The Curse of Kereves Dere

By Nick Falkner

The Great War is over and Europe is slowly recovering. Kerry and Bosco, survivors of the Gallipoli campaign, are struggling to move on as they make a life in London. But the inhuman horrors they witnessed at the Battle of Krithia heralded a more terrible fate for the world: to be crushed in the talons of unnamable powers from other dimensions. As the Nazis rise in Europe, the agents of the British-Kadariak society are striving to bring forth a creature that will end life as we know it. Kerry and Bosco have powerful allies: Williams and Fauve, London’s most unusual booksellers, and Doctor Jenny Cavendish, the deadliest archaeologist in England. But they face terrible forces and time is against them because, all too soon, the stars will be right...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nick Falkner
• Release date: Mar 31, 2016
• ISBN: 9781925502077

Nick Falkner

Nick Falkner spent a decade here and there as a programmer, a soldier, a winemaker and an academic before writing his first novel. His broad life experience comes through in his writing, driven by his passion and curiosity. His writing is fast-paced and tight, built on solid characters who are backed up with careful research, deftly woven throughout the narrative. When not writing, Nick lives in South Australia, working with a great team to improve the educational opportunities for students everywhere.

Book preview

THE CURSE OF KEREVES DERE

Nick Falkner

Copyright © 2016, Nickolas Falkner.

The moral right of Nick Falkner to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright above, no part of this publication shall be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

ISBN: 978-1-925502-07-7 (Smashwords Edition)

With thanks to my wife, Katrina,

my siblings-in-speed-writing, Dawna and Gary, and

my constant reader, Claudia.

With my deepest sympathies for the families and loved ones of all those lost and engaged in

World War One and World War Two.

Their stories have guided this work and allowed a brief glimpse of the tragic despair and sacrifice endured by all of those lost to war.

Lest we forget.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Part One: A Chill Wind 1931-33

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Part Two: The Darkening Sky 1934-36

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Part Three: The Storm 1937-39

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Part Four: Afterword

Part One: A Chill Wind 1931-33

Chapter One

It always began in darkness. Then flashes lit up the ground around him. White light exploding up from the ground as shells struck and explosives detonated. The feeling of earth raining down around him, rattling on his helmet and smoke choking him.

In the dream, he still had both arms and he clung fiercely to his rifle, listening over the screams and the shells for the orders of the French lieutenant who was trying to reassemble the Legion forces to mount an assault on the trenches. But the lieutenant's elegant Parisian accent had been cut off mid-sentence during the last barrage, and Bosco had looked to his remaining superior, the young Adjudant-chef whom he had come to know well over the last few months in the Dardanelles, instead. He opened his mouth to say something and then froze in terror.

Black forms moved in the fire-lit smoke. They were bigger than men and...wrong. Their shape made Bosco feel nauseated, and they moved strangely, as if they felt a different physics pressing upon them.

The nearest shape reared back, and the smoke billowed as larger shapes curled out from its back. Bosco stared, even as his mind tried to force his eyes closed. Could they be... wings?

The whistle of fresh artillery burst in from overhead.

Down, Corporal! Down! yelled the Adjudant-chef, pushing Bosco into a side trench as the ground exploded around them. Back, you fiend, back in the name of Bran!

A wave of force slammed into both of them and knocked them over. Something grabbed at Bosco's arm. He could feel it, hot, hotter, sharp, and the pain rising when -

Bosco blinked. He shivered. He blinked again. He must have dozed off. A sense of unease gripped him, but faded as the edges of the memory whipped away. He had dreamed of something, but he couldn't quite recall it, and his clammy skin, chilling in the wind, made him think that he was lucky that he couldn't. The stump of his arm twitched and he grimaced, rotating his shoulder under the thick coat.

It was overcast in Clonmel and the winter had settled most of the way in. The people of County Tipperary were used to the southern Irish seasons, but the small French man pulled up the collar of his greatcoat and then placed his single hand deep inside his pocket.

How do they live here? It is only November!

His companion said nothing, but drew deeply on his cigarette and leant on his walking stick, wincing. They had parked on the road half a mile back and walked up through the slush and mud to stand outside the churchyard, back where they could see the funerary party.

After another puff, the man spoke.

You have Le Mistral, Bosco. That would freeze a man's blood in Hades itself. This is nothing.

