The Last Testament: A Rion Cross Mystery Thriller

9781483543499

Prologue – AD33

And it came to pass that on the eve of the crucifixion, an Angel was sent to them. They were confused and afraid. One of their numbers had already betrayed the Master who was then arrested by the Romans, imprisoned, tried and found guilty. His sentence was death. They had expected their God, the one true God, to inflict deadly retribution on those responsible. When He seemed to have taken no such action, doubts beset them and their faith was sorely tested. This was beyond their understanding and some amongst them were harbouring doubts about the deity of their leader. If he truly were the son of God, would not the father wreak vengeance upon those who had persecuted him?

The angel arrived in the midst of their distress. Aroused by the mewing and baying of their animals, they found him amongst the heaps of straw strewn upon the barn floor. It appeared to them that he was much exhausted by his long journey from Heaven and he slept heavily. Or was he in a holy trance? They wondered at the size of his body and the angelic pallor of his face. He seemed calm and in a state of grace. They gently carried him into their humble dwelling, divested him of his unfamiliar adornments, and then undressed him of his peculiar garbs. They gathered around and looked in awe at his perfection. Truly God had sent this creature. From his neck hung a strange symbol, which lay over his heart.

'It's a sign,' said one.

'From the Father,' said another.

'It is the shape of a cross.'

‘But a strange one indeed.’

'Strange, my brother, because it comes from the father himself and is for our eyes only,’ said their wisest. ‘It has been sent to us to be the symbol of our faith. Praise be to The Lord. He has sent it by this angel. Our mission will be to spread the words of the Jesu far and wide. This we already know from his teaching. But now each who acknowledges him as their saviour will accept this cross as the sign of their fidelity.

They gently bathed then anointed his body with their sacred unctions then redressed him as he had arrived. After time had passed he awakened, at first speaking in tongues, then falling silent in contemplation. They had now covered him in one of their own hessian smocks and placed sandals upon his feet. He now looked like one of them – and that was their desire. If he were to be discovered as an angel he would be instantly arrested. They took him to their table and bade him share their bread and wine with them. He sat, saying little, acknowledging nothing. A flash of understanding crossed his features at the mention of Jesu, their leader.

The Centurion and his men arrived before they had completed the meal and, in a language that only the Angel seemed to understand, read aloud from a papyrus scroll. He announced arrogantly that all there were to be imprisoned until after the crucifixion of their master. All twelve were roughly bundled into a barred wagon and taken on the journey to the stronghold of Pontius Pilate, their commander.

These Roman soldiers were professional, experienced and had served the City State on many fronts. In their campaigns they had come across many strange people and things. Their training had taught them how to act and fight as a group, and in their minds they were invincible against any opponent. Nothing and no one frightened them. No situation overawed them. But one of these disciples did bother them. He was huge by any of their standards – even Roman; he seemed to understand their language while the others did not; and he was number twelve while they were sent only for eleven - all of whom they knew by name. His they did not.

'Take him anyway,' commanded the Centurion. ‘Pilate will know what to do with him.’

Chapter 1 - Rion Cross

My name is Rion Cross, a captain in the British Army and I am mentally deranged – or so some might have me believe.

I have a story, which I can tell only from my perspective. There is more, much more, to which I’m not a party. You might find that what follows lacks any credibility. I don’t blame you – because it is truly implausible. I can only say that the train of events are as real to me today as when they happened - or seemed to happen? And I promise you that I am not lying or fabricating any of it.

Prior to this moment I have been under intense psychiatric evaluation, counselling, and more to the point, interrogation for just short of two months. Nothing has happened during that period to change my outlook or my memories.

I have to admit that during my in initial debriefing, I was sorely tempted to fictionalise my entire report and avoid the inevitable questioning of my sanity – or loyalty. I realised what would happen if I told the truth and the whole truth. But lies are hard to fabricate and sustain. So I told it as I saw it. I could see no other realistic option than to run with my memories and hope that there might be some logical explanation that would reveal itself during the interrogation process.

Now events have unfolded which have been dark and nasty. Revelations have beset me which have defied understanding, and perplexing mysteries have resurrected themselves from the depths of time that are only just starting to unravel.

