Castle Macnab E-Book

Robert J. Harris

• Herausgeber: Polygon
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Serie: The Richard Hannay Adventures
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 251

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

In 1920s Scotland a foreign dignitary on a secret visit has been abducted by men who plan to murder him. Veteran adventurer Richard Hannay must recruit three of his oldest friends to prevent a catastrophe that could plunge Europe into another war. It is a mission none of them ever expected to undertake, for the man they must rescue was once their sworn enemy – the Kaiser. As he and his allies pursue a desperate chase through the Highlands, Hannay discovers that he has stumbled upon an international conspiracy, one that shockingly involves a member of the British royal family. In Castle Macnab Robert J. Harris, bestselling author of The Thirty-One Kings, has created a new adventure for Richard Hannay and a sequel to John Buchan's classic novel John Macnab.

Leseprobe

CASTLE MACNAB

______________

ROBERT J. HARRIS

CASTLE MACNAB

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Richard Hannay Returns

First published in Great Britain in 2018 by Polygon, an imprint of Birlinn Ltd.

Birlinn LtdWest Newington House10 Newington RoadEdinburghEH9 1QS

www.polygonbooks.co.uk

1

Copyright © Robert J. Harris 2018

The right of Robert J. Harris to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patent Act 1988.

All rights reserved.

ISBN 978 1 84697 457 1

eBook ISBN 978 1 7885 060 5

Design and typesetting by Studio Monachino

Printed and bound by Clays Ltd, Elcograf S.p.A.

To Steve – the spirit of John Macnab lives on!

CONTENTS

Prologue: The Exile

PART ONE: A GAME OF KINGS

1Beneath the Visiting Moon

2A Monarch in the Wild

3The Hungry River

4The Knights Advance

5Tea with the Red Queen

6The Judgement Tree

7The King in Check

8A Surprised Witness

9The Verdict

Interlude: Pawn Sacrifice

PART TWO: A SPOT OF POACHING

10The Rules of the Game

11The Beasts of the Field

12Prince of the Skies

13Janet Macnab

14The Reverend Archie

15Foxes and Hounds

16A Private Little War

PART THREE: CASTLE MACNAB

17The Dry Well

18The False Run

19A Mighty Fortress

20Separate Roads

21The Assault on Castle Macnab

22The Watchers

23Arms and the Man

24The Fields of Gold

Epilogue

Author’s Note

Since recounting my escapades with the Black Stone shortly before the Great War, I have fallen into the habit of writing up my reminiscences. This particular adventure involved a number of my friends and I have made so bold as to relate their exploits based upon the first-hand accounts they reported to me.

However, for reasons of political sensitivity, this tale must be kept a close secret until such time as the events reported have lost the power to shock, embarrass or offend.

RICHARD HANNAY

PROLOGUE

THE EXILE

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‘The Lord also spake unto Joshua, saying, . . . Appoint out for you cities of refuge, . . . ‘And when he that doth flee unto one of those cities shall stand at the entering of the gate of the city, and shall declare his cause in the ears of the elders of that city, they shall take him in . . . and give him a place, that he may dwell among them.

‘And if the avenger of blood pursue after him, then they shall not deliver the slayer up into his hand.’

JOSHUA XX 1–5

Doorn House, Holland, September 192–

The house at Doorn was a very pleasant prison, but it was no less a prison for its comfortably appointed apartments and its colourful, scented gardens. When the Exile first arrived in Holland in November of 1918 he had been granted sanctuary in the castle of Amerongen. That had been much more to his taste. There it had been easy to persuade himself that the castle’s high walls and double moat were intended to provide him with security and keep the curious at bay, rather than to form the limits of his new, heavily restricted world.

But it chafed him to rely on the goodwill of the Bentinck family who had opened their doors to him. He eventually made use of his substantial coffers to purchase a house in nearby Doorn and have it refurbished to his own imperial tastes. From the outside it merely resembled the country retreat of a moderately successful merchant, but the Exile had added a number of rooms as well as overseeing the installation of electric lights, central heating and the most modern cooking facilities available. He had also supervised the construction of a spacious entrance hall dominated by a magnificent staircase of white Silesian marble shipped in from the royal castle in Berlin.

Today, however, neither these walls nor this flat country would contain him.