Bosco shrugged. He had grown up with the ferocious Provençal winter wind and thought nothing of it. It was an old friend. This was a classic southern Irish soft day, an oozing, seeping damp that held down the countryside and the souls of men alike. The cold rose from the ground around them and pushed its way into their faces. This weather knew no friends.

He looked towards the funeral. The Earl's death was well-attended, from what he could see: family, a few loyal locals, and dignitaries from Parliament. He looked to his friend to see if anything was registering on that thin, white face. Charles Kerry's eyes were fixed on the funeral, but the grey pallor to his face and the set of his jaw could only mean one thing: his leg was troubling him again and the morphine in his blood was running low.

Kerry nodded towards the church. We have company, Bosco.

A woman, dressed in black and with her hair tied back and covered with a scarf, was walking quickly towards them. Bosco nodded and stepped forward. He raised his hat.

"Good day to you, Madame."

And a good day to you, as well, gentlemen. I can see that you've been here for a while. Were you friends of the Earl? She watched them closely. The Easter Rising in 1916 had jammed open the schism between English and Irish and, despite being Irish born, the Earl and his family were not considered Irish by many locals, Bosco knew. There were many reasons that men would come to watch an Earl being buried in these times.

"Alas, Madame, we did not have the privilege, he replied. We were walking through the area and stopped merely to pay our respects."

Ah, she said, well then. I know that the service is underway but Father Anthony wouldn't be minding if you popped yourselves closer to hear him delivering the service. She looked at him, then at Kerry, and then back to Bosco. You've picked a bad season for tramping, sir, if I may say. Most folk would have picked a path through here in summer. I've been here for over ten years and I'd still avoid it here in winter if I could.

"As we are discovering, Madame."

Bosco had thought the woman middle-aged from her attire and at a distance. Up close, she was just in her thirties, but was given a stern appearance by the crow's-feather black she wore. If he was any judge, her accent had a touch of English layered under the Irish.

She was about to speak when Kerry moved to shift his leg, slipped, and drew his breath in.

Are you all right, sir?

It is an old wound, but still a problem in the winter months. Kerry's accent was now devoid of any trace of English or Irish overtones and he spoke English as Bosco did, with a large dollop of Provence sitting square in the middle.

Is there anything I can be doing for you, sir?

Ah, would there happen to be a retiring room I could use?

The morphine must be running very low, thought Bosco.

Certainly, sir. Head to the path there and follow it, you'll come to the side entrance. Take the first door once you're in.

"Patron?" Bosco raised an eyebrow.

"Merci, Bosco." Kerry walked off unevenly towards the path. The woman watched him go.

The War? She nodded to Kerry's back.

Bosco raised his empty sleeve with his good arm and nodded.

The woman sighed and shook her head. Nearly 1932. You'd think that we'd have walked out of the shadow of that one. But it's a long shadow. She stared across the cemetery to a far corner and brought her hands together. Of course, you two came home. And from your accent, you were probably at least fighting for your own country.

Bosco followed her gaze and saw a number of small gravestones, all showing roughly the same small age. Soldiers' graves. Ah, he said.

The Earl came back from the English war, of course, although he was not the same. He died in Florida, but they had to bring his body back here to bury it with his people. She looked at Bosco. My guessing is that he'd have rather been buried over in that warmth, with all of those orange trees. She pulled her shawl around herself. But we've talked this much, we should be introduced. Mary Kavanagh, house keeper to Father Anthony.

Bosco, Mrs Kavanagh.

Only the one name?

It is a very good name.

The frown on her face nearly cracked as the corners of her mouth twitched. Well, if we're being accurate, it's not Mrs Kavanagh, it's Miss. She looked back out into the graveyard. You'll find a stone in there for a Danny O'Brien. I would have been Mrs O'Brien. She looked down at her hands. A gentle rain had started falling on them, brought in from the south, but neither of them moved to get out of it.

War is a terrible thing, Miss Kavanagh.

Your friend, it's not the gas, is it? That's a very devil of a thing.

Bosco shook his head.

Thank the Good Lord for that, Mr Bosco. Danny was with the 16th Division at Hulluch when those German maggots gassed them. He'd rushed off to join in 1915 when they put up those posters everywhere: 'Is your home worth fighting for?' He said he'd be home for Christmas. But Christmas 1915 came and went and he was not home.