For me, at least, the nightmare started in Syria.

Chapter 2 - Syria

The stripped-out Chinook is not the most comfortable way to fly. The interior is sparse to say the least; no seats just floor; no cabin service; no in flight entertainment. The flying machine is emptied back to the metal so that it can accommodate its one and only luxury; fuel; fuel enough to get us there and then our pilots back. The noise of the two rotors is deafening even with your noise-cancelling earmuffs on. The power and heat generated by the two jet engines that power them is frightening. It has been compared to sitting in a metal hut being bombarded with volleys of bolts. It is smelly and dirty. In fact, if you had been asked to design the most undesirable method of travel, you’d have eventually come up with a Chinook.

Sitting, just as uncomfortably, on the alloy floor next to me were my mates, the four members of my squad. Titch Higgin, our Glasgow born ‘wireless op’ as they used to be known about a hundred years ago, was puffing merrily - and against orders - on a Peter Jackson that he had scummed from one of the Aussie troops. He was the smallest of our group – maybe because he started smoking when he was twelve. He got the nickname ‘Titch’ after some cartoon kid. He was, however, wiry like corded steel and could shift a load like the rest of us.

Billy Malloy, or Andre - his moniker after the huge wrestler Andre the Giant - was sleeping, head on chest, with his jaws still working on a long defunct stick of chewing gum. No one really knew where he came from, but suspicions were that he was running from something, and if the Regiment hadn’t taken him he’d be in the Foreign Legion by now. What we did know was that he had been a wild kid and his parents had stuck him in some Catholic seminary, I think in Dublin. He had scarpered from that and had then come to the UK. He was a loyal buddy to the point of being suicidally stupid. Titch joked that we had Minimis to look after us in this world, and a Priest to look after us in the next.

John McCrae - Big John - an East End Londoner in spite of his name, was lovingly giving his Minimi a last cleaning caress, and Billy Jones, or Two as he was known because, you’ve guessed it, two Billy’s in the squad, was reading a Spiderman comic. No marks for guessing where Jonesy came from.

God was in his heaven and all was well with the world.

At that blissful moment I had no idea that the saga was about to start and that I was about to lose – physically lose- all four of my men, my mates, in the most bizarre circumstances. Oh yes, I’d return. But alone. And with that story no one would believe.

I wouldn't say that our mission was routine but I can say that I was pretty calm; no butterflies; no nerves; or no brain no pain? All that was to change soon enough.

The smoke from Titch’s breath disappeared in the swirling draft of our less than airtight cabin. ‘So what’s it really all about chief?’ he yelled over the din of the rotors."What didn’t the cluster-fucks tell us at the briefing?’

Titch was a career soldier and well experienced in the ‘need to know’ dispensation of information from the brass above.

‘We already know that a couple of days ago two Ghurkhas went missing on a UN patrol that was supposed to be routine; keeping an eye on the border,’ I shouted. Titch and the others knew much of this already from our briefing but it didn’t do any harm, now we were in the air, to fill them in with further detail. It would pass the time. With no head movement at all, one eye in Andre’s head flickered open with interest. He looked like that big film star Dwayne someoneorother - about to get into a fight, glancing under his steroidal eyebrows.

‘The careless dicks got themselves ambushed. Intel now has it they were whipped off by platoon-strength ISIS militia. We now have the exact location of their base camp. And hopefully we’re going to pay them a surprise visit.’

‘Any update on how many?’ asked Titch.

‘Nope! Only the original estimate from RISAT2 pics. About thirty.’

‘So we still outnumber them then,’ said Two with a note of irony. He knew we'd be in Shit Street if it came to one-on-one combat. But we'd not let it come to that. Would we?

‘We’ll be fine,’ I said.

‘So long as they don’t see us first. Eh, chief?’

‘Hard to Miss you, Two.’

‘Fat fuck,’ quipped Titch.

‘Fat fuck all,’ Two came back, ‘Pure muscle.’

‘Plenty of that in your head.’

‘Children, children!’ I interceded loudly. I pulled out a few late satellite photos and passed them to the boys. They were fairly detailed and of a cleared area in the scrub. It looked like a very small village with a town square. In the centre was a smallish stone dome.