He awoke well before sunrise, even earlier than was his usual habit. He sprang from his bed with an excitement he had not felt in some time and threw open the curtains. Outside, the close-clipped lawns were heavy with dew under a cloudy sky and the poplars in the neighbouring park were half veiled in mist. The air was cool and still, the silence unbroken except by a single cock crow from a distant farmyard.

A light tap at the door announced the arrival of Hans, his faithful valet of many years, who had been instructed to advance the usual morning schedule. Hans was the only person in the house who still insisted on wearing his waxed moustache in the old upturned way, like a true Prussian.

‘Good morning, Your Majesty,’ he greeted his master. ‘You slept well?’

‘Never better, Hans,’ the Exile assured him. ‘You may draw my bath.’

Hans attended to his duties with his habitual brisk deference, laying out a freshly laundered set of clothes while his master completed his morning ablutions.

Half an hour later, the Exile emerged from his room dressed in a well-cut travelling suit of grey serge and comfortable leather walking shoes. He moved quietly down the upper hallway past the bedchamber of his new wife, twenty-eight years his junior. Though she was privy to the day’s plan, he had urged her to keep to her usual routine, sleeping on until a maid entered with a tray of orange juice, sweet pastries and coffee.

The Exile walked with dignity down the marble stairs and paused before a life-sized portrait of himself in full naval uniform which had been painted some twenty years before. That uniform, like most of his clothes, right down to his handkerchiefs, had been looted from his palace when he made his retreat – he would not call it a flight – to Holland.

It was one of several paintings he had brought out of storage in Germany to be hung here in Doorn, along with a score of smaller works of art – miniatures and statuettes – depicting him on horseback or seated upon a throne. For the first few years here he had been too cautious to decorate the house with such images, but presently he felt the need to gaze upon his former glory, reminding himself that he was still that man from whom greatness had been unjustly stolen. The game, however, was not yet over, and he had a few cards left to play, as recent visitors from the homeland had reminded him.

Entering his study, the Exile seated himself at the broad mahogany table by the window. Crowded with mementos, the room had the air of a sanctuary. Here were the maps he had pored over so often, re-enacting in his mind those old battles, weighing a triumph here against a setback there. Time and again he had sought out some bright chink, some moment of advantage where the tide of conflict might have been turned into a victory. Such a victory would not only have preserved his throne, but have caused him to be lauded for generations yet to come as the saviour of his people and the man who brought the squabbling nations of Europe to heel under one wise and benevolent rule.

Hans drifted in with the breakfast tray, then left his master alone with the grilled sole and two poached eggs. After picking distractedly at the meal, the Exile swallowed a single cup of coffee and pushed the dishes aside. He stepped out into the hallway where Hans waited to dress him for the morning walk that was an inflexible part of his daily routine.

His favourite coat was of heavy wool, cut in the style of a military greatcoat. When Hans helped him into it, the weight of it sat well on his shoulders. Catching his reflection in a nearby mirror, he was gratified to see himself transformed from a mild country squire into a man who once commanded massed ranks of cold steel and hot blood.

A dark grey Homburg trimmed with a black cock’s feather completed his ensemble. Taking leave of his valet, he marched outside and descended the broad front steps.

The light was now spreading in a silver sheen across the sky. Moving away from the house, he passed a waist-high stack of freshly chopped firewood, the result of his own labours. On any given day he could be found among the trees in the park, his shirt loose, without collar or tie, energetically setting to work with a well-sharpened axe. It was a continuation of the long-standing physical regimen by which he had overcome the infirmity of his withered left arm, the result of a difficult birth he had been lucky to survive.

In his youth it was thought that he would never be able to hold a rifle, but with strenuous effort and coaching he had become an accomplished marksman. Likewise, many doubted he would ever be able to ride, hampered by such an infirmity, but he knew what was required of a monarch, so through a combination of expert training and sheer willpower he had mastered horsemanship.

As a result of such challenges, in spite of the blessings of wealth and privilege, which were his by right, he knew what it was to struggle, to overcome the hardships inflicted by the random cruelties of fate. Even now, in his sixty-fifth year, he enjoyed a vigour that would have been the envy of many a younger man.

After completing a circuit of the rose garden, he directed his steps towards the ornamental pond he had constructed at the request of his first wife, his dear Dona. She had died before it was finished, having never fully recovered from the shock of their downfall, but he insisted it be completed as a memorial. It reminded him of her quiet, reassuring placidity, which now he missed so much. Hermine, his new bride of eighteen months, was much more demanding.

