Once I Was A Soldier E-Book

Daniel Kemp

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Francesca Clark-Bartlett, wife of the American Democratic Party’s presidential nominee, seeks more power than she already has. Meanwhile, the attractive yet naive Melissa Iverson wishes she had never inherited her family's vast fortune.

After they both become entangled with a 44-year-old, womanizing British intelligence agent, the two find themselves in a web of deception and mystery. Threatening letters, dark family secrets and connections to persons of power all tell them that the path they tread is wrought with danger.

Daniel Kemp's Once I Was A Soldier is a thriller brimming with international intrigue, and a story of poignant self-reflection.

Leseprobe

Once I Was A Soldier

Lies and Consequences Book 2

Daniel Kemp

Copyright (C) 2017 Daniel Kemp

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2021 by Next Chapter

Published 2021 by Next Chapter

Cover art by Cover Mint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

Prologue

A Thursday in late November 1994

I'm in a cage, but it's not a cage that you or anyone else would recognise. The door, beside which I sit, is not locked and nor do the two windows have bars; nonetheless escape is impossible. Escape will always be impossible for me. The room is spacious, painted a motley cream with its workaday appearance intensified by the featureless hard wooden settles fixed to three walls and the unrelated magazines scattered untidily along their lengths. There is a policewoman sitting opposite me who every now and again looks up from her chosen reading material and stares as though I'm an oddity in an exhibition. I stare back. It's all I can do, other than think. I'm thinking now!

I'm not reading. My nurse is reading. She's calm enough to, whereas I'm not. I'm not sitting on those benches but in a soft chair of my own. I have no choice where to sit. There are no chains attached to me and although I find every movement a debilitating strain I want to jump through one of those closed windows and run freely, as fast and as far as I can from what awaits me on the other side of that ugly, brown painted door.

The door creaked opened once and a young woman wearing a pink-striped pinafore offered tea. I refused that offer. Now, I'm beginning to regret that. My throat is dry, but apart from my answering a cursory 'are you okay, dear?' from the nameless policewoman and an 'are we all right regarding the toilet?' from my nurse, we have not spoken a single word to each other in the hour we have sat together.

Some of the glances they throw in my direction appear pitying, whilst in others I'm sure I've detected elements of fear. I guess I must look a little frightening with my face still slightly bruised and my head as bald as a baby's backside. I wanted to wear a wig but I was told it would not be 'desirable' in the circumstances. The circumstances of what exactly? I asked. My question was never answered. Not many that I've asked in the last two weeks have been, particularly the ones I asked of those voices in my head. They are loud and incessant. I am trying to ignore them, but I can't. If I could identify where in my head they're hiding, then perhaps I'd stand a chance. There are too many shadowy corners up there to search. They sedate me, not the voices, no, they try their best to keep me awake. No, it's the nurses that sedate me. There are noises in the corridor beyond the door, not distinct, just noises. It's only noises that I must cling on to in trying to make sense of what happened. I don't want to be here.

Soon I will be called for by name and asked to give account of what brings me to this place. What name shall I give? Should I say—I'm Melissa Iverson, a figure of fun or, I'm Melissa Iverson, an object of pity? Would it be more correct to say—I'm Private Iverson and once I was a soldier, but never was I brave!

There is no morality to be found in evil.

But to recognise that which is truly evil one must forget the rules of morality.

D. Kemp

Part One

By The Wayside

I am the winter's cold. I am the stars at night.

Earthly stones overshadow me and I thirst for light.

I struggle to survive and I'm too weak for the fight.

My growth is so stunted that I'll not stretch in height.

Part Two

Stones

There's no depth to my feelings. I'm shallow and vain.

I'll flourish until there is no more to gain.

My resolve grows weaker as I feel it drain,

As people shun me, no longer pitying my shame.

Part Three

Thorny Ground

I'm swamped by others who crowd me out.

My voice is too feeble, no one hears me shout.

Life is all around me, but I'm suffering from drought.

I want to be noticed, but I'm racked by doubt.

Part Four

Fertility

I am the blue sky of summer. I am the moon that shines.

I light the path to the table on which one dines.

I'm as mighty as a stallion and I'm as strong as a vine.

If you help me ripen then I'll become your wine.

Part One: By The Wayside

Chapter One

Two Years Earlier In November 1992

When Margret Elizabeth Iverson passed suddenly away her husband, Albert, quickly descended into a darkness of sorrow from which he never recovered. The medical diagnosis, as stated on his death certificate sixteen days after his wife had left him, did not recognise grief as the reason for his demise. It identified a weak heart as the primary cause, initially inflicted when he was five years of age and suffered rheumatic fever. The fact that his heart failure happened so soon after Margret's death was said to be nothing but a coincidence. Melissa, their only living child, disagreed with that view. She checked the bathroom cabinet where Albert kept his medication the day after his death.

There was almost half a month's supply of blood-thinning tablets along with his diabetic and sundry medication which she found odd, as it was she who had arranged the collection of his usual twenty-eight-day prescription from the town's chemist; exactly twenty-three days ago. There should only have been five days' supply left, she said silently to herself, before loudly adding, “Daddy,” said with tears wheeling in her eyes, “how could you do this to me?” knowing full well that no answer could come from the private ambulance in which he'd been taken from Iverson Hall and there was no one else who could supply an answer.

* * *

The Iversons had enjoyed their wealthy status since Melissa's great-great-grandfather developed the successful use of a cylindrical wrought iron tunnelling device and then the linings used inside those tunnels that were beginning to criss-cross London, then Europe and North and South America in underground railways systems. It was his money and enterprise that bought the foundries and smelting works which in time had laid the foundation for the Iverson Iron and Steel Company that Albert had managed from 1968 at the age of thirty-nine until his untimely death, at the age of sixty-three. Now it was to be Melissa's responsibility and the one she had emphatically shied away from whenever mentioned by Albert.