I don’t know why.

It made me shudder.

Chapter 3 - Syria

I knew our Ghurkhas would be given a pretty harrowing interrogation. Once their captors felt there was nothing more to be gotten out of them, either because they weren’t talking, or because they were and had given all they knew, they would be summarily executed or taken from the camp, humiliated, and displayed somewhere public as morale boosting trophies. They’d be on the internet – probably headless – before you could say ‘bugger me dead’.

Either way, time was running out for them and it was imperative we get them out ASAP.

Our weaponry was pretty standard for a mission like this. Andre and Big John, by preference, and by size, carried Minimis. It’s one of those long light machine guns which you see in the American war movies being carried by the biggest of guys with belts of ammunition criss-crossed across his chest. It has awesome firepower and is brilliant at laying suppressing fire - pinning down the enemy - while the rest of us grunts finish them off.

That's what's supposed to happen.

Titch and Two both used F885 A5 rifles with M203 grenade launchers; good for close in, medium range, or finishing work. I had compromised by bringing a 300 Winchester magnum rifle modified by our armourer with a two inch longer barrel. This gave it an even increased accuracy. I still took shit from the others for my choice. But I always had a couple of other tricks up my sleeve – two twelve gauge sawn off barrels strapped to my right leg to be precise. The main reason for the sniper support was for covering fire. In open areas which might be dangerous, the sniper, me this time, would find a vantage point well behind and above the rest of the squad and ‘look after’ them should, say, an ambush occur. From my safe distance of up to a thousand yards, I’d pick the bastards off one by one. Or at least keep their heads down while the boys finished the job.

We were all expert marksmen and could hit what we were aiming at nine times out of ten - even under pressure. That was our jobs after all. To put that in perspective, when armed police response units come under fire their accuracy has been rated at eighteen percent. So we really are good. Self praise. Eh?

We also carried with us an assortment of grenades; smoke; stun and HE; a few Elsie antipersonnel mines, vicious bastards, the type you stand and it blows your balls off – if you have any. Two 66 shoulder launched rockets completed the armoury side of our inventory.

Our technical stuff comprised a PRC319 patrol radio and a Magellan global positioning do dah. We each carried a Bergen, a big back-pack, which was crammed with essential equipment: ammunition, water, food, medical stuff, high energy bars, and some medicinal brandy. In addition, we took some non-essential support equipment in kit bags and plastic containers. This was stuff like camouflage netting, dried tucker, batteries, spare ammo, gun cotton slabs and other sundry bits and pieces.

In this mission, including all of the above, we each carried a total dead weight somewhere in excess of two hundred pounds.

Now you know why ever second person in the Regiment has some kind of nickname with ‘big’ in it. They all are big. They all have to be.

Now there’s no way you can carry a load like that all the way on a mission, so you carry it to a pre determined position called a lying up point or LUP. This is your base camp where you sack most of the excessive baggage. From there you move into your objective carrying what you need depending on the distance of the target from the LUP. Usually you’ll take a packed Bergen until you reach striking distance from the target. This will be your forward ops base and where, chances are, you’ll stow the Bergen and stretch yourself. Unless, that is, you’re the most junior of the squad, in which case you’ll have to get a smokeless brew on - quick smart.

Now this is where the real problem started. We had to move in on an enemy whose exact strength and disposition were only hearsay. We had to establish where our targets were being held and, in the field, we had to figure a way of getting them out.

And with no casualties to our side.

Especially me.

We went over every aspect of what we knew - again and again. We knew that the ‘Smilers’ - that’s was our squad’s code name for them because in every shaky video the one thing we saw was smiling bad teeth - were poorly armed. There was no evidence that they possessed any type of weapons other than AK’s, a few WW2 stens and an assortment of huntin’ shootin’ and fishin’ guns. Now don’t get me wrong. Any bullet can kill just as well as any other and the last thing we would ever do is to underestimate our adversaries. The truth is that a gun is a killing weapon - any gun, any make. The other thing that we knew was that there were plenty of them; ISIS that is. So any advantage we had in terms of weaponry might be promptly negated by force of numbers. Their numbers.