Miss Kavanagh stopped talking and Bosco waited, as he had done so many times before in so many other conversations, for her to continue in her own time.

The 27th of April, 1916, Mr Bosco. Right in the middle of the Easter Rising, it was. That's what it says on the piece of paper the King sent his ma and da. The Hun gassed up the lines. Our boys had helmets, but the King had saved all of his good ones for the English boys and gave his Irish toy soldiers what was left over. They didn't send him home. They just sent a few medals and some paper. She stared up at the corner of the graveyard. He got the military medal for saving the lads of his own battalion. Not that some of them lived long after, not with the Devil's own stink in their lungs. Bobby Aherne came back half-blind and barely walking and said that Danny had pushed him and the lads back and out of the clouds, without a thought for his own safety. Then the artillery started and it all went to pieces. Bobby's out there now. The winters proved too much for his lungs. At least there's a body under his stone.

She dabbed at her eyes with her shawl. Bosco took out a clean handkerchief and passed it to her. I am so sorry for your loss, Miss Kavanagh. As you say, we came home. We were, indeed, lucky.

She looked at him and then wiped her eyes again. You were in France, Mr Bosco?"

Gallipoli.

Your friend?

We were both in Gallipoli. The French Foreign Legion.

Then you were very lucky indeed. Many's the village that lost all of their boys to the Turks.

This is what happens when giants fight, Miss Kavanagh. They step on all of the little people who get in their way. In their own world, they are heroes and fathers and children. To the powerful? They are toys to be moved around in battle.

Isn't that the truth. Father Anthony would tell me to pray to the Almighty for protection, but then he never served in the war and he'll not have a sweetheart go marching off either.

He did not serve?

She laughed, a short, harsh sound. He's not even thirty yet. After 1916, none of our boys wanted to go and fight an English war. The devil take that notion, begging your pardon. The Father took Holy Orders instead. To be honest, he needs a mam more than a housekeeper, but his heart's in the right place. She looked down the path. I don't mean to pry, but your friend's been a while. Will he be all right?

Yes, Miss Kavanagh, he will be fine. His leg bothers him in the cold and he will be wrapping it up again. And, thought Bosco, it will take him a while to clear his head after the morphine. Although it would probably be judicious to check on him if another ten minutes were to go past and he did not reappear.

I never liked the cold here, said Miss Kavanagh.

I was just saying that to my friend, Miss Kavanagh, with no disrespect to your home.

She stared across the graveyard. Danny was going to take me to America. That's how I know about those trees in Florida. They say it's sunny all the time and there's birds and fruit all year round. She was staring off towards the sky.

Bosco tilted his head to one side. Perhaps you will go anyway?

She sighed and dropped her gaze back to him. No, it's no life for a single girl to pack up and head across the water. Well, not a respectable one, anyway. The good Father's not too much of a nuisance and I can keep the boys' headstones free and clear. I may not agree with who they fought for but they're home now. Many of their own won't tend to them. There are strong feelings here.

The two fell silent as Kerry made his way out from the side of the church. He was walking more easily and his face had lost its clenched look.

Thank you for your consideration, he said as he returned to them.

'Tis nothing. Just glad there was something I could do. They're going to be taking tea after the ceremony and there's a wake up at their hou...

No. Thank you. Thank you but no. Kerry's voice was louder than necessary. He lowered it slightly. Thank you so much for the offer, but we really should be going and we wouldn't want to intrude.

The funeral ceremony had progressed to scattering dirt onto the coffin and Bosco saw a tall and striking woman watching them from the grave side.

Well, if you're sure, then I'll be going back inside. Miss Kavanagh nodded to both of them. A pleasure talking with you, Mr Bosco. She walked away to prepare the tea.

I didn't make a friend there, did I, Bosco?

If you want to keep the low profile, perhaps a little less shouting at housekeepers is in order. I think you may have attracted too much attention. Bosco nodded towards the tall young woman, who had been caught up in discussion with other members of the funeral party but still glanced at them every so often.

Damn, damn, damn, said Kerry. We have to go. Now.

"Can you walk, patron, or would you like me to go and bring the car past?"

You know what I've been doing, Bosco. I could probably run for the next hour if I had to, though I wouldn't like to think about what that would mean for tomorrow. But a brisk walk? Yes. Absolutely.

