Warriors (13 page)

But no matter.

Of the nine deluxe mahogany-paneled staterooms on board the approaching luxury train, only one was strewn with various P. G. Wodehouse paperback novels, autosport and sailing magazines, Sotheby’s guide to Bermuda real estate, a bottle of Gosling’s Black Seal Bermuda rum, half full, two half-empty baskets of fading fruit, the stale remains of a turkey club sandwich, an array of White Rock ginger beer bottles, bowls of melting ice. Plus, a slim gold cigarette case and a battered art deco silver cocktail shaker, both monogrammed with the initials A. H. beneath a coronet.

The top berth was lowered, piled high with sheets, down pillows, bedcovers, and blankets. Even though the setting sun indicated it was late afternoon, the room had obviously not been made up since departure from Edinburgh.

And its sole occupant?

Ah, yes, Lord Hawke himself.

Alexander Hawke stood bare chested before a steamy mirror in his en suite lavatory, trying to shave. He was dressed only in his loosely fitting, light blue pajama bottoms, these courtesy of one of his favorite tailors, Turnbull & Asser, St. James. The other, Anderson & Sheppard of Savile Row, had always provided the balance of his bespoke wardrobe.

In his left hand, he hefted a stout walking stick. His pretty nurses at the hospital in St. Andrews had presented him with the blackthorn “swagger stick” on the festive day when he’d been deemed fit for discharge.

In his right hand, he held an old-fashioned straight razor. Swaying with the motion of the railcar, he used the stick to balance himself on his widespread feet as he prepared to shave.

In the steamy mirror, he noticed he had left a lit cigarette jammed into one corner of his mouth. He snatched it out and flicked it into the johnny, where it drowned with a hiss.

“Clear the decks for action,” Hawke said to himself with some gusto, lifting the gleaming ivory-handled blade toward his cheek. He was in a gay mood, delighted to be returning home at last to his family, his colleagues at MI6, and his beloved country house, Hawkesmoor.

Suddenly the railcar lurched madly. Hawke was thrown forward against the basin mirror, just missing by a fraction slicing the tip of his nose off with his straight razor. He gave himself a narrow look in the mirror, snarled at his reflection, and decided safety dictated going out into the stateroom to shave. The stick was proving highly ineffectual and he tossed it up on the berth.

The semiviolent swaying of the railcar had not abated. He had to brace himself with one hand along a wall as he made his way to the long dressing mirror hung on this side of the door opening next to the vestibule.

As he stood, poised precariously, razor at his throat once more, the compartment door was suddenly flung open from the outside. This action shoved him back against the wall, completely hidden behind the door. He stood motionless, dazed for a moment.

Whereupon Eddie Moncrief, the aged railway porter, whom Hawke had come to know and admire ever since the Flyer first chugged away from Edinburgh’s Waverly Station, burst into the scene. He was looking for the last passenger still unaccounted for prior to arrival.

“Lord Hawke?” Moncrief said, puzzled, quite sure he would have found his errant passenger inside the compartment. “Are you in here, m’lord? So sorry to disturb, but . . .”

As Eddie turned to shut the door behind him, he spied his lordship. The man was frozen behind the door, jammed up against the wall, the gleaming blade of his razor at his throat, his eyes fixed in a glassy stare.

Lord Hawke, wearing the sickly sweet grin of one who has only narrowly escaped certain death, said, “Oh. Hullo there, Eddie.”

“I do beg your pardon, m’lord!” the porter said, amazed at his lordship’s somewhat bizarre situation. “What are you doing behind the door, if I may be so bold, sir?”

“Ah, funny, what? Just having a bit of a lark, that’s all, Eddie,” Hawke said, striving mightily for the air of a man of insouciant nonchalance.

“Ah. Bit of a lark, eh? Most amusing, m’lord. Hiding from me behind the door. Ho-ho! Well, I just wanted to alert you that we’ll be pulling into Euston Station in less than twenty minutes, sir. May I assist you with your packing?”

Eddie retrieved a dark green velvet smoking jacket from the floor and eyed the opened and overflowing leather portmanteau on the floor.

“Splendid,” Hawke said. “Heave ho!”

Hawke took the icy silver cocktail shaker in hand. Somewhat shakily, he poured the remains of his favorite highball, a frothy Dark ’n Stormy, into his glass. As he threw his head back to down the aromatic potion, he cracked the back of his skull smartly against the upper berth.

“Ouch.”

“So sorry, m’lord. Are you quite all right?”

“My fault entirely,” Hawke said, rubbing the back of his head ruefully. “I really can’t recall when I’ve had a more stimulating evening aboard a train, Eddie. Unless, of course, one counts that memorable night aboard the infamous Red Star crossing Siberia when a couple of Russian thugs tried to kill my son and me.”

“Kill, did you say, sir?”

“KGB vendetta. Long story, Henry. You’ll have to wait for my colorful and somewhat salacious memoirs.”

“Most amusing tale to tell, I’m sure, your lordship.”

Hawke rubbed the throbbing bump atop the crown of his skull. “Thank you, Eddie. I am going to miss this little room of mine. I must say it’s made a rather indelible impression on me.”

“Indeed it has. A rather angry reminder on the top of your head, I’m afraid, sir. Shall I fetch a wet flannel and some more ice cubes?”

“No, no. Time heals all wounds.”

“Indubitably, sir.”

“And wounds all heels, as they say.”

“Ha! Good one, sir!”

His lordship’s cries were in vain.

