The Alex King Series

very little to signify that the well-tended gardens in which he stood belonged to the family of a man long since deceased, but ever immortalised in the annals of history. A piece of land bought in 1921 by the Cumming family to commemorate Captain Sir Mansfield George Smith Cumming, KCMG, CB and the work he did in founding what had become the Secret Intelligence Service, or MI6. A simple plaque honoured this man, and a plaque had been added for every agent lost from 1914 to 1918 throughout Europe. From 1942, the garden of rest had become a Home Office registered graveyard of sacrosanct land. Not every agent had been buried here, but those who had all bore a matching gravestone, and those whose families had opted for their loved one’s body to rest elsewhere had still been honoured by a commemorative stone, identical to (C’s) own. Each stone was engraved with the name, date of birth, date of death and their time in service with MI6. No details were added according to one’s grace, standing or fortune, except that a single gold star denoted death in the field.

In 1961 a fund from MI6 had taken over lease of the land and undertook maintenance of the garden and subsequent licensing and registrar fees in accordance with births, deaths and marriages. Other than that, the garden was known by few, even within the walls of the River House.

King studied the newly-dug grave. Tiny shoots had already protruded from the soil, and before the summer took hold, he imagined the mound would flatten and settle and the grass would cover it completely, leaving just the headstone in place, and no clue whether someone had been laid to rest, or merely commemorated along with so many others. King had read all the stones on another occasion, marvelling at how many dates fell within the first and second world wars. Another rise had been in the mid-sixties and early eighties, though few would know why or where. From the fall of the Berlin wall, the numbers had been less. Sometimes years without a soul immortalised by a stone with a star.

Peter Stewart’s name and star were bright, the stone glistening in the May sunshine. King took out the bottle of twenty-five-year old Haig. King did not know whether it was good or not, but he cracked the cap and took a swig, let the amber fire settle on his tongue and reach the back of his throat. It tasted like whisky to him, but the man in the wine and liquor merchants had said it was good, and the price would have King agree. He took another swig and it tasted better this time. He poured the rest on the earth and a little on the headstone, then put the cap back on and pressed the bottle into the ground and worked it into the soft earth until just the neck was in view.

“Rest easy, you old bastard,” he said. He wiped the corner of his eye, before it threatened to turn into a tear and added as he walked away, “Thank you.”

Author’s Note

 

Thank you for reading the Alex King books 4 – 6. I hope you enjoyed reading them as much as I enjoyed writing them!

You can find out more about my work at www.apbateman.com where you can see news of new releases, join my mailing list and have a general nose about! If you have time to leave a review on Amazon, I’d be extremely grateful, but hey – you bought the book, so I can’t really ask for much more!

I hope to entertain you again soon,

A P Bateman