We knew fairly exactly where they held our Ghurkhas. This was a great advantage to us because there was no need for us to search around once we were in position. We knew where we were heading. All we had to worry about was not getting fucking lost ourselves.

Hopefully Magellan would attend to our needs.

So, after due consideration of all the factors, or as many of them that our poor brains could figure, we nutted our plan. We’d go in by Chinook to the furthest safe dropping off point. This would be out with the detection zone of the Smilers so it would be quite a ways back from their camp. We’d then yomp with full equipment to the laying up point and stow what we could. We’d already worked out the timing and knew it would take at least five hours hard travel to get there so we’d have to rest there too. It would be night by the time we arrived so we figured that the opposition would be still a distance off and probably asleep, so they wouldn’t be a problem.

Our next target, first thing at first light, would be the forward operations base. That would be a hacking journey through semi-dense forest lasting around four hours. Allowing for unforeseen problems such as bloody rivers and gorges, we’d allow six hours for the journey, which would take us to midday. At the forward base we’d stow the rest of the non-essential equipment to lighten the Bergens and stuff other essentials into our belt kits.

Now would start the tricky bit.

In that part of the world we now had about five hours of daylight to perform our close target recce or CTR. Sounds like something you get in a hospital. Unfortunately it sometimes puts you in hospital.

In hospital if you’re lucky. In the ground if you’re not.

A CTR is when you find out where you are and have a look around, move in on your target and have another look around, try not to be detected, find out what you want to know, and get the hell away - and usually wonder why you came in the first place.

Now at this point the plan stops. It doesn’t break down. It stops. Only when you have assessed the info’ from the CTR can you figure out what you’re going to do next.

So let’s forget that bit. There’s still more! We now have to figure out how to get out. Assuming we’re in, got the good guys, and got out, there’s no reason now that the Chinook has to land at a safe distance. Safe, I mean, in terms of blowing our cover which will, by then, been blown anyway. No, now they can come in as close to us as is safe for them. Since we already had info’ that the Smilers had no surface to air, we reasoned that the extraction point could be pretty close. The terrain was the only problem. The Americans gave us a series of brilliant satellite ‘photos which indicated clear area only five clicks from the camp. This would be our emergency rendezvous, ERV.

If anything else came up, we’d wing it.

Now, by now you should be thinking that this is going to be one of those 'tell all' military exposes like Bravo Two Zero. And maybe you'll be about ready to leave me to do it all by myself.

Well you would be very wrong.

I am writing this bit so I can tell you how I came to lose all of my men. And I will. And you'll believe me. I'm sure of that, even if no one else does. But what happens after that is well and truly beyond belief and I can only ask you to hang on then make up your own mind.

Chapter 4 - Syria

The Chinook dropped us off in a wooded clearing exactly where we expected. It touched the ground lightly and remained there on power until it had disgorged our cargo and us onto the dust swirling ground. Titch and Two dispersed immediately into the surrounding bush to give us cover while Andre, Big John and myself remained with our cache until the twin rotored giant lifted, tilted, roared and beat off, skimming over the tree lined horizon. A moment passed and the agitated vegetation and swaying trees calmed themselves.

‘Clear here,’ Titch whispered into his SPR communicator as the chopper’s noise rapidly subsided.

‘Clear here,’ Two confirmed.

‘Seems OK,’ said Andre to me and I nodded assent, scratching the back of my neck as I examined our perimeter. I knew already it was a safe site and didn’t expect any trouble, but we always took the usual precautions.

We loaded up and set off for the LUP, which we reached in regulation time travelling through only sparse woodland. The only deviation to our anticipated plan was that some low clouds started to gather and by the time we were preparing to settle for the night the first heavy spots of rain started to fall. It was a nuisance, but having gone through the hell of Winter Selection, it was nothing. The temperature, even as the sun fell, remained in the low thirties and the humidity started to climb towards one hundred percent. We got a brew on, ate some rations and settled down for a few hours’ kip.

At first light, which was grey and overcast, we shouldered our Bergens and set off for our forward ops base. We continually monitored our position with Magellan, all the time supremely confident that our occasional detours around immovable objects had not drifted us off course. As the morning progressed so the weather began to set in. The rain became light but continual and the forest began to steam. Visibility started to drop but that didn’t bother us. We were the baddies and quite happy not to be seen.