* * *

“You remind me of a lonely old man standing over the toilet pan taking a long slow, excruciatingly painful piss over and over again before realising that something in his life is drastically wrong. I'm telling you that I will not become a slave to some smelly, filthy industry like you have done, for the rest of all my life. I have my own life ahead of me and I intend to lead it in the manner I choose. It's not my fault that Mother could not bear you another son to carry the bloody family name on and you can't keep punishing me for Frederick's death. It was a bullet that killed him, not me! His choice to join the army, not mine. I never forced him nor wanted him to leave. He was the only one in this house that I liked!” She took a deep breath before she continued her denunciation of her family's heritage.

“I've sat with you at those board meetings and I've been treated as if I don't exist. Men like them despise women in general and particularly young ones like me. They do not need to see me once a month for an opinion on what's happening in the iron and steel market and quite frankly I find York old, antiquated and boring. In fact, I find the whole of Yorkshire the same! What I know about steel fabrication could be written on the tip of my lipstick. And they know it! They tolerate me because of you, Father. As far as I'm concerned when you're gone I'm selling your majority shareholding and be done with all their pretend smiles and platitudes.”

* * *

In so many ways Melissa mirrored her father and not only in appearance. She shared his height, just under five foot eleven inches and the colour of his hair; black as the freshly mined coal that was carried daily to the factories. His hair, however, was straight, as was her mother's, but it was only in her childhood that she complained about her curls. He was strongly built, being wide-shouldered and slim at the waist, whereas Melissa's build was acutely feminine in every degree. The close-set emerald green eye colouring came from him, as did her stubbornness, her temper and determination to succeed. But her measure of success was not one she shared with him. This defiant disposition was on show as Melissa raged at Albert on the evening of the day of Margret's late October funeral.

“I've had enough of this constant nagging away at me. I will not take on those factories. They go as soon as you go. The same day, the same hour! The more you go on about it the more chance there is of me phoning your broker than calling for an ambulance if you keel over like Mother. Leave it alone, Father, or I swear ……” She had no need to finish her sentence as Albert knew exactly what she would have sworn to do next.

But it was a subject that he couldn't leave alone. For those sixteen days that Albert had Melissa to himself the two of them fought ferociously, especially when Albert appealed to his daughter's benevolent side.

“There are the employees, Melissa. You must consider them before you barter their livelihood away for your own greed. A good many of them have for generations worked for our family since the foundries were first established. There is no other work in most of the areas available to them. If you were to sell our holdings in one go, confidence in our stability would plummet overnight. With the present state of the steel market being what it is that action could be devastating. Think about it another way. Run the business through an advisor. I'll find you one. You have your whole life ahead of you to fulfil your ambitions, after all you're only just out of university. There's ample time. One day you'll no doubt marry and have children. It's common practice now for a wife to add her family name to that of her husband. If you have a son there will be the legacy of more than a hundred of years of Iverson business to inherit, not just mere money. Give a thought to all those people who will be affected by your decision before it's too late.”

Unfortunately, if there was a caring side to his daughter it wasn't to be found on this or any of the other days they had together.

“Why would I be in the least bit interested in people I've never met nor am likely to, Father! Would they care about me? Of course they wouldn't. As for marrying; no thank you. I've seen enough of your own to see that doesn't work. Children! Where did that come from? Any thought of me mothering a snivelling, screaming child to carry on your name can be put right out of your head because that will never happen. No, the factories will close and the sooner the better. Of course, none of this matters whilst you're around and who knows how long…?” She turned from the fireplace where she had stood warming herself, to see that her father had left the room. She gave no thought to his sombre mood nor any to his pleas for humility. Although she knew the meaning of that word, at the age of twenty-three it was not something she possessed.

Albert had felt every vitriolic word of what she said until they stabbed his heart into submission. She was right about his marriage. Some things have to be endured for the good of all, he had often said to his wife, who in turn had agreed, but here was his daughter who would not put a single person in front of her self-interest. He retreated to a room on the ground floor which for almost a year had served as his bedroom as well as his place of work. No longer able to climb the twenty-one stairs of the family's sprawling ancestral mansion outside Hollow Meadow, on the outskirts of Sheffield in Yorkshire, he fell heavily into his favourite, olive coloured, worn wingback leather chair and stared at his desk. His determined gaze fixed on the tarnished silver-framed photograph of a uniformed young man; his son, Frederick.

“Things would have been different if you had lived, Freddie, my boy. Perhaps, even Melissa would have grown up differently. I have nothing to live for now that your mother has passed away and there's nothing I can do to keep the factories in this family's name. But I will not allow them to be sold simply to fill your sister's purse, to be wasted away on useless men and her other frivolous pastimes.”

He reached for the decanter of brandy which was always close at hand, put there by his 'man' Joseph. It was beside him with his glass on the fireside table. On pouring a large measure he sat in silence, fondly reminiscing on more enjoyable times when the house was busy with staff and entertaining was the norm. Nowadays, Joseph and his wife Carol were the only staff at the house, but they were more friends than servants. Part-timers were hired when required and contractors used for the extensive gardens and grounds, but at least with Joseph's help he was able to tend his grapevines in the conservatory.

He gently lifted his son's photo from its place and, cradling it in his spare hand, spoke as if the inanimate object had become alive with feelings and thoughts.

“I could have given you the excitement you said you craved, Freddie. You could have found that alongside me in the world of corporate business instead of the Army as your chosen vocation. Your mother and I really did believe you when you told us that being a young subaltern meant that you would be kept clear of the action in Northern Ireland. Fools, weren't we! Hindsight is a brutal companion.”