The porter smiled at his favorite passenger.

His lordship, whom Moncrief had come to know rather well in a short time, possessed a very rare combination of strength, humanity, and humor. One he’d not seen the likes of in thirty years’ service to the railroad. It was also, he had to admit, refreshing to find a man of such beauty, such fame and elevated social position, who possessed an utter lack of pretension or sense of entitlement. Upon entering the dining car, with his thick jet-black hair and intense blue eyes, the women had all stared at him as if he were a god.

“Indeed, your lordship,” he said. “Shall I put the balance of these soiled clothes into this valise, sir?”

“That would be lovely. I’ll help. Let’s not forget my silver shaker, here. Thirtieth birthday remembrance from my pal Chief Inspector Ambrose Congreve, you see.”

Hawke looked from the frosty beaker to the half-filled valise. How to pack it safely?

“Where shall we put this?”

“Not quite sure, m’lord.”

“Ah. This should do the trick.”

Having seen his paisley robe hanging on the back of the lavatory door, he snatched it. Then he screwed the top of the icy container on, wrapped the shaker lovingly within the robe, and buried the whole thing within the contents of the open bag, viewing the result with some enthusiasm.

“Your hat, sir,” the porter said, handing him a crushed brown fedora that had been chewed within an inch of extinction. “It was on the upper berth.”

“Harry! Bad dog!” Hawke exclaimed.

“Dog, sir?”

“Yes, dog. A Scottish border collie. Present for my son, you see. Been researching the breed the entire time I was incarcerated during rehab at the St. Andrews Royal Infirmary. Had the idea of getting my son a dog while I was laid up. Went to a top breeder just outside of St. Andrews the moment I was finally sprung.”

“The Flying Scot does not actually permit dogs on board the train, your lordship.”

“Really? Odd. I was not made aware of that,” Hawke said, reaching up under a blanket, withdrawing a small animal, and placing him on the floor. “In the brochure, was it? This antidog clause you refer to? Fine print, I suppose, eh, Eddie?”

“Indeed, sir. Practically invisible.”

“Well, in any event, he’s not a dog, not really; he’s a puppy, as you can plainly see. Handsome lad, isn’t he? Handsome Harry, I call him. Good boy too, aren’t you, Harry?” The happy puppy barked loudly, racing round and round the elderly porter’s feet in a frantic, celebratory state of excitement.

“My word!” Moncrief said, lifting his feet to avoid the scampering creature.

“Terribly sorry, Eddie. I gave him a drop or two of rum, you see.”

“Rum, sir?”

“Hmm. The Gosling’s Black Seal. Just to help him sleep, of course. Seems to have gone to his head, however. Yes. I do believe Harry’s drunk!”

“I won’t breathe a word, sir.”

“You are the very soul of discretion, Eddie. I knew it at once I met you. Harry! No! Stop that! Bad, bad dog! Should we give him some black coffee, do you think?”

“Your lordship, I believe he’s about to—to—lift a leg, sir.”

“Harry! No!”

His lordship’s cries were in vain.

The porter looked down in dismay and shook his newly dampened trouser leg.

“You’ll have to forgive us, Eddie. We have been cooped up in here for an eternity, it seems.”

A SMALL CROWD STOOD ON
the station platform watching the shiny maroon-and-gold train chugging forward. Porters hurried out. Baggage handlers were waiting. As the train came to a stop, Hawke saw his greeting party. His four-year-old son, Alexei. The boy’s guardian and Hawke’s current romantic interest, the beautiful Nell Spooner. And, of course, his octogenarian companion since childhood, Pelham Grenville, his valet, a fellow who was currently very properly turned out in spiffy grey chauffeur’s livery.

The porter put down the little stepping block and Hawke descended carefully to the platform, using his swagger stick and trying to manhandle both his valise and portmanteau while keeping the squirming puppy concealed inside his Crombie overcoat.

“Daddy!” Alexei cried and ran to his father, hugging him joyously around the knees.

“There’s my boy,” Hawke said, putting down his luggage and patting the top of his tousled head.

The father’s keen blue eyes betrayed his overwhelming love for the boy. “How are you, son? Have you been good while I was away? Hello, Nell. I hope he hasn’t been a bother. How are you? You look lovely as ever. And how are you, young Pelham? Awfully snappy in that automotive regalia. Haven’t seen you in that getup in years.”

“We drove in from the country, m’lord. Miss Spooner wished to drive the Bentley herself, but I’m afraid I had to insist on doing the honors. The Locomotive can be a bit of a handful on those icy country lanes, as you well know, m’lord.”

Hawke nodded. He had an old battleship grey Bentley Continental, which he’d long ago nicknamed the “Locomotive.” No power steering, and, with a 4.5-liter engine and an Amherst Villiers supercharger, it was an overpowered but lumbering beast on the back roads. Hawke had also installed a red nitro-launch button, as he called it, for “emergencies.” Didn’t especially want Nell hitting that one by mistake.

“Yes, you were quite right to do so, Pelham. Thank you.”

“M’lord? How are you feeling? Fully recovered?”

“Much improved, thank you for asking.”

“How’s the leg? The ribs? Healing nicely?”

“Getting stronger every day.”

“One thing, sir, if you don’t mind.”

“Yes?”

“Your bag, sir. The leather valise. It appears to be leaking.”

“Leaking?”

“Indeed, sir. A spreading stain on the platform.”

“Ah. A little rum fizzy, perhaps. Or perhaps my bottle of Hermès Orange