Full Circle: Men of Our Times, #6

By James Farner

"Before he died, his final thoughts were of home."

Europe is on the road to war. The year is 1933 and John finds himself in Paris, once again forced to flee for his life. But when he discovers that his pursuer Ronald Bell is dead, he takes the chance to return to England.

But with the baggage of a dead man and his old friends looking to force him into their service again, John realises he can't start a new life now that he's a rich man. Torn between saving his own skin and doing the right thing, John has to fight both his friends and his family.

The decisions he makes along the way will ultimately come to define his place in the world.

Will he side with the rich or the poor?

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Farner
• Release date: Apr 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386684084

Book preview

Full Circle

Men of Our Times Book 6

Copyright © James Farner 2019

Cover design by www.stunningbookcovers.com

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Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter One

1933

Christian Holmes stood with Mr. Fitzgerald in the middle of the woods in Southern England. The trails took them, deep into the Forest of Dean. The great tree canopy did much to cover the sunlight of the English summer, leaving speckles of gold on the ground.

He scratched at his long moustache, the ends of which stuck out like the points of swords. His hair looked like the sun had poured molten gold upon his crown.

This, Mr. Fitzgerald observed, made him look like the image of an aristocrat. It's why he enjoyed working with him. Mr. Fitzgerald approached in tweeds and carrying a shotgun as if dressed for a hunting trip.

Is it done? said Mr. Fitzgerald.

Christian coughed into his fist and nodded. Of course, sir.

Excellent. Mr. Fitzgerald placed two fingers into his mouth and let loose a shrill whistle.

His dog arrived, a bitch that had served him well for the past seven years. Come to think of it, Clara far surpassed any of his previous hunting dogs. Mr. Fitzgerald needed her to keep the illusion alive.

Take me to them.

At once.

Mr. Fitzgerald's face stiffened as Christian turned and led them into a small glade just off the track. His long boots crushed the stinging nettles and thorns into the ground.

Clara, Mr. Fitzgerald snapped as the dog created more swishing sounds than he liked.

The dog obeyed and began to creep over every blade of overgrown grass like it would sting her.

Here you are, Mr. Fitzgerald.

Mr. Fitzgerald looked into the small glade and saw what he expected to see. Three bodies hung from the ancient branches. They each had bags over their head, with their hands bound behind their backs.

Quite suitable that they receive the penalty of criminals, said Mr. Fitzgerald. Is it not?

Christian shrugged. It's only a job to me. I have no feelings either way. We caught them, as asked, and they hung.

Show me.

Christian sighed and came to the first body, dressed, as they all were, in a tailored suit. Christian didn't deign to remove their shrouds. The faces of hanged men were objects of pure terror, with blood vessels bursting and their long, glassy stares into nothingness.

This is Mr. Wentworth, a prominent trade unionist and a known communist. Jonathan Wentworth has always been something of a thorn.

Mr. Holmes, a voice called.

Mr. Fitzgerald turned to see Henry Giles-Froling moving towards them. The giant of a man had a wide chest and always dressed in military uniform. But today he wore a different uniform, one of jet black.

Ah, Mr. Fitzgerald, a pleasure to see you again. Henry extended his hand. I hope you are satisfied with what has been carried out today. We have made great strides in our cause.

Very. Mr. Fitzgerald gestured at Christian. Christian was giving me the final scores, let's say.

Excellent. Henry turned to Christian. There are no followers near the Forest of Dean. The roundup passed off without any problems.

Good. It should be some time before they discover the bodies. Long enough for us to cover our tracks.

Christian tapped the boot of the second body. I am sure you know this man. Rising star of the Labour Party, Dennis Walker. Was expected to run for parliament at the next election. And was widely tipped as being a future prime minister.

Mr. Fitzgerald gritted his teeth. He despised Dennis. The young man had dared to attack him by name in one of his speeches in Birmingham. Who did this upstart think he was to attack the likes of him?

And the final one? I recall you only mentioning two men.

Christian couldn't help but grin at that. The prize catch, you might say. It was rather unexpected, but we took the opportunity because we may not have gotten it again. This man. Christian walked towards the third hanged man as the birds chittered overhead. Is Ronald Bell.

Mr. Fitzgerald couldn't help but let his jaw fall to the floor. "The Ronald Bell?"

The very same, Christian beamed. We came across him during his travels and pulled him in. I imagine he was tapping his contacts in London again.

Frightfully good news, said Henry. He was a dangerous man and wielded more power than any of us. His history working for the government ensured that he was thought untouchable.

Until now, Christian drawled.

I never thought he was considered a priority. After all, he was no direct threat to us. Mr. Fitzgerald took a turn around his body. In fact, he rather agreed with our cause. A nationalist who would do most anything for his country.

Henry cleared his throat. I did attempt to convince him to join us a year ago. However, I rather assess that he has become something of a liability.