The depth of the self-examination into his conscience ran concurrent with his consumption of brandy, until he arrived at that point where he was questioning his most passionately held core values. This time his strangled voice was silent.

Was I wrong to assume that either my son or daughter would want what I wanted so long ago now that I've forgotten the reasons behind the choice I made? Was it a choice, or did I just blindly follow the route I was expected to take as the only son? Was the work ethic I adhered to directly to blame for those miscarriages Margret had to suffer? Or was work the excuse I made for falling into bad company with the results of that too cruel for her to bear? So many hours away from home chasing new markets and potential customers as though my life depended on it. If that's the case then I've been the fool and it's Melissa who is wise wanting away from the business.

Finally came the depression-ridden thought that had lain dormant until released by the alcohol.

Was there any point to my life, or, was I deluding everyone?

The inevitable anger was next as he concluded his conversation with his inner self, and took the only options left open to a normal thinking man when confronted by the enormity of abject disillusionment. He relinquished his grasp on his tangible life provided by his medication and renounced all claim to the reasons he had lived for. That was when normality died and Albert decided to stop living.

During this period of introspection he had been frugal with the truth. Perhaps, it was simply a clouded memory, or the memories of the many disagreements he'd had with his son banished from recollection through necessity. Only he knew the truth, but the inheritance of an iron and steel business was the primary cause of Frederick's decision to join the Army and escape from his father and the same responsibility that reflected in Melissa's emerald green eyes as she stared into that fire.

* * *

Before Frederick died so cruelly in an IRA ambush on the outskirts of Belfast he had developed into a strong-minded individual, tall, good-looking with a determined face and strikingly blue eyes, the very picture of his mother. His arrival was not unnaturally welcomed by both his parents, but that wasn't the case when his sister arrived six years before the sniper's bullet slapped through the army helmet he wore, killing him outright.

For reasons unclear to Melissa, Margret never took to her in an affectionate way. She was distant and aloof, laying blame on her for seemingly everything that was wrong in her own life. On the day Frederick died it came to a head.

It was her continual crying that drove Freddy from this house, Albert. Freddy's dead because of her! I want nothing more to do with that child. Nothing!

In later life when she knew of those miscarriages Margret had, it was those that Melissa blamed, but in her early years away from Margret it was the nannies and housekeepers who took over a mother's role, then, when of school age, she was sent off as a boarder for her elementary schooling and for her secondary education. At the age of eighteen her enrolment at university lifted the tension at Iverson Hall that happened on every weekend she spent with her parents. Albert tried his best to be there for those, but when the demands of the iron and steel business were unavoidable Margret made excuses and left to stay in London at an address unfamiliar to Melissa.

It was through necessity that over her formative years Melissa developed into a self-sufficient individual, asking for little and wanting less. Her parents became strangers to her, two people she was aware of but with whom she shared nothing in common other than an aversion to each other's standards and morality. She quickly detached herself from the rigours of formality. University was where she found room for her simplistic appraisal of life that centred around the principle that one studied alone to achieve a success enjoyed alone, and one partied with those one chose rather than those forced upon one.

Through choice she became confrontational, always having an answer for everything and never accepting fault. Through design she skipped in and out of amorous entanglements that added nothing to her happiness or advantage, and through dogged hard work she gained the degree of education she was after. However, that education came only with prestigious letters after her name; it did not come with any degree of certification into the understanding of human life.

Clothes are easily changed, but a person's skin is the fabric containing the vital forces of life that unless hit by a thunderbolt remain the characteristics of that person until death. Melissa did not have to wait quite that long for her change on the road to her own Damascus, but she came perilously close.

Wednesday 22nd November 1992

The day after her father's interment in the family mausoleum, Melissa paid a visit to the manager of the private bank in the city of Leeds that handled her father's and his company's business banking affairs, ostensibly to discuss the running of the six factories in the family's Iron and Steel Company. Her real intentions were far from that obvious.

“Please accept the bank's sincere condolences for your tragic loss, Miss Iverson. We were all so shocked to hear of your father's death. I must say that when I saw him he did look exhausted and under tremendous strain. It cannot have been easy on either of you since Mrs Iverson's passing.”

“When did you see him last?” she asked, somewhat confused by her father's visit she was unaware of.

“Let me see now.” He checked his desk diary. “Yes I have it here. A week ago on the fifteenth! I followed his instructions as to the ownership of the freeholds of the factories and his personal shareholdings in the business. I was under the impression that he had discussed it all with you!” His consoling countenance was quickly replaced by one of bewilderment.

“Were you indeed. And what precisely were those instructions, Mr Bateman?” Melissa asked belligerently.

“I'm afraid I'm unable to say, Madam,” he replied, conscious of the minefield that might lie ahead. “His plans are now in the hands of the company secretary in London and without his authority my hands are tied. But I can say this much. It would be in your best interests to visit your solicitors. Lord Belsize is in receipt of your late father's will. That's where your father told me he was off to when he left these offices last Wednesday.”

“Are all of his banking accounts closed?” she asked, flabbergasted.

“All related to the business are, Miss Iverson, but his personal account and your own of course are not. They are operational as normal. Would you like a balance whilst you're here?” he replied, uncomfortable with the conversation and hoping that it would end soon.

A taut, nervous “of both please” was uttered in reply by the emotionally shaken Melissa.

“Yes, I can give you those. You will need a letter of probate before any transfer can be made from Mr Iverson's account to your own and, for that matter, those in your mother's name to your own account. But your solicitor will see to all those technicalities, I'm sure.”