We travelled mostly in silence with Titch, who was lightest and fastest across the ground, at point. As a precaution, Andre and his Minimi brought up our rear. Now well into Syria in enemy territory we were illegal immigrants. Extremely illegal. If anything went wrong we were all in deep shit. If we fell into the hands of the ISIS Smilers we were in even deeper shit.

By the time we reached FOB the terrain had become dense like scrub and sparse forest, and the weather had worsened. Vapour evaporated from the baking ground to become a fog; the rain a torrent. This could only be good, I thought. It would give us the cover we needed to move in close. We stashed our packs, checked and rechecked our weapons, and set off low and slow for the militia camp. Almost into it before we saw it, we dumped down into bushes and began to observe. It seemed to be a native village that they had taken over; a collection of crude timber huts with black plastic polythene bag roofs. As the mist drifted and cleared, drifted and thickened, we could just make out that it was built in a rough circle, probably about twenty dwellings, around a village square, which was about fifty by fifty yards. In the middle of the square we could see what looked like an ancient stone built domed temple; the one we had seen on the sat images.

And beside it heavy timber gallows.

Chapter 5 - Syria

On the gallows hung two limp bodies, both perfectly still in the pouring rain.

In that moment of dangerous quiet I realised that the two dangling bodies had to be our Ghurkhas. So we were too late.

But why? What was going on?

Our response time to the initial info’ was quick: bloody quick. These guys should still be being interrogated, not damned well dead. Something was wrong, very wrong. We had moved quickly. Wasted no time. Things were not turning out the way we had anticipated.

The lads looked at each other and me with concern. No words needed to be spoken. They were all smart. They knew something was amiss. I signalled Titch and Two to do a circumference recce going west. They’d return from the east after circling the camp. I sent Andre a dozen yards to the west with his Minimi and Big John a dozen to the east with his. This would triangulate their weapons and give us a withering covering fire if necessary. I’d wait here for Titch and Two to return. They wouldn’t move fast. They’d move silently, cautiously and undetectably. They’d be on the lookout for hidden obstructions such as trip wire and pressure mines. I estimated they’d be half an hour at least.

The time passed slowly and thankfully uneventfully. I was starting to relax – just a little – when Titch slithered back beside me.

‘It’s fuckin’ deserted, Angry, ‘he whispered. It was my nickname. Two nodded, his eyes darting around. ‘I don’t get it.’

‘Did you get a close one at these two?’ I asked pointing two fingers at the gallows.

‘I didn't get too close but I think it’s them all right. They look done for. No doubt at all,’ replied Titch.

‘What’ll we do, skip?’ asked Two. ‘Do we cut 'em down and take them back with us?’

‘No point,’ I replied. ‘They’d just be dead weight. And I think the faster we get out of this fuckin’ place the better it will be for all of us.’

‘Anyway,’ Titch went on, ‘I’d like to take a closer look. You can’t see anything from here in this shagging ‘fog.’

‘You’re right,’ I said, ‘It might not be them. We’d look a right bunch of fuckin’ Charlies going back if they're still alive. Go check.’

I signalled to Andre and Big John. They nodded and released their safety catches. Two and I crawled behind Titch until we reached the edge of the clearing. There we took up concealed firing positions and covered him as he moved belly down across towards the stone well. When he reached it he used it as cover and worked his way, out of our sight, around to the gallows. The mist kept drifting across and obscuring our line of sight.

I was not one bit happy. This had all the makings of a major fuck up.

And would be the last time I’d set eyes on Titch.

At least the Titch I knew.

Chapter 6 - Kimberly Prester

Kimberly Prester hesitated in front of the ornate door of the solicitor’s office and wondered if she’d accidentally slipped into a time warp. The narrow cobbled street which she had just ascended, lined either side with Tudor style half-timbered buildings, some complete with bull’s eye windows and even some with external wrought iron lanterns, gave her a detached feeling of unreality. The sight of herself reflected in an adjacent shop window, blond pony tail, jeans, skivvy, backpack and nerdy black rimmed glasses, reassured her somewhat that she was really there and that the place was not some figment of her imagination induced by jet-lag.