Several Hook Bill ducks were gathered at the pond, some dabbling in the water, others squatting on the bank. When the Exile appeared, they clamoured about his feet. Smiling indulgently, he reached into his pocket for the bag of breadcrumbs Hans had provided, and tossed them by the handful to the grateful birds. This simple ritual brought back memories of better days when he would fling a scattering of coins into the crowd as his state carriage pulled away from some public appearance.

When the bag was empty, he returned to the house by way of the main drive to find a familiar bicycle parked outside. It was the property of his young adjutant, Captain Sigurd von Ilsemann, who lived in nearby Amerongen with his Dutch bride, the lovely Elizabeth Bentinck. Ilsemann himself was waiting in the front hall. He greeted the Exile with a crisp salute and reported, ‘All is ready, Your Majesty.’

Like his master, he was dressed for travelling, and there was a high-strung air of excitement about him.

The Exile raised an eyebrow. ‘The car?’

‘Parked around the back. Our luggage has been loaded.’

‘You have confirmed our sea transport?’

‘Yes,’ the young captain replied. ‘The Schooner Minerva is just waiting for us beyond Antwerp and Baron von Hilderling will meet us there. His man Kurbin is already in Scotland and arranging transport and accommodation.’

The Exile paused briefly to savour the moment. ‘That is good, Ilsemann. You have done well.’

A shadow crossed the floor, cast from above. Turning, the Exile was surprised to see his wife descending the broad staircase from the upper levels of the house. She had tied a robe of lavishly embroidered Chinese silk around her nightdress and her hair was decorously tucked up under her sleeping cap. When she reached the bottom of the stairs she glided towards them, her satin slippers making no sound on the marble floor.

‘Empress,’ Ilsemann greeted her with a bow. He knew she had no right to the title, but she insisted upon it, and everyone at Doorn House knew it was unwise to displease her.

Hermine ignored him. Eyes fixed on her husband, she halted within an arm’s length of him. ‘I had a bad dream last night,’ she informed him, her tone almost reproachful. ‘One to do with you becoming lost in a dangerous forest with wild beasts on every side.’

Reaching out, the Exile placed his hands on her shoulders and smiled indulgently. ‘Ah, you even dream like Caesar’s wife. Cast it aside. We cannot be ruled by the phantoms of the night when the bright day beckons.’

Hermine shivered slightly. ‘I know, but you are taking such a risk. And for what – a jaunt?’

The Exile made haste to reassure her. ‘My dear, you must not fret yourself. A few days in open hill country will do me a world of good. When I return you will see a flush in my cheek and a spring in my step that will lighten your heart as much as my own.’

‘But to go there, to the land of your enemies . . .’

‘Former enemies,’ he corrected her. ‘We are at peace now, and I am but a private man desirous of a modest amount of recreation.’

‘Should you be recognised, what protection would you have?’

The Exile conjured up a laugh that was intended to sound carefree. ‘Those Scottish Highlands were cleared of people long ago. They have been replaced by sheep, and from sheep I have nothing to fear. Besides, the good captain will be with me.’

Seeing that Hermine was about to speak again, he placed a finger firmly upon her lips. ‘No, no, my will is unbending in this. Your champion must go out into the world, perhaps to return with a prize – freshly shot venison or a brace of plump grouse. Yes, instruct cook to be ready to prepare a banquet of game.’

He kissed her lightly on the brow then turned to see Ilsemann opening the door for him. It began to drizzle as they walked around the house to where the Daimler awaited with Walther, the Exile’s aging chauffeur, at the wheel.

‘Your wife is right to be concerned,’ Ilsemann observed with a frown. ‘If she learned that this was no mere holiday, she would know what the hazards truly are.’

His master gave a decisive shake of the head. ‘Even if nothing more comes of it than a few days of hunting, that in itself would be worth the hazard, Sigurd. You know how suffocating my life is here. No shooting, no riding, no medals, no uniform, nothing that might remind anyone of my regal past. For a few days at least, I will be free of that constraint.’

The two men climbed into the back of the car and the chauffeur started the vehicle. At the end of the driveway, two disinterested Dutch guards opened the gate and waved them on their way. Tours in the local countryside were one of the Exile’s few pleasures, and the guards were used to his frequent comings and goings. Their job, after all, was not to contain him, but to keep sightseers away and deter anyone who might wish him harm.

‘You recall your instructions, Walther?’ the Exile prompted as they headed northward at a cautious speed worthy of their aged driver.

‘At Zuylestein you will transfer to a different car.’ The chauffeur cleared his throat unhappily. ‘I wish I were going with you, Your Majesty.’

The Exile spoke sternly. ‘No, Walther, you must return in the afternoon when the guards have changed. Your story will be that I am indoors and you have been out to fetch petrol. Remember, Dr Haehne and the empress will tell everyone that I have retired to my bed ill and am not to be disturbed by anyone but the two of them.’

‘Yes, I know, Your Majesty,’ the glum old man responded. ‘And Captain von Ilsemann has gone to visit relatives in the Fatherland.’

‘Good, good.’ The Exile clapped his hands on his knees and gazed through the rain-spattered window at the passing landscape. A smile touched his lips as he addressed his adjutant. ‘I have a glorious feeling, my friend, that destiny is not done with me yet.’

PART ONE

A GAME OF KINGS

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1

BENEATH THE VISITING MOON

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Rushforth Lodge nestled comfortably into the folded hills of Denroy, as if that grassy shelf had been moulded by a gigantic yet kindly hand to provide a resting place for man amidst the harsh crags and thick forests. Behind the house a stony escarpment rose sharply, forming a rugged bulwark against the storms that all too often came sweeping in from the west. In front of the house the land fell away in a series of wooded terraces to the bank of a narrow, racing stream.

On this September evening the piping of curlews from the rocky overhang haunted the air like an enchantment, conjuring a pink sunset out of the hard blue sky. The lodge and its outbuildings had long ago spread to the very edge of the drop, and now exhibited a degree of dilapidation that suggested a project long abandoned. Yet the stream of peaty smoke issuing from the crooked chimney indicated warmth and good company inside.

And indeed there was. Three gentlemen rested at their leisure before the broad fireplace, each ensconced in a worn leather armchair, a bottle of fifteen-year-old Islay on a table between them surrounded by a litter of glasses and smoking paraphernalia. A genial silence presided over the room, broken only by the crackle of burning peat in the hearth. The men’s attitude of satisfied relaxation bespoke a day of welcome exertion, and also an easy comfort in each other’s company such as only comes from the particular friendship that stretches back to the innocent mischief of boyhood.

The tallest and darkest of the three, Lord Lamancha, had no connection whatever with the haunts of Don Quixote, though the coincidence of names certainly amused him. In his case it was derived from a shieling on the Liddesdale estate ruled over by his father the marquis. However, neither the Borders nor these Highland glens of Wester Ross were the usual environs of Charles Lamancha. He was a denizen of the cabinet offices and closeted clubs of Parliament, where he was to be found negotiating the intricate policies of a delicately balanced government.

With his black moustache and pointed chin, he resembled a Hispanic nobleman recently returned from the conquest of the New World. Friends and acquaintances often joked that he would be more at home on the deck of a pirate ship than on the floor of the Commons. No one doubted that in such a case the privateers under his command would willingly plunge into the heart of the Inferno if he chose to set such a course. The almost unconscious masterfulness of his nature led some to see him as a future leader of his country, though this was a prospect he was quick to dismiss with a mocking laugh and an airy wave of his cigar.

John Palliser-Yeates was of an altogether more practical disposition. His rounded shoulders and occasionally bullish stance were reminders that he had in his youth set crowds cheering his energetic deeds on the rugby field. Once he had the ball in his hands, it was a brave man who stood in the way of his head-down charge for the touch line. Now, he presided over a major banking institution which had done much to steer the country’s economy through the ravages of war. Yet, though his was the most sober of professions, his thatch of fair hair and ruddy cheeks lent him a boyish appearance that was only belied by the good-humoured wrinkles around his eyes.

The third member of the company was Sir Edward Leithen, lawyer and MP and lately Solicitor General to His Majesty’s Government. He had neither Lamancha’s rangy build nor his other friend’s huskiness, and yet there was about him an impression of great strength, as much inner as outer. He was paler than the others, partly because his occupation kept him indoors, but also as a result of a chlorine gas attack in the war that had left a faint yellow tinge to his complexion. His eyes, however, were bright, and testified to a deep power of thought that seemed to energise his sinews as much as his intellect. He was much admired by his colleagues and peers for that philosophical resilience of spirit that lent him the ability to turn mental insight into quick and decisive action.