The short meeting was concluded much to the bank manager's relief but not Melissa's. She was somewhere between being confounded by her father's secrecy and in admiration of his deceit. She was speechless as she left the building on her way to the station and the next train to London.

What have you done, Father? was the nagging question that travelled with her for the next three hours.

Chapter Two

Lincoln's Inn, in Holborn, London, is the oldest and largest of the four Inns of Court which barristers of England and Wales belong to and where they are 'called to the Bar.' It is also recognised as having the most distinguished professional bodies of judges and lawyers counted amongst its number. This was where the offices of Belsize and Roberts were situated, which was an unusual fact as they were only mere solicitors, not their exalted cousins, barristers! However, apart from the Iversons they counted the names of some of the most prominent and dignified families in the land on their list of clients and in the world of solicitors there were none more respected than Lord Edwin Belsize and Sir Eli Roberts.

Melissa had phoned ahead arranging a late appointment at three-thirty pm and they in turn had scheduled a car to meet her at King's Cross railway station on her arrival. She was fortunate that the Ritz Hotel in Piccadilly, the only hotel she had heard of, had vacancies, but made no mention of that on speaking to the reservation clerk. Melissa was not the kind of person who recognised luck as a commodity. To her, money bought everything and everyone, and the only fame that was necessary was the fame of success. Her chauffeur had dutifully waited whilst she deposited her overnight bag with Martin, the reservation clerk. His welcoming salutation was wasted on her. However, the one she received at Belsize and Roberts was not.

“Good day to you, Miss Iverson! Would we be wrong to assume you're here to discuss your father's will?”

The 'we' was used superfluously, as there was only herself and Lord Edwin Belsize in the oak-panelled room into which his secretary had escorted her. It was a large, high-ceilinged room smelling of wood polish with the overwhelming fragrant smell of the vanilla mustiness of paper, whereas Lord Belsize's secretary was a small woman who wore a strong almond scent which was not to Melissa's liking. It crossed her mind that she must constantly spray her clothing with it to distract from the solemnity of her surroundings.

“I have, yes, as I did say on the telephone! I understand that my father has put the assets of the family-owned company beyond my control, but what I do not know is where that leaves me financially. He knew of my plans to sell off the factories so I'm left believing it was a fit of anger that persuaded him to abandon them, leaving me with no alternative but to address that decision of his. He was, you understand, unhinged mentally after mother died and this led him to disregard his doctor's advice. In essence, Lord Belsize, he wilfully stopped taking his medication in order to die. In other words it's my suggestion he took his life whilst lonely and suffering from acute depression.” She stared at the phlegmatic solicitor who remained stolidly unmoved by her accusation.

“Have I to find work, or are there sufficient funds in place to avoid that degrading scenario whilst I challenge his will?” she asked as no reply was immediately forthcoming.

“Oh, we can assure you that your late father made more than adequate arrangements for your future, Miss Iverson. Handsome arrangements, I might add. You are an immensely wealthy young lady, and one I would advise against any dispute regarding this last will and testament. I myself took Mr Iverson's dictation and he showed no credible evidence of mental illness to my eyes. I would not be able to assist you if you do object to his wishes. Having made my position absolutely clear on that, shall we get down to facts and figures and forget about needless conjecture?”

Lord Edwin Belsize suggested as he invited Melissa to sit, offering her tea or coffee as he too sat with his finger poised over the buzzer connecting his rooms to those of his almond-smelling secretary. She chose tea which was dutifully carried into the room on a plain wooden tray alongside a red coloured, leather-bound file embossed with the gold leaf initials of A. I. stamped as the heading.

Belsize undid the lace side-fastening and passed the top paper copies to Melissa, who looked dubiously at them.

“Don't be frightened, my dear, they won't bite and they are after all, your future.”

“That's what I afraid of, Lord Belsize, my future I mean. I'm used to certain luxuries that the profits from the foundries paid for.”

He placed his reading glasses on his bulbous red-veined nose, pushing them forward and addressed Melissa looking over the rim.

“Please, call me Edwin. The use of my title puts me in mind of standing in front of the Lord Chief Justice waiting to be hauled over the coals for some misdemeanour on my part and him forgetting my name. Luckily that has not happened, but one never knows, does one! Having said that, let's get on with the business in hand.”

He was far from being a perfunctory man, but the professional that he was led him on occasions to be slightly cursory in his appraisal of situations.

“Your personal stock in the company accrues income along with voting rights as a preferential stockholder. The one thing you don't have now is your father's majority shareholding. The details of your holdings are set out quite clearly in the documentation before you. I'll start to go slowly through them if you're perfectly ready, Miss Iverson? If you need time to raise questions just interrupt and I'll explain.”

“Could we skip the legal jargon and get down to the basics, please? All I'm interested in is how much do I get and how do I get it? One trust fund was released to me when I turned twenty-one and I'm in receipt of another since the twenty-eighth of October just gone. But put the two together and quite frankly it's not very much if I'm to keep things going as they are. I take it that Iverson Hall is mine, Edwin?” She wasn't comfortable with that name but nevertheless used it.

“It is, Madam.”

“In that case my income comes nowhere near what I imagine to be the weekly cost of that rambling old house. The two that are employed there now are an overhead I could well do without. As for the heating and lighting bills they must come to an absolute fortune. Does the income from my shares amount to much, or are there other investments that Father made which would provide funds towards the annual charges of that house?”