Bosco put a hand on Kerry's shoulder as he turned. "Patron, please. He was your father. You should say something."

What for? There is no God to hear me, and I doubt my father would want to have become a ghost.

Then, for me. And for you, sometime later. To avoid the regrets.

The man known as Charles Kerry looked down at Bosco and sighed. It always astounds me that even though you have only one arm it always seems to be twisting mine up behind my back.

"Please, patron."

Kerry scratched at the side of his head with his hand. Rest in peace, Father. I'm...sorry...that we never managed to speak again.

Bosco nodded.

"And now we must leave, patron, before we are assailed by more offers of tea, or that young woman manages to extricate herself from the politeness of concerned relatives."

The two men turned to walk back up the road to where their sleek black Duesenberg waited. By the time the young woman made it to the road, only a few minutes later, they were gone.

Kerry was in a bad way by the time they made it back to London. The walking had aggravated the long, ugly gash in his thigh and Bosco felt that he had to call the doctor.

After some consultation with Kerry, the doctor had then had a more private word with Bosco. He's taking too much morphine, but you knew that. He's drinking too much and eating terribly, but you also knew that. Is he sleeping?

Bosco shook his head. He had heard Kerry yelling out in the night on many occasions over the last few months. I had hoped that a trip would calm him down, he said, but did not offer any more detail. It was not anyone else's business that the Earl in Clonmel was Kerry's father. His family had cast him out when he was barely out of school, and he had reciprocated by taking a nom de guerre and joining the Legion.

And did it?

No, Doctor, it did not.

Seeing his father buried had not given Kerry any closure. Too often he had called out words that Bosco half-recognised; through memory clouded by fear, they chilled him to the bone.

I am worried, Bosco. That dashed wound of his has me beggared. It doesn't heal. It doesn't get infected. It just grows, ever so slowly, and I think it makes him worse as it does so. I would swear on the Good Book that he is a shadow of the man he was when I first met you two years ago.

Bosco nodded. He saw Kerry every day and had noticed some deterioration, but those who saw him infrequently all said the same thing as the Doctor. Did you ask him...?

Amputation? He won't hear of it. The wound is probably too high to do it cleanly now anyway. I'd be too close to the artery and throwing dice to not have him decorating the walls with his life-blood. Maybe if he'd done it when it happened...

You think there is no more that can be done?

"Not by me, Monsieur Bosco. We can make him comfortable, but he seems to be set on his path."

Bosco's shoulders fell.

I am sorry to disappoint you, said the doctor, but I think you'll find any medical man in London will tell you the same thing.

Bosco nodded. He had asked enough of them, and yes, the doctor was correct.

It's that dashed wound of his. Never seen anything like it. I spent some time down in South Africa, years ago, and I saw some rum things down there. Things that would make your eyes water. But anything like this would have killed a man in days, not had him lingering for years. The doctor shook his head.

Bosco made some small talk to change the subject as he paid the doctor. After the man had left, he looked through their dwindling supplies of money. The patron was not getting any better and good doctors who would visit the house were expensive, especially with the amount of morphine needed. They had used most of the money they had had from the rich American girl's father, and sold most of the books. Due to Kerry's extended illness, he had not been able to find any more antique bargains to prop up the coffers. Bosco counted the money again. It might keep them to January, but after that, it would be a very chilly 1932.

He made some soup and went up the stairs with a tray bearing a bowl and some bread carefully balanced on his arm, and kicked gently at Kerry's bedroom door. "Patron?"

"Entres!"

Kerry was sitting up in bed, his leg propped up on a cushion. The dressings had been reapplied, but Bosco could see that they were even longer than before.

Oh, thank you, Bosco, but I'm not really very hungry.

The Doctor said that you have to eat.

The morphine had shut down Kerry's appetite and he was starting to look gaunt, and much older than his nearly forty years. Are you going to bother me until I do?

"Oui, patron."

Then eat I must, I suppose.

Bosco watched the thin skin move over Kerry’s jaw as he sipped at the soup and interspersed spoonfuls with mouthfuls of bread.

Good God, Bosco, don't stare so. Makes one feel like a zoological exhibit.

"Pardonnes-moi, patron."

Bosco waited until the soup had been disposed of and then put the tray to one side. "Chef, we must speak."