And yet the whole situation was unreal.

Here she was, standing in front of an English solicitor’s office in the picturesque fishing village of Poolemouth. Yesterday – was it really yesterday? - She had been sun baking on the crowded Jones beach on Long Island, New York.

Her mind spun in circles.

The cheque from Greene and Greene (Solicitors and Notaries) which she successfully cashed in the sum of $20,000 US dollars and which, in their own words, was an advance on travelling expenses, had convinced her that there was some merit in taking a few days away travelling to attend the reading of her great aunt’s will. The A380 had gotten her safely over the Atlantic, on to the tarmac and into the Heathrow Holiday Inn. It was last night where the five hours time differential had disrupted her sleep sufficiently for her to adequately explore the Emperor size bed, the late night TV shows, and finally the bar fridge. Tetras, Seduko and travel crosswords eventually got her over to sleep. Ironically, the final part of her journey, the next day train journey from the hotel to Poolemouth, with all its awkward interconnections, took longer than the flight from NY.

Something’s gotta be wrong with that.

Kimberly regarded the heavily moulded gloss black door before her, took a deep breath and reached for the brass handle. The door swung open to reveal a dingy reception hall. Oak dado panelling surrounded the walls surmounted by dark red flock wallpaper. Deep egg and dart cornices framed the coffered ceiling at the centre of which a dusty small chandelier hung from a plaster rose. On either side of the black and white cracked marble tile floor sat ancient brass-buttoned Chesterfield couches. At the far end was an obscure glazed door with the inscription ‘Greene and Greene, Solicitors and Notaries’ and under which a note, obviously typed on an anti diluvium machine, was pinned with tape saying ‘Please Knock and Enter’.

She did.

‘Hello, can I help you?’ enquired the grandmotherly receptionist who, peering at Kimberly over her spectacles, sat behind a time scarred desk on which lay that antique manual typewriter accompanied by a small stack of carbon paper.

I’m Kimberly Prester, thank you. I’ve come for the reading of my great aunt’s will,’ Kimberly smiled, looking around.

‘You’ll be wanting to see Mr Greene, dear. I’ll see if he’s awake. Please take a seat.’

The woman entered a room to the rear of her office, vanished momentarily, and then returned with a whimsical smile.

‘He’ll see you now, dear... Now that he’s decided to be with us!’ she said to the still-standing Kimberly. ‘Just go on in.’

‘Thanks,’ said Kimberly and swung around the woman’s desk and into the office behind.

‘A cup of tea?" shouted the woman. ‘Or perhaps a coffee?’ recognizing the accent.

‘Tea would be just fine.’ replied Kimberly, turning. She couldn’t stand the thought of drinking coffee made in England.

‘I’m Mrs Greene by the way, dear,’ she went on, emphasizing the ‘Mrs’.

‘Pleased to meet you,’ smiled Kimberly, a little puzzled by her quaintness. She made as if to shake hands but was shooed towards the open door by the woman.

‘Come in, come in!’ said a gruff voice from the other room.

Kimberly entered with more than a little trepidation to see a grand old room in the style of the entrance, a massive bookcase on which rested hundreds of legal looking books, a moth eaten Persian rug on which sat a Chippendale carver facing a huge leather topped desk behind which sat what might be the oldest looking man Kimberly had ever clapped eyes on in her entire life. If a day, he was ninety.

‘Mr Greene?’ she enquired sheepishly.

‘Of course! Who else?’ he replied rudely in a refined but distinct Scottish brogue. ‘Sit yourself down, lassie.’ He gestures to the carver.

‘I got your letter to come to the reading of aunt Maisie’s will, Mr Greene, Did I get the time wrong?’

‘Time wrong?’ He pulled a gold fob watch from his pocket and stared at it through his half rim glasses. ‘One thirty, by my reckoning. Your right on time, lassie.’

‘Then where are the others?’ she queried.

‘What others, lassie?’ he replied with just the hint of a Machiavellian smile.

‘Why am I here, please?’ she asked with a growing puzzlement.

‘Why, to hear the reading of your aunt Maisie’s will. Did we not make ourselves clear on that? Sorry if we wrote in English. It’s you Americans’ second language, isn’t it?’