“Ah, there you have me! I'm afraid accounting is not an expertise of mine, but I have the last balance sheet of the company and if subsequent years are much the same then your preferential stock will yield an income of somewhere in the region of two hundred and fifty-thousand pounds per annum. You hold, or will hold when all is settled, sixteen percent of stock in Iverson Iron and Steel. Depending on how you wish to manage your affairs some of your stock could be sold on the open market at a very reasonable price. This morning they stood at over seven pounds a share. However, if that was the course you chose then the income they generated would decrease pro rata! I would advise against the sale of assets, but before deciding on any route I would suggest you visit a reputable independent financial advisor. Mr Bateman has handled that sort of thing in the past, but as I always advised your late father, he has a vested interest in your money. An independent advisor would not. I can give you a list of the most reputable ones.

“Your father had a modicum of investment away from his company. A well distributed ownership of shares and three deposit accounts in separate high street banks along with his holdings in the bank in Leeds. His personal cash amounts to,” Belsize flicked through a few of the papers until he found the total that he needed, “Yes, I have it here! Seven hundred and seventy-four thousand, six-hundred and ninety-one pounds, eighty-five pence. That was the totalled amount that Bateman sent me today. He did, of course, receive an income as chairman of the company, a good income at that. I'm afraid that as you are not to succeed him then that source of money is no more.”

“Yes, I do realise that and must balance it against Iverson Hall's costs. That's all three deposit accounts you mentioned is it, or just the one at Leeds?” Melissa asked in a disappointed tone of voice.

“All three! Last year's income from the other shares I've mentioned realised one hundred and two thousand, four hundred pounds and change.”

“And how much are those shares worth on the open market?”

“For an exact figure, Miss Iverson, you would need the services of a broker. I'm sure that Bateman's bank would oversee that transaction. We did do a calculation on that matter for probate purposes in regard to inheritance taxation. You obviously fall into the catchment for that. Our estimation of all share and stock holdings away from the steel works that are transferable into your name was ….” Another pause and shuffle of papers preceded his announcement.

“Two million and ninety-three thousand pounds. There is then the property valuations to add to the taxable estate! Would you like another cup of tea, or shall I plough on as it were?” he offered courteously.

“If I did would it be added to your fees, Edwin, and if so can I afford one?” she asked, sounding truculent.

Belsize was offended by this remark. He was unaccustomed to being referred to as anything but honourable. Petty costs were never his style. As a practised orator he needed no physical show of annoyance to convey his feelings.

“Your cynicism is not only an unwelcome mannerism, it is also an unjust perspective. I have known your family for many, many years and consider myself as a friend along with being the legal advisor your father trusted. If you ever look into the photograph albums your mother was so keen to keep, then my portrait will be found in all the celebrations Albert and Margret shared. Including your christening. As long-standing trustees of your late father's estate our legal obligations are twofold: One; to be responsible for the implementation of the will as specified, and two; to advise our client as to their most advantageous legal position. I am dealing with both these requirements with the utmost dedication, Miss Iverson. A definitive answer to my question would suffice.”

“If you have a whisky that would do very nicely, thank you, and I'm sorry for my rudeness. It was uncalled for,” Melissa replied, suitably rebuked.

“In that case I will gladly join you,” Edwin added.

For a sturdily built man with most of his excess weight carried around his midriff, he was sprightly of foot, moving effortlessly from his commodious chair to the mahogany drinks cabinet beside one of the large floor-to-ceiling windows that fronted the centre of the grass expanse of the Inn. With a sure hand he poured from the tantalus thereon. After a few more minutes of detailed explanation of Melissa's wealth, the file was dispensed with and he addressed Melissa in a more sanguine tone, adopting her first name for his buoyant counselling.

“It is true to say that you have difficult times to face, Melissa. Being single, and may I add a very attractive young lady, along with being considerably wealthy, can lead to awkward decisions being faced before certain liaisons are fully entered into, but you are not naive or foolhardy I hope. All I can see for you is a very comfortable lifestyle ahead if managed with care and prudence. You will, I suggest, engage yourself in gainful employment at some stage. After all, the devil makes use of idle hands, Melissa, and with you he will have plenty of money to indulge himself.”

“I haven't long left full time education, sir. I do intend having some inactive time before I contemplate such a thing,” she replied without hesitation.

“I take it that you are unaware that the house in Chester Square, here in London, is already in your name?”

Melissa almost choked on hearing this, needing to cough as the single malt slid comfortably down her throat.

“I am completely unaware of that,” she said, withdrawing a handkerchief from her handbag to mop her lips. “I didn't know there was a London home. Mother used make excuses to come to London but I never once thought we might have a house here. I need to confess something to you. This is my first time in the capital!” she replied, touching her lips once more before placing her folded white handkerchief back in her bag.

“It was done to mitigate the death duties being levied on your father's estate if he was to survive Margret. Unfortunately, the taxes are punitive. The approximate value of all the assets that after probate and before tax will become yours is in excess of fifteen million pounds. That is a conservative estimation, and includes the current market value of Iverson Hall. It will rise considerably on valuation of the contents of the Hall. I believe there are some valuable works of art and books collected down the years.”

“Will that mean that the Hall will have to be sold?” she asked without emotion.

“Now there you may have a moral predicament. The two members of staff that live on the estate have been left a legacy in your father's will, but the amount would not be sufficient to purchase any property. It was bequeathed them on the tacit understanding they would remain in their accommodation until their deaths. Would you know if they own an independent property, or not?”

Melissa shook her head, adding, “Not as far as I'm aware, but I've never had much to do with them.”

“Hmm! A problem then! Mr Bateman would be in a better position than I to calculate the exact amount of tax owing on the estate, but from what I understand after speaking to him after your call, it seems highly likely that either the ownership of the Chester Square house, or the Hall would have to be sold to cover the sum due to settle the duties owing. Either way, Melissa, you are well provided for from your father's monetary investments and the cash in his and your mother's accounts.”

