chap is incapable of making a simple pot of tea for his guests,’ he said.
Lady Hardcastle had been examining the books on the shelf. She seemed to be still on edge, but she, too, was calming down a little now that she was back on familiar territory and in the company of someone who had some power to help.
‘So you’re still refusing to hire a valet?’ she said as she settled into one of the armchairs.
‘There’s a woman who comes in a couple of times a week and runs a duster over the place,’ he said, coming back in from the kitchen with a tray. ‘But it’s too much of a fag to go through all the hiring business. Will I like him? Will he keep out of the way? Will he be discreet? And then I might find that no matter how useless and annoying he is, I can’t get rid of the blighter.’ He winked at me and set the tray on a low table in the centre of the room.
‘I know how you feel, dear. I mean look at me,’ she said, pouring the tea. ‘I hired this one fourteen years ago and I’m still stuck with her.’
‘I can hear you, you know,’ I said.
‘And they’re always earwigging,’ said Harry.
I harrumphed and sipped my tea.
‘Tell me, darling,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘What are your Foreign Office sources saying about this chap? This supposed Ehrlichmann. The real one really is dead. It was all in my statement. Even the German government confirmed it.’
‘I’ve not seen him myself, Sis, but I trust the chaps that have. Chaps that encountered him in the ’90s have reported seeing him large as life.’
‘What do Customs say? What’s on his passport?’
‘We’ve had a watch on him, but obviously he’s not using his own name. His passport says he’s Hans Schneider, a salesman from Düsseldorf.’
‘This is all most perplexing,’ she said.
They began discussing all sorts of increasingly fanciful explanations for his reappearance but my mind began to wander.