Cheeky old bastard, she thought.

‘I’ll tell you what, Mr Greene,’ she replied, ‘I’ll speak English if you do too!’

‘Ah ha! A lassie with spirit,’ he cackled. ‘A true Prester!’ An ancient smile cracked across his face.

Mrs Greene, who looked at least half a century younger than her husband, and still old, entered bearing two china cups, which she placed in front of them.

‘Don’t you be bullying the young woman, Clarence!’ she chided.

He muttered to himself.

Clarence? Thought Kimberly with amusement, ‘One to me.’

‘Enough of this,’ his gruff voice returned, ‘It’s time we got down to business...’ He glanced at his wife with annoyance, ‘Alone!’

‘Have it your way, you crabbit old bugger!’ she said, haughtily leaving the room.

Kimberly sipped on the tea. It was delicious.

Clarence spotted her reaction and without being questioned on the matter offered ‘We get it special from Fortnum and Masons, ‘then he reached into a side drawer and withdrew a sheaf of folded browning parchment. He pushed the bundle over to Kimberly. She weighed it gingerly. It looked very legal and was tied with a traditional pink ribbon.

‘What is it?’ she queried.

‘What is it, lassie?’ he replied, ‘what it is, it is yours! Open it.’

She gently pulled the ribbon apart and allowed the parchment to spring open. Unfolding it she saw a small plan under which there was a list of names and legal stamps.

‘It’s a title deed, isn’t it?’

‘That it is, lassie. You are now the proud owner of some very valuable English real estate. Very valuable indeed!’

‘A house?’

‘More than just any house, Miss Prester...The house!’ His voice held genuine respect, ‘Arcadia!’

‘Arcadia?’ she quizzically cocked her head.

‘The name of the house. Your uncle’s pride and joy. The one true love of his life. In fact, lassie, the heart and soul of the Presters for the generations they have lived there. Except, of course, for that daft lassie of a wife of his, your aunt Maisie.’

Aunt Maisie? She pondered the name. Never heard of her. ‘I don’t think she would be all that happy to hear you say that,’ whoever she is? She added to herself.

‘She lived there after he died,’ he almost sounded sad. ‘If it had been up to her though, the house would have been sold ages ago. But your uncle, Pastor John Prester, made continuing provision in his will that she, nor anyone else for that matter, could do any such thing. And that’s why you’re lucky enough to be here today. And to have a roof over your head,’ he added with a certain cockiness.

‘Why only me?’

‘You, lassie, are the only surviving blood relative. The only legitimate one that is. There is also provision in her last will and testament for a bequest to another party who is not blood, but since your aunt passed away we have been unable to contact him.’

‘Him?’

‘A soldier.’

‘Where is this house?’

‘You’ll see soon enough.’

‘For God’s sake, Mr Greene,’ she said with mounting frustration, ‘Why all the mystery?’

‘There’s no mystery, lassie. We have things to do first, so haud yer wheesht and sit at peace ‘till they’re done.’

Haud yer wheesht? She said to herself and shook her head in bemusement. She guessed that it was something to do with her being quiet – in a long dead language

‘OK Let’s do it then,’ she said resigned to her fate.

‘It is incumbent upon me,’ he began pompously, ‘to explain certain matters and conditions relating, inter alia, to your acquisition of this property.’ He looked at her over the spectacles and continued, ‘There is a small inheritance associated with Arcadia, the terms and conditions of which are,’ he paused more for effect than breath, ‘You must agree never to dispose of the house and that it must be passed on your death, and not before, to your own nearest blood relative. You must also agree that your own will incorporate the same terms and conditions. It sounds complicated but it’s not. Really a’ ye have to do is nod and I’ll set the whole thing up for ye.’

She took another sip of tea and resolved to remain calm.

‘Go on, Mr Greene.’

‘If you do not accept this proviso, the inheritance will be used to offset your travel expenses coming here and the remainder will go to the next nearest living relative.’

‘Who is?’

Again he looked over his pince-nez spectacles, muttered, and then looked downwards at papers before him.

‘Pardon?’ she questioned assuredly.

‘I said we haven’t found anyone yet,’ he grumbled.