And why is that?

Simple. His obsession with hunting Lord Williams dominated his life, and has done for the past decade. That sharpness that so characterised him had been blunted. Every resource he had he put towards finding Lord Williams.

Mr. Fitzgerald chuckled that that. A rather vengeful man. I must confess that I only knew of the man. I never actually spoke to him.

He had some sort of quarrel with Lord Williams. Mr. Bell never told me the full story, but suffice to say that one of Lord Williams' friends shot him.

Mr. Fitzgerald shrugged. It matters not now. Ronald is dead. Speaking of which, what did happen to John Williams?

He left the country, that we are sure of, said Henry. The question is which country? There have been no sightings of him in England for over ten years. However, he has been seen in various European theatres, so it seems he keeps himself on the move.

Is he a threat to us? asked Mr. Fitzgerald.

Only if he returns and decides to become a threat. Until he positions himself against us, let the man live in peace. You never know, said Henry with a wink. He may even desire to help us.

Mr. Fitzgerald raised his eyebrows. From what he knew about John, he doubted that John could care a jot for politics, especially not for their special brand of politics.

Henry clicked his heels together and stuck out his right arm straight in salute. PJ.

The other two men joined him in their fascist salute and a shout of 'PJ', the calling card of the British Union of Fascists.

Chapter Two

Paris blossomed with activity below John Williams. Street cafes, the latest motorcars, and couples arm-in-arm in the latest fashions strolled along the wide Parisian street of Rue des Rosiers in the trendy 4th arrondissemont.

John stood upon his balcony watching it all with a cigarette held casually in his hand. The afternoon sun cast one long shadow down the opposite side of the street.

The Haussmann buildings had always been designed to offer high, imposing streets. The little side streets, like those in London, eliminated to make it easier to squash any sudden revolutions.

Spencer, his old servant, joined him on the balcony with a glass of red wine in his hand. His long time assistant had lost most of his hair, with only a thin sheen of grey covering his skull.

Are you ready for the party tonight? said Spencer.

John screwed his eyes shut. What party?

The charity party. The one being run by Jean de Montforte. We have to go. He will be expecting you.

Aye, I suppose so. I remember now. He asked me personally.

That and his connections in politics are vital for your safety.

Not now that the socialists are doing their best to ruin everything.

They're no threat to us.

John didn't know about that. Edouard Daladier had made him uneasy. A radical socialist, he threatened to turn France red. As a member of the rich and powerful, he didn't fancy his chances if he decided to follow through on radical socialism's ideals.

Anyway, did we get any letters?

We did. Or should I say you did. I don't have too many people that want to write to me. I've been retired too long. But you got a message from England.

He didn't like the sound of that. Fancy pouring me a wine?

Spencer nodded and deposited his cup on the little iron table they kept on the centre of the balcony.

John returned to viewing the street again and ran his hands through his hair. He already sensed who the letter came from. His ingrate of a son, George, the current Duke of Cramlington regularly begged him for money and other favours. John rarely replied to them. George had turned into a monster.

Spencer returned, cupping another glass of wine in one hand and an elegant envelope in the other. He handed both of them to John.

John quaffed most of his wine in one. He needed a drink before he confronted the latest grovelling letter from George.

I'm sorry about him, Spencer said.

Aye, so you keep saying. John fell into one of the matching chairs around the table.

I do mean it.

John didn't answer to that. It wasn't that the begging bothered him so much as his son had unceremoniously evicted his mother Adelaide from Cramlington House and married her best friend Elena Blackwood.

He turned the letter over. The lettering didn't seem like it came from Cramlington House. This peaked his curiosity, and he cut the letter open with the nail of his thumb.

Spencer joined him at the table. He could feel his friend's gaze burning into him. Spencer knew discretion, but he had loosened up over their years together. He didn't turn his head away like he used to.

John observed the headed parliamentary notepaper, before his eyes sidled downwards.

Lord Williams,

I apologise for approaching you like this, but I thought it would interest you that approximately two months ago Ronald Bell was found dead in the Forest of Dean. Investigations are currently ongoing.

It is through my extensive network that I managed to find a home address for you. I also apologise for digging into your private business. As a former friend, I always did wonder why you fled the country at short notice. The House of Lords sorely misses your presence.

In any case, I would like to request that you return to England. I believe that your safety can now be guaranteed and you will be able to enjoy the lifestyle that you have become so accustomed to.

I also have rather an interesting business proposal for you, which would make use of your talents. The British Union of Fascists is ensuring that the purity of the British Empire remains so. To avoid the chaos of both France and Germany, your talents would be highly desirable and the rewards highly valued, on your part.

I do hope that we can set aside any past bitterness between ourselves.

