‘It’s open!' came the familiar voice from within. They entered to be greeted by a smiling welcome and the aroma of fresh paint.
‘Come in, come in.’
Their host, slightly taller than Trelawney’s six-foot height, with salt and pepper hair, kept himself fit with gardening and strolling along the cliffs, and entertained by cooking, or so he claimed. However, as if in support of the latter, Hogarth was drying his hands on a white apron before offering one to Trelawney and a hug to Amanda.
‘Good journey, niece?’
‘Yes, thanks to an excellent and considerate driver.’
‘Hear that, Thomas?’
‘Miss Cadabra is a splendid passenger. She didn't offer me any driving advice or play with the presets on the radio,’ Trelawney replied with a grin.
‘Well done, Amanda,’ Hogarth praised her humorously. ‘Come and sit down and make yourselves at home. Ah, I see Tempest is already at work on that.’
The feline familiar had headed straight for the open coal-fire, and made himself comfortable in the prime position for the optimum amount of heat. The human guests hung up their coats, and Amanda sat on the sofa and looked around. She liked the nautically themed watercolours hanging on the white-painted walls between dark oak beams, some of which had cracked over the centuries of their tenure. Thomas took up a post near the mantelpiece, a prudent distance from Tempest.
Amanda stood up again. She was fairly hopping with impatience for Lucy’s story to begin, but politely commented on the décor and offered to help in the kitchen. Hogarth chuckled.
‘Yes, I know you’re all agog for the tale to start, but bear with me. Let’s eat first, and you can tell me all about Thomas’s new place at The Elms. Oh, and mind the walls in the downstairs loo. The emulsion might still be wet.’
‘Thank you for the alert,’ replied Amanda, going to her bag. Having retrieved a small tin of tuna, she emptied half of the contents onto a china plate offered up by her host and placed it before Tempest.
Soon dinner was served, and Amanda and Trelawney were regaling Hogarth with the amusing account of what had transpired at the end of the Sunken Madley Equinox Ball at The Grange. In particular, they related how The Elms had presented itself for his future accommodation-cum-office. This sufficiently diverted them until pudding and tea on the arms of chairs and sofa. Tempest was asleep on Amanda’s lap.
Hogarth looked from one to the other of his younger friends.
‘Now. Lucy has given me leave to tell you, but only so much. Lucy needs you to tell as much of this story yourself as possible.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Amanda.
‘You will,’ Hogarth promised.
‘Why can’t you just tell us all of it?’
‘Because of what Lucy hopes will happen. And because she needs you to understand.’
Amanda looked at him in perplexity.
‘Well ... what if I can’t tell the bits of it you're not going to tell me?’
‘Then ... it just means you’re not ready. Although, we rather hope that you will be. But’ — Hogarth returned to his usual breezy, relaxed tone — ‘no pressure. Right then ....’
Hogarth laughed, seeing the expectant faces turned towards him. They both looked so much younger than their years.
‘Well now … if you’re sitting comfortably … I’ll begin. It all started, many years ago, with a pin ….’
Chapter 3
About A Boy, and The Fall
‘Not a PIN as in a personal identification number,' explained Hogarth, 'but a pin with a point. A pin in a map on the wall. The wall of an office in a Whitehall basement. The office of a man. A man whose star had fallen because he would not give up.’ He chuckled. ‘And neither would his wife ....’
***
Cal Rayke took a deep breath and tapped on the dark oak door.
‘Come!’ called the male voice that he knew better than any other. He entered to see the man seated at the desk opposite him. Behind, the top of a tall window that peeped above ground level allowed in some natural light. It was supplemented by bulbs and study lamps. Cal received a conspiratorial smile from the lady, typing at the table on the left.
Sir Philip Rayke looked over his glasses with mild surprise at seeing the youngest of his progeny standing on the threshold. It was a rare event for Cal to visit the office. Family visits were not encouraged. But then nothing to do with Sir Philip’s department was encouraged. Only a number on the door identified it.
The fall from grace had not been entirely unexpected by the family. Sir Philip had had warnings that if he persisted in pursuing a lot of voodoo trails, it would lead to ‘no good’. But Sir Philip was a digger: a quiet, relentless excavator of truth. For this, he had won the respect of his operatives in the field but, alas, the disapproval of his peers and, ultimately, his superiors.
Cal remembered the day he’d been given the news. Boards on which his father’s contributions had been appreciated, suddenly found themselves overcrowded. Unfortunately, there was no longer a place for him. Having been honoured by his queen for services to the British Empire, Sir Philip could not be dismissed from his governmental job. He was being moved sideways, allegedly, but physically it was down. Down to an office that had been occupied from time to time by the disgraced.
The rumours of rats proved to be unfounded, however. The rats of Whitehall clearly considered themselves a better class of rodent than to frequent the basements of the discredited. It was said that one or two