‘Oh,’ she said softly and with more than a hint of triumph. Then went on, ‘are we finished, then?’

‘Not quite yet, my dear. You must also agree to sleep in the house the first night of your inheritance,’ he paused looking over his spectacles. ‘That, of course lassie, would be tonight.’

Chapter 7 – An Empty House

‘An empty deserted house? You expect me to...’ her voice tailed off.

‘Haud yer wheesht, lassie.’ He repeated with some irritation,’ You must also agree to sleep in the master bedroom, at least for the first night.’

Kimberly was now feeling very uncomfortable. All her instincts told her: rise from the table, politely tell the old man to get stuffed, and head for home. Why not? In NY she could commission a firm of lawyers to sue pro-bono for the estate and loose nothing. Well almost nothing. The last thing she wanted was to be away from her swotty role-playing pals. They were her escape from the present reality of a tiny flat already five weeks behind in rent and a divorced landlord who at first hinted and now was insisting that there were other methods by which she could repay him. She remembered that no regular job was also a problem, and what little money she earned was from tips she got from reluctant customers at the greasy café where she waitressed for no wages. But now she had a few bucks at least. And if she travelled home ‘cattle class’ she’d have plenty left over to pay off the little bastard and still have some for her.

‘No,’ she muttered, ‘the last thing I want is to stay the night alone in a damp deserted hovel between someone’s old musty sheets.’

She shuddered and muttered the word ‘Alone!’

‘Who said you’d be alone?’ said the old man grumpily, looking up from his papers. ‘You’ll have Mrs Lyons to look after you, lassie. Until she has to leave, that is.’

‘Mrs Lyons?’

‘Your housekeeper... and Mr Prester’s before that. Aye,’ he look thoughtfully into the air, ‘and a probably a few Presters before that.’

‘I’m sorry, Mr Greene, but this whole bit is too much for me. I appreciate you paying the fares for me to come here. I do. But I really don’t see where I fit into this deal.’ she paused, half rising, ‘I can’t abide with your conditions. None of this fits in with my life or my plans, so...’

‘So?’ he repeated softly.

‘So, I suggest, in the words of the song, we call the whole thing off. I’ve already got my tickets home. Why not give what's left of her money to the cat and dogs home or whatever.’

Old Mr Greene regarded Kimberly now standing before him.

‘All eighty million of it?’ he asked.

Chapter 8 – Him

He looked exactly like his photo. She was more than pleased. First time for this, she thought. He was already sitting attentively at the white covered table in a far corner of the three-hat restaurant. She waited by the entry and assessed him further: dressed very smart casual; designer jeans with polished black shoes; modern charcoal grey jacket, possibly the top half of a suit; expensive white open neck shirt with starched collar; modern haircut, no grey, not flashy. Looking good so far, she smiled to herself.

She was dressed to kill, and she knew it. Her little black dress was just a little too little; her heels a little too high; her lips a little too red. If that didn't do the trick this time she'd give up trying, she mused. He spotted her standing. She looked around as though she hadn't seen him. He stood as though to attract her attention and motioned her to join him. She must also look like her photo, she thought. She'd given up photo shopping her image. What was the point? Take it or leave it. She was tired of the game. She joined him. He took her hand, not in a shake, neither as for a kiss, but somewhere charming in between. He held her chair, let her sit, and then sat himself opposite.

They started to talk and he made her feel comfortable right away, no awkward silences, no sleazy remarks of the type she had become accustomed to. He was quite good-looking, maybe a bit nondescript but that was OK. He spoke politely, with just the trace of a public school accent, but not overbearingly so. He seemed familiar with the restaurant, although neither the maitre d'i nor any of the waiters acknowledged him. He asked her permission then ordered for them both. Although the menu was in French he ordered in English. Once or twice he asked the meaning of certain items. He seemed modest. It was only getting better.

They spoke at length over a cordon blue three-course dinner - light but delicious and beautifully presented - until time for liqueurs. She asked him why, at his age, he wasn't married, engaged, or had a girlfriend. A natural question under the circumstances. He replied that he had gone straight from school into officers training at Sandhurst, all at the request of his father who, of course, was a lieutenant colonel in the guards. His