Rt Hon David Fitzgerald MP

John placed the letter on the table. He didn't know what to think regarding the proposal. Mr. Fitzgerald had worked with him before, but he had shown himself to be more than happy to sell him out, like he had tried to do with the murder of Mr. Bateman years before.

Ronald Bell is dead, John said at last.

He's what? Spencer moved fast to stop himself from spilling his drink. So, we can go back to England?

John didn't answer that. It changed little. He didn't trust Mr. Fitzgerald, and he didn't like the idea of working with him again. Plus, he didn't care much for the fascists rising in Europe.

There's no threat to you anymore, is there? said Spencer.

There could be. John drummed his fingers on the table. He has a lot of friends.

Ronald had haunted him for more than ten years. John had moved from party to party and from great European city to great European city. He'd never done it for the purposes of a Grand Tour but to always throw Ronald off the scent.

He can't threaten you now. Or me for that matter.

John nodded. Ronald had turned on him when he refused to murder a prominent communist and his family. Spencer had then saved his life by shooting Ronald in the arm when John's life came under threat.

We shouldn't move too quickly. Give it time for it to blow over.

Don't you miss England? said Spencer.

John crossed to the balcony and leaned over it again. Sometimes I do and sometimes I don't. Every year we're away I miss it less and less.

We could go back, even if it's just for a short time.

John shook his head. This is my life now. I won't take the risk.

––––––––

Jean de Montforte had a grand chateau outside of Paris. Like all good French aristocrats, they had a prominent apartment in the capital for business and a lavish chateau well away from the bustle

John and Spencer, who had become a prominent socialite in his own right, both arrived in a black cab at the stunning surroundings.

The night already started to fall. The lights around the veranda illuminated the gardens. John had visited the Montforte estate before. The gardens had fountains, Greco-Roman statues, and a maze that led to a small pond and seating area.

Cars already filled the open area below the temple-like abode, high on a dais of granite. The grey rock made the estate shimmer under direct sunlight.

Let's hope that we don't have to spend too long here, said John.

Spencer had a great smile on his face as he looked at John over the top of the cab's roof. Come on, it will be as grand as ever. It's the perfect time to circulate. Anyone who means anything will be here.

John nodded and they walked together up the steps to the front door. All the men here wore tuxedos and the women’s gorgeous gowns showed more leg than John would have ever envisioned ten years ago.

Let's see if we can find Jean, said John.

John began to weave his way through the house. Numerous servants passed trays filled with drinks. The two guests manoeuvred themselves in and out of the warm chatter of the revellers largely without notice.

High ceilings with frescos of religious scenes painted by prominent artists from France and Italy looked down upon them. John thought he spotted a vision of the Garden of Eden as they entered the ballroom.

Jean had become something of a phenomenon when it came to religion. He liked nothing more than to preach about what God would have said whenever he entered into debate with his peers. It made him a prime target for light mockery, although never to his face.

There he is. Spencer gestured towards a squat, clean-shaven man with a combover in the centre of the room.

Jean barely stuck out of the grouping surrounding him. He constantly shook hands and kissed cheeks as new arrivals came to make their presence known.

Want me to go? said Spencer.

Aye, I don't fancy getting into all that.

Spencer strode towards the grouping and elbowed his way through. A couple of quick words and Jean detached himself from his guests.

John, how nice of you to come. You were one of the men I most wanted to see here tonight, which is why I asked you personally rather than send an invitation, said Jean in heavily accented English.

I would always give you the courtesy of attending one of your parties.

I am honoured. Ah, but you have yet to have a drink. Come, I made sure to get that Scottish whisky you like. I have many guests from all around the world.

Jean clicked his fingers and, at once, the servant with the whisky arrived with the silver tray balanced on the tips of his fingers.

He grabbed for two whiskeys and handed one to Spencer.

We must discuss some important business. I do hope that you do not mind. Maybe you were not expecting business tonight.

It's the only reason I wanted to come.

Not at all, said John.

Wonderful.

John sent a look at Spencer, who seemed far more interested in eyeing up a lone woman about twenty years his junior.

Jean began to lead him towards a corner of the ball room, before they ducked out of a side door onto the quieter veranda. In the twinkle of the lights, John saw how much hair Jean had started to lose. The thin combover did little to hide it.

How would you like to leave France and return to England? said Jean.

John jerked his head back, having not expected the pointed question. You know that it would put my life at risk.

For a short time, I mean. I am looking to visit Jersey. I must move some of my assets out of France. She is under threat.

From Daladier?

Daladier is a problem, but no. I would not take such radical steps because of a French politician. A German politician, on the other hand, I fear.

John opened his mouth to say something but closed it again. The rise of Adolf Hitler to the office of chancellor in Germany had many French tongues wagging. His nationalist rhetoric and threats to rip up the Treaty of Versailles that concluded the Great War irked many Frenchmen.

There will be another war, said Jean with sadness in his voice. "It is inevitable. We