I'm tired, Bosco. I've been prodded and poked by that quack for the better part of what felt like three years. Can it not wait?

Bosco shook his head. "Non, it cannot. And this is serious business."

Kerry looked at him and sat up straight.

Very well, serious it is.

"The Doctor is very worried about you. He thinks you are going to kill yourself at this rate. Normally, I would say that he is being cautious. But this time? I have heard you in the night, patron. Your nightmares are getting worse."

Kerry grinned. Are you more concerned about the doctor or my nightmares?

Bosco's face flushed red. This is not a joke, my friend. His words were curt. The doctor thinks you are on a path to an early death and I think you are trying to get there faster.

Kerry's smirk vanished and his face locked. My apologies, my friend.

Do you deny it?

Kerry looked to the curtains that framed the bedroom window. The grey London light drifted in as the late afternoon sun played between the buildings.

I am a man without a family, without a country. I have just seen my father buried - a man who turned his back on me not once but twice - and the girl I loved standing at his graveside, married to my brother. Do you expect me to be happy?

Bosco waited and then spoke again.

"But that is not the whole of it, is it? Oh, it is true, and it is terrible and it is painful, but you are a soldier. A Legionnaire. Pain is the clasp on the backpack, the strap on the kepi blanc. No, this is not what is bringing you to this. Bosco leaned forward. I have heard what you call out at night, patron. You are back in the trenches of Kereves Dere."

Kerry's head twisted away and his eyes were wide. We agreed never to speak of that. Never!

Yes, we did, but it is not a promise that you are keeping. You yell about it in the night. 'They are coming! They are here!'

Kerry had pulled the sheets to his chin and there was sweat on his brow. What else? What else do I say?

"Patron..."

What. Else. Do I say?

'The Wind! The Wind it brings them! The great tree bends before it! The tentacles have him! I cannot find my sword! Strike! Strike! They come!'

Oh, God.

Bosco looked to the window, without realising why. Then it struck him: the light had dimmed. He strode over quickly and pushed the curtains back further. The sun outside was still high in the sky, and when he turned back, the light was back to normal.

Oh, God, Bosco.

Bosco walked back to sit on the bed beside Kerry. His wounded shoulder ached. He ignored it and put his remaining hand on his friend's arm.

"Patron, I do not know what happened there. The darkness fell, something had my arm, and then I was awake in a hospital with a stump where the arm had been. They tell me that you carried me out and brought the last hundred men out with you. Kerry stared down at the sheets in front of him and put out a hand to touch the leg where the bandages were. But I don't think you ever came out, my friend. The drugs? The drink? Your shenanigans in Paris? I am happy while you are happy and I like a...lark?...as much as the next man. But there comes a time when a man is not drinking for fun. When dealing becomes thieving and thieving becomes a pathway to the rope."

Kerry looked down at his leg, then up to Bosco. I am sorry, Bosco.

"Pfft. I don't want an apology, mon ami. I want you to get better. I want you to sleep at night. I want that - he pointed at the leg - to heal. But, mostly, I want your soul to heal."

You know I don't believe in...

Ah ah ah ah! Bosco waved his hands. You know what I mean. Do not be so English about it.

That's an insult to an Irishman.

"Ah, so now you have a country."

Kerry's eyes narrowed; then suddenly his face relaxed and he laughed. Curse you, you toad.

In the mountains near my village, it is a compliment to be called a toad.

You say that for every insult.

There are many mountains near my village.

Kerry threw his hands up in the air. All right, all right, I surrender. I cannot withstand this onslaught of amicability any longer. What do you need me to do?

First, we are going to have to reduce your morphine. Kerry grimaced. "I know, patron, but I need time to find other doctors and all of your current doctors are confident of one thing: the amount that you are taking will kill you sooner rather than later."

"You ask a lot, Caporal."

"You saved my life, mon Adjudant-chef. You have the obligation to look after me now."

The two men stared at each other. Kerry dropped his eyes first. And then? Once you've reduced my life to a miserable existence of pain?

While we are doing this, I will look for more information. I have heard rumours about other doctors who specialise in stranger things than the cough, the cold and the excess of roast beef that is the scourge of the clubs of Pall Mall.

Kerry laughed. Just, please, gentle Bosco, not the laxatives.

I can accept this compromise.

Kerry looked to the windows and massaged his leg. When do we start?