There was no hesitancy or confusion to her reply.

“I shall live in London,” she announced. “There is nothing for me in Yorkshire now, Lord Edwin. As I see it Iverson Hall was my mother and father's home along with the responsibility of the two servants they, not I, employed. If they are made homeless by my father's decision regarding his refusal to allow the foundries to be sold, then on his head be it. I want nothing to do with the place again. I shall not return. How long will all this take to be finalised?” she asked, finishing her drink and placing it on the papers on his desk as though it amounted to her seal on the event.

Looking troubled by her reply, he asked,

“Are you sure that you wouldn't care for more time to consider that decision? It has, after all, dire consequences for the two that are living in on the estate. Where are they to go? As I said, the legacy is not sufficient to purchase a property and I doubt they would have much savings.”

Her resolve was not shaken.

“I was not put on this earth to mollycoddle anyone. I'm here to make a life for myself and those who don't fit in can be jettisoned as far as I'm concerned. The Spencers are nothing to me. I hardly know them and I have no wish to change that relationship.”

“Were they not around when you were born, Miss Iverson?” Formality had replaced familiarity. “I was under the impression that they have been in the employ of your family for over forty years. Have they family that you know of where they could go, perhaps?”

“Yes, the time sounds about right. But what's that to me? Am I expected to take them under my wing and care for them in their final years at my expense? Should I train as a care nurse for the physically disabled? Because if so, then you and they are sadly mistaken. As far as family is concerned then I have absolutely no idea. I've never spoken to them on such matters and I'm not about to. The house they occupy is within seventy yards of the Hall. I cannot sell the Hall and not the house. No! I'm not going to spend time agonising over them. Everything apart from my private belongings will be sold. Let the Spencers find a retirement home. I'm to live in London and I instruct you to sell the Hall and contents, Lord Edwin.”

As the judicious solicitor looked straight into Melissa's eyes he saw the same grasping nature that her father had reluctantly accepted before he had died with his heart broken. Nevertheless, he considered it his duty to offer counselling.

“In my life I have both freely given advice and been generously paid for it. If I'm paid then it is entirely up to the client to accept or decline. My conscience is clear as to whether he, or she, does or does not. If, however, I'm asked to give advice on a personal level I feel aggrieved if that advice is ignored. As I'm still your legal advisor, and you, Miss Iverson, fall into that second category, it is your decision entirely what to do with what I'm about say.

“You are of an age where nothing is more important than tomorrow, and your tomorrows are as assured as anything can be, but I must tell you this. It is how one treats one's todays that makes one's tomorrows. I would never advise you to keep Iverson Hall, as that is clearly not to your advantage nor is it your choice as to where to live. That I completely understand. But I would sternly caution you not to disregard people as readily as you seem able. Maybe if you were to spend some time in reflection you could find an answer to Mr Joseph and Mrs Carol Spencer's dilemma, especially as they have faithfully served your family for so many years. Could they not, for example, serve you at Chester Square? Although it's not stated in the will, I know your late father would not wish to see them evicted in this way. He was a kind and caring man. I understand that there are several tied cottages on the estate further away from the Hall itself. If London is out of the question, could not the tenancy of one of those be made available for them? As a reward for past services.”

He was not permitted to expand on that proposal, as with defiant deliberation Melissa rose from the green velvet, padded hard-backed chair and fixed her gaze on the file lying closed under her glass on the desk before her.

“I thank you for your time, Lord Edwin, but not for your advice. It was not asked for nor welcome. My instructions are to sell Iverson Hall at the earliest convenience along with all with the freehold of those tied cottages. I am not concerned as to them being vacant or occupied. Close all accounts in my father's name and any under my mother's name, transferring everything to me. I will hold on to the shares in Iverson Iron and Steel. I will examine the other stocks and shares with a view to their future viability sometime after I'm settled into Chester Square. Notice to quit must be served on the Spencers forthwith. I want Christies to arrange for an inventory of the Hall to be drawn up with everything I no longer want going to auction. I will take a few pieces of furniture, my personal belongs and some paintings I'm fond of. I will arrange for the removal of those things as quickly as I can. If there are documents to sign I will sign them now and take my leave.”

He could argue no further as his hands were tied. On returning from accompanying Melissa to the exit of his chambers he summoned his secretary into his office.

“Ah, Joan! I need you to type some letters on behalf of Miss Melissa Iverson. One is not pleasant, I'm afraid. I doubt very much that this will be the last letter you will be typing on her behalf and also the last of an unpleasant nature. I can only hope that subsequent letters will be less punitive. Somehow or other I think we will be in touch with her more times than I would hope. Delay delivery of the notice to quit letter until the morning, Joan. The least we can do is give them a peaceful night.”

As Melissa alighted from the chauffeur-driven car at the steps to the Ritz Hotel she felt the unmistakable cold of winter approaching. As she reached the overhanging stone portico entrance it began to pour with rain but none fell on her. Had it done so, it would have had the same effect as if it fell on a bed of indurated clay. She had far more important things on her mind to think about than the inclement weather.

* * *

That same Wednesday evening Lord Belsize had dinner with his partner Sir Eli Roberts and their respective wives. The evening was meant to celebrate their twenty-fifth anniversary of being in partnership, but Edwin was far from being in a celebratory mood. He was melancholy and uncommunicative. His wife, Cynthia, tried to make excuses for her husband's disposition whilst she was alone with Sir Eli's wife in the Ladies' room.

“He's been like that since arriving home. I've tried to elicit a reason from him but he just clams up and won't explain. Has he said anything to Eli, Frances?” she enquired.

“Not something that Eli's mentioned to me, but he never speaks about work. He will probably liven up after a few glasses of wine. You worry too much, Cynthia.”