Having dined well on freshly caught trout from the nearby river, the three friends were content to pursue their own individual forms of relaxation. Lamancha leafed through the latest edition of The Field while Leithen absorbed himself in a well-thumbed volume from the collected works of Sir Walter Scott, The Talisman: Tales of the Crusaders.

Palliser-Yeates was deftly constructing fishing flies from an assortment of materials laid out neatly in a sorting box on his knees. Pausing to stretch his neck, he took note of the title of Leithen’s book and rolled his eyes. ‘The Talisman again? Surely you’ve read that three or four times before.’

Leithen waved his friend’s remark aside. ‘When something is good, it deserves to be revisited. And I must say,’ he added, tapping a finger on the page, ‘Saladin’s boldness in entering the Christian camp in disguise quite puts John Macnab’s exploits in the shade.’

Lamancha set his empty glass aside and regarded his companions as he had once surveyed the ranks of his Australian cavalry brigade before launching them across the plains of Palestine. ‘Do you suppose,’ he suggested with an arched eyebrow, ‘that we could do it all again?’

Palliser-Yeates came close to choking on his cigar. ‘Hardly,’ he scoffed. ‘We were deucedly lucky to pull it off last time.’

‘And to keep our anonymity,’ added Leithen. ‘We can be glad that only a few people know the true identities of the men concealed under the name of John Macnab.’

Only a year ago these three had set themselves a challenge: to overcome the stifling malaise that threatened to undo all the solid achievements of their distinguished lives. They defined their malady as a sort of disenchantment with the worldly success which seemed now to come to them too easily. It was Leithen who had characterised it as a sense that there was nothing left remarkable beneath the visiting moon.

The cure had been suggested unwittingly by their young friend Sir Archibald Roylance, who told them the tale of the near-legendary hunter Jim Tarras. Whenever he felt himself in a funk, Tarras would issue a challenge to local landowners, giving the exact date when he intended to bag a stag on their land, which he would then deliver up to them, for he was no thief. The aim was to create a contest of wits and daring between himself and the gamekeepers.

Lamancha had pounced on this as though a gauntlet had been flung at his feet, and had interrogated Archie about the estates surrounding Roylance’s own lodge of Crask. Sweeping aside the cautious objections of Leithen and Palliser-Yeates, he insisted this was the tonic the three of them so desperately needed. By sheer force of his romantic vision he dragged his more sensible friends into his scheme of rejuvenation. Written challenges were mailed out to three landowners, each signed with the nom de guerre of John Macnab.

In the course of the adventure, sometimes by necessity, sometimes by accident, several other individuals were recruited to the cause of John Macnab, even as the fictional hero’s exploits were blazed across the pages of the national press, displacing the latest strike and the tedious visit of an obscure foreign dignitary.

At the successful conclusion of the exploit, the three had agreed to reunite on the anniversary of John Macnab’s triumph, though it had been decided to hold their celebration at an alternative venue to avoid the risk of their reappearance’s being connected with those notorious events. Lamancha had arranged the lease of Rushforth Lodge, a neglected property in Denroy, some distance to the north of Machray.

The central feature of Denroy was Glen Shean, a serpentine cleft running east–west through a game-rich wilderness of forest, crag and moorland. The river Shean alternately rambled and rushed along the valley floor, fed at its upper end by small waterfalls cascading from the high ground amid outcrops of stone. To the north, the land grew ever more rough and challenging, seamed with burns and dotted with lochans. Mountain peaks loomed blue against the northerly horizon. So here they were, some way north of the original field of battle, at a neglected lodge on the southern edge of Denroy.

Lamancha refilled his glass. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve both settled back into your old routine without any sense of restlessness,’ said Lamancha, refilling his glass. His easy smile took some of the sting from his scornful tone. ‘Shouldn’t we at least try to match the daring of the noble Saladin? Perhaps we should nip over to Balmoral and make off with the king’s royal car, see how long it takes them to catch up with us.’

Leithen shook his head indulgently. ‘Really, Charles, when you’re in this sort of mood I’m half afraid you’re going to turn into Dick Turpin.’

‘We’re certainly not going to bestir ourselves just for a piece of high jinks,’ said Palliser-Yeates. ‘We’d need to have some real purpose.’

‘As the Crusaders in that book of yours looked to Jerusalem,’ said Lamancha with a nod towards Leithen.

‘But the Lionheart didn’t pull it off, did he?’ said Palliser-Yeates.

‘No, he never did reach Jerusalem,’ Leithen agreed, turning to Lamancha. ‘You’re one up on him there, Charles.’

They all knew that Lamancha had marched into Jerusalem with Allenby’s army in 1917, capping a great victory over the Ottomans.

‘That’s true, though I can’t say there’s much peace to be found there even now,’ said Lamancha ruefully.

‘I don’t imagine anyone will find their peace in the actual city,’ said Leithen, ‘but I think the vision that draws men on is that other place, the jewelled City of God.’

‘The heavenly Jerusalem, eh?’ said Palliser-Yeates gruffly. ‘Well, I hope we can get a square meal there and a good claret.’

Noticing the glasses were empty, Lamancha refilled them all. ‘A toast then,’ he said, ‘to whatever lies beyond the next hill.’

As they clinked glasses together, Leithen added, ‘And to each man his own Jerusalem.’

They had barely taken a sip when they were interrupted by an urgent rapping at the front door. With Lamancha in the lead, the three men leapt from their seats and hurried down the hall. Charles flung open the door, revealing two figures on the doorstep.

The taller and stouter of the two was Lamancha’s man Stokes. ‘Sorry for the disturbance, Captain,’ he rumbled. Having served under Lamancha in Palestine, he persisted in addressing him as an officer. ‘I was setting out some snares when I found this chap here stumbling about in the shrubbery.’

Leaning on his arm was a wildly dishevelled stranger, soaking wet and covered in mud, his head hanging low from utter exhaustion.

‘He mentioned Sir Edward by name,’ Stokes continued. ‘Said he’d come looking for him and it was desperately urgent.’

‘Looking for me?’ said Leithen in astonishment. ‘What on earth can he want?’

‘Bring him inside,’ ordered Lamancha, ‘and we’ll hear what he has to say for himself.’

At the sound of his voice, the stranger shook himself loose and staggered forward. With his next step he wavered and collapsed face down on the rug.

The three Macnabs gathered around the fallen man. His sodden clothing was shredded in many places, revealing an array of cuts and bruises beneath. Palliser-Yeates whistled softly through his teeth. ‘Whoever this poor chap is, he’s taken a real mauling.’

‘Let’s get him onto the sofa,’ said Lamancha. ‘Stokes, please fetch some water and towels.’

As Stokes departed, the Macnabs, who were accustomed to dealing with wounded men on the battlefield, gently lifted the stranger and laid him on his back on the sofa. When his face caught the light all three gaped in astonishment.

‘Good God!’ gasped Palliser-Yeates. ‘It’s Dick Hannay!’

When the water arrived Leithen arrived to wipe the grime from the stricken man’s face. As he did so, Hannay’s eyes flickered open. He seized Leithen’s arm and stared at each of the three men in turn

‘Ned, thank God I made it – and that you’re all here!’ he gasped. ‘I need your help in what may be the most desperate endeavour of our lives’.

2

A MONARCH IN THE WILD

________

Richard Hannay’s Narrative

I had not been back to Scotland since the affair of the Three Hostages. In the aftermath of those events I had needed time to recover from the injuries I had received at the hands of Dominick Medina, but also from the realisation that such individuals could exist – even thrive – in the very heart of our civilisation. The passage of time and the precious company of my wife Mary and Peter John, our five-year-old son, had done much to restore my spirits but a certain restlessness still tugged at me.

Much as I loved Fosse Manor, Mary’s ancestral home in the Cotswolds, I had always felt drawn back to Scotland, the land of my birth. Those pristine forests and wild mountains were like a sanctuary where I could experience a sense of renewal. When a widowed cousin invited Mary and Peter John to join her and her own boy for a holiday in Bath, I might have gone with them, but I found myself craving activities more challenging than taking the waters and playing bridge of an evening in the hotel salon. After seeing off my wife and son on their travels, I embarked on a pilgrimage of my own.