Bosco looked at the man's sunken cheeks and deep-set eyes, dark against his white skin. "For the morphine, we can start tomorrow, patron. I will start my search this afternoon. Kerry sighed with relief. Thank you, my friend. I feel... He shook his head and looked down. I feel so powerless. The shadow that followed me out of the trenches has made me half a man. Thank you, my oldest and best friend."

But, of course, you are welcome. Now make yourself comfortable. I think this is your book, yes? I will be back with supper in a few hours.

Bosco negotiated the tray back onto his arm and nodded to Kerry as he left. He checked to make sure that the morphine was thoroughly secured, to avoid any accidents before the night-time dose. Then he put their remaining money into his pocket, donned his great coat and left the house to search for other doctors.

Bosco returned later that evening with a short list in his pocket. After the war, he and Kerry had first settled in Paris, falling into the book trade by accident after discovering that rich Americans had an apparently unquenchable desire to take something old and real back to their relatively new country. But after the easiest pickings had been had, the business had become murkier, and they had made a number of less salubrious friends who were on the edge of many businesses where valuable objects changed hands. Sometimes even when the hands were holding onto them quite tightly.

It was those people in London that he had sought out this evening. The sharps, the spivs, the likely lads and the hard men all had their lists of doctors who could be trusted, and those who got results under pressure. Bosco was able to cross almost a third off the list because he did not need someone who specialised in women's problems. A good quarter were slashed because he was trying to reduce the amount of morphine in the house. But, after some detailed discussion with Davey Tanner, he had become very interested in one man.

Sir Noël Thackeray.

He's a right geezer, Bosco, my old son. A diamond geezer.

Bosco knew this term. It was the highest compliment the East-Enders could pay someone who didn’t actually live on their patch: it meant that they were absolutely trustworthy and a valuable ally to have.

He works up at St Chad's but spends half his time helping out the lunatics over at Bedlam.

He is a psychiatrist?

How should I know, Bosco? All I know is he's a medical man and he's sorted out some problems for us in the past.

Bosco had edged closer at this point, shutting out the rest of the pub around them. Problems?

Davey looked around.

We was doing a job in the underground, up Bakerloo at Hobb's End station. Nothing major. But Harry got bit by something in the dark. Thought it was a rat, but out in the light, it was the biggest rat bite I'd even seen. We washed it out, stitched it up, didn't think about it. Then a week later, something weird’s growing on Harry's arm.

The gangrene?

No, mate, we know what that looks like. This was...well, we took him to Thackeray and he got it sorted. Left Harry with most of his hand, too.

Bosco nodded, and bought another round of beers.

Back in the house, he looked at the list. Sir Noël did not live far from where he was, but in financial terms, it was a million miles away. He checked the clock. There was still enough time. He checked the lock on the morphine cabinet again and walked back out, heading for Mayfair.

Bosco waited outside Thackeray's club. The doctor's housekeeper had informed him where Sir Noël could be found, after Bosco had stressed that it was an emergency and passed a reasonable amount of coin to her. The club doorman had taken Bosco’s message but made no promise that any response would be forthcoming. So Bosco stood outside, out of the way of the men who came in from the end of their days in the City to sit by themselves, chew on over-cooked beef and read the newspapers as if there were no-one else in the room, and waited. He was quite happy that Monsieur Kerry did not belong to any clubs as it would have been quite insufferable to stand outside like this more often than very rarely. English society did not have much of a place for a Legionnaire - even a highly decorated one - who had not been an officer, nor had any real history.

Mr Bosco? a new voice called from the door. An older man was looking out.

Yes?

The new figure extended a hand and ushered Bosco into the waiting room inside.

Sir Noël Thackeray. I received your note. Please, follow me.

They walked down a short corridor to a small anteroom. My apologies, Mr Bosco, but they are serving dinner and so this is the only room we have free to talk at the moment.

My apologies for interrupting your dinner, Sir Noël.

Thackeray waved a hand. It will be as good in thirty minutes as now, except possibly I shall be able to lift the gravy from the poor meat and avoid it completely. Any friend of Davey's is worth at least a small amount of cold beef. Now, tell me about this wound.

Bosco drew out a small notebook and went through the history of Kerry’s injury, showing sketches of the wound at various points. Thackeray made notes of his own in a small gold-covered notebook and muttered to