* * *

Joseph Spencer and his wife Carol received notice of the legacy that Albert Iverson had bestowed upon them the same day the notice to quit arrived at Iverson Hall by Special Delivery. That Thursday morning saw a collection of callers prior to that letter, all of whom puzzled the Spencers. First to arrive was the removal team of four burly men who presented the shocked Joseph with a list of personal belongings that Melissa wished to be collected and—'delivered to London, chum. An address in Belgravia', the tallest man curtly informed Joseph, whose eyes became glazed in puzzlement.

Carol was busy showing the second arrivals, three equally burly men, along with one bespectacled smaller one, around the Hall pointing out objects to the smaller man who then listed them on the reams of paper clipped to the hard board he carried and which he referred to. When Joseph found the time to open that letter from Belsize and Roberts, the last thing he expected was the instant termination of his and his wife's employment and residence. In the final paragraph of the two-paragraphed letter were these unbelievable words:

'You are hereby given notice to vacate the premises you presently occupy adjacent to Iverson Hall by midnight Thursday 23rd November 1992.'

“That's tonight, Joseph! This can't be right, surely?” Carol asked on checking the letter her husband had passed to her.

“I'll ring the solicitors and clear it up, Carol. Not even Melissa would be that wicked as to throw us out onto the street with such short notice,” he nervously replied.

Chapter Three

Number 12 Chester Square was a nineteenth-century, five storeys plus basement residence in one of London's most sought-after areas. Melissa moved in the day after the Spencers had vacated Iverson Hall without once thinking of them or their plight. From an agency she engaged a cook, a housekeeper, a maid, and a chauffeur-cum-butler-cum-everything else she could think of. She knew nothing of London, but that would not hinder or dampen her determination to fit in and stamp her mark.

In her home town she had never made friends, nor did she at university. Not because she was diffident around people, but because they were inessential to her, an excess not to be indulged. Shy she certainly was not, nor meek, nor timid, being totally preoccupied with herself having no time to recognise peculiarities in order to adapt or see them in others. It would be true to say that she seldom acknowledged that there were in fact others and when she did, those recognised were for her own selfish pleasure not theirs. She was not a virgin, having lost her virginity the first month at university with neither passion nor satisfaction. She collected other sexual partners to rectify those deficiencies and on a few occasions was successful. Sex was another thing that was not essential to her, but the power of her sexual attraction was paramount! The world in which she existed was occupied by only one; herself. Now, having lost both parents, there was no need for Melissa to change and there was no one to rein her in on her perilous journey.

One month to the day after her occupation of the house in Chester Square, Philip, the agency chauffeur, parked her black and burgundy Rolls Royce in front of the row of fashionable boutiques, furniture shops and food halls in Ebury Street, a few minutes' walk from her house. Her unmistakable figure was coming to be recognised in this area, and her money more so.

In David Linley's, a very chic, upmarket furniture emporium, she purchased some home furnishings whilst chatting amicably with the affable owner for half an hour or more during which time many people entered the premises to browse or make inquiries. Melissa noticed one or two of these and later, when she was setting up a delivery account in a recently opened Italian delicatessen a few shops further along, she was not surprised when approached by a man who had seen her inside Linley's furniture shop.

“You seemed to be getting along with David as if you were old friends, but I've never seen you before in his company. Had I of done then I can assure you that I would certainly not have forgotten you. I'm Richard Stanhope, David's partner in the business. And you are?” He offered his outstretched hand by way of a greeting.

“Melissa Iverson,” she said as she gently placed her hand in his. “But I'm afraid I don't know this person David,” she replied decorously.

“The owner of the furniture emporium you were just in. He's the Queen's nephew and the next Lord Snowden. It looked as though you and he were very chummy, but I can't place you! If I'm mistaken then I won't apologise, as it could be my lucky day. I've seen you a few times around here, Melissa. Are you one of our neighbours so to speak?”

“I moved into my late family's house in Chester Square a month ago. I've been busy rearranging the furniture since then. This is a very nice part of London, although having said that, I've not been further than Harrods and Harvey Nicks. Building up my courage to venture into the West End.” A suggestive smile nestled easily on her lips as she replied.

“You need no courage, Melissa. All you need is me as your escort.” He checked his watch then brushing away a lock of blond hair from his forehead said,

“I have an hour free before a boring business meeting I must attend. Let's get your man to drive us around for a bit and I'll show you the shopping highlights nearby. What do you say?” If a lion was to smile before its attack then Stanhope's smile was exactly the same.

There was no intimacy on the journey but Melissa felt aroused on the two occasions Richard leant across her to point out a couple of places that she might find interesting. There was no touching apart from the gentle sway of the motorcar as it turned corners when their shoulders were in brief contact. Finally the car stopped outside an office block in Knightsbridge.

“I will not allow your beautiful company to escape me for long, Melissa. We must meet again. But tell me about you. Where did you learn to be so elegant?” he asked seductively.

Melissa blushed slightly, having only known the hackneyed lines used as a 'pick-up' by students of her own age, never having been confronted by a man in his mid-thirties or so well versed around women.

“I grew up in Yorkshire where my father owned several factories and I spent all my time there,” she replied demurely.

“I always believed that nothing good came from the north. Please don't tell me that all the young ladies of Yorkshire have the same delicious eyes and are as desirable as you. But I'm intrigued, do tell me more. How did you lose the accent?” he begged.

“There's not much to tell. I had elocution lessons when very young so as to lose any northern dialect that may have developed. As to my family, they have all passed on now. Father died quite recently. I'm left on my own to make what I can of life.”

“That's tragic, I must say. Terrible for someone so young! And a heavy responsibility on such perfect shoulders,” he said as he touched her arm in a gentle comforting manner. Melissa returned his smile as her calculating mind clicked on a beat.

“But, hey look, as you are new around here and obviously need to get out and about a bit to make new friends, I have a suggestion. There's a party tonight at a friend's place south of the river. I could pick you up and carry you off to my place where you could select something suitable for me to wear. I'm useless without a woman in charge. Or, if you prefer, we could just stay at mine and dispense with clothes all together and then do what comes naturally. What do you think?” he asked beguilingly with a lascivious smile.

He was handsome, immaculately dressed, probably rich, with persuasive charm delivered in a lyrical voice. Did it matter if he was married or not? He knew the Queen's nephew! Who else would he know and what doors could he open that would otherwise be closed? Entranced as Melissa was by his sexual appeal and obvious experience, there was only one outcome, and it didn't included a crowded party.

“Why don't I come back and pick you up after that meeting. Why wait for tonight, Richard? I'm free all day and if there is a better way to spend it then I can't think of one.”

“Great, how refreshing to meet someone who knows exactly what she wants! We'll get a couple of bottles of Italian and some olives and we're away!”

“I'll put them on my account at that Italian deli. It will be a memorable way to start that account going.” Richard Stanhope didn't argue. It's always pointless to disagree with fools.

That night was spent at Richard Stanhope's Cheyne Walk address in Chelsea, from where she returned to Chester Square in the early morning hours, merely to change clothing then away to his country house in West Sussex for the Saturday and Sunday. In the afternoon of the Monday, Melissa and her new housekeeper were in Jane Asher's premises at Chelsea Green ordering cakes for a proposed party the following weekend. It was her way of trying to ingratiate herself with the immediate neighbours, building up to the succession of hoped-for party invitations she would receive for the Christmas season, when a comely lady of about forty-five years of age approached and introduced herself.

“I'm one of your admirers, you know. Let me introduce myself before you think I'm collecting for charity: Samantha Rodgers. I live almost opposite you at Number 17. I must say you made quite an appearance with that cavalcade of removal lorries and then the liveried delivery trucks. I'm envious of what you must have hidden away inside Number 12. Have you travelled far and are you famous?”

Melissa extended her hand in friendship but the gesture was ignored as Samantha brushed past it, hugging her near neighbour, enthusiastically kissing her on both cheeks as though they were being reunited after some painfully long time apart.

“Number 12 was my family's London home, and no, I'm not famous. For the moment, that is. I wouldn't mind becoming so though,” Melissa explained as she withdrew from the embrace.

“The Iversons come from Yorkshire. I'm Melissa, by the way,” she replied, somewhat embarrassed and flustered.

“So, Melissa, what brings you to relocate to wicked London in the beautifully appointed Chester Square? Family argument, or something scandalous and worth gossiping about? Oh I do hope so. There's been no good scandal doing the rounds for simply ages.” Her chubby, rounded smiling face shone like a star in the middle of the night as she enquired of Melissa.

“Sorry, no scandal, not yet anyway.” Melissa returned her smile with affection.

“My father died a month or so ago following on closely to my mother's death. I had no wish to stay and manage the family's factories, so I'm selling the family estate to pay the death duties and taking over Number 12 as my permanent home. I've got to settle in of course, but I'm throwing a house party on Saturday to get know my neighbours. I was going to do the rounds later tonight and tomorrow with all the invitations. You will come, I hope! You will be the first that I've asked.”

Both women were smiling broadly, which in turn was mirrored by the two assistants in the shop, which Jane, on one of her unexpected visits, remarked on as she drifted past on her way to her office—Nice to see, ladies. Smiling faces are happy faces and happy faces make closed purses open and spend money!

“No wonder you ran away from smelly factories,” Samantha remarked. “What woman wouldn't! A party you say, just try keeping the Rodgers away. I'm dying to see all the furniture you brought with you, plus what came out of the Harrods lorry that was unloading for an hour or more.” Melissa was wondering if charm was a prerequisite to being a resident of the area, but she never reached a conclusion on that matter as Samantha continued. “I can bring some of the others who live around us without you having to go knocking! We have quite a collection of the famous living in the square, you know.”

“No one notorious, I hope,” Melissa replied with that uncommon smile fixed to her face.

“Mick Jagger with Marianne Faithful used to live next to me, but they have moved out now. Apart from him there are a few questionable occupants still around. Questionable in the nicest possible way of course,” and again her face shone brightly with laughter, but this time she remarked about it.

“You are damaging all my good work, young lady. The beauty treatment I'm having to take away the laughter lines around my eyes will be ruined if I keep going at this rate.” She tried to keep a straight face, but failed. “Shall I spread the word of your party to all, regardless of good and wholesome reputation? I'll throw in some of the less reputable as well. That could lead to a fun night.”

By this time any attempt by Melissa at remaining taciturn or reticent in reply had fallen before Samantha's jovial appeal and cordial approach as she offered no resistance to her newfound friend's volunteered help. She welcomed it with widespread arms.

“I was thinking of about fifty guests. Would that sound right to you?” she asked.

“Sounds idyllic to me, dear girl. I'll pop in later to discuss the list if you want. We could have a grand old natter about Yorkshire at the same time! I bought some Yorkshire tea once. Very nice it was too. What time would be convenient?”

“Shall we say three pm? I'll get my housekeeper to serve some of these delicious cakes your eyes keep falling on, Samantha.”

“Not too many! You obviously have no need to watch what you eat, but us oldies with an ever-widening waistline, certainly do!”

“Incidentally, Samantha? Is there a local gym I could use? One where it's good to be seen? I need to get around in meeting all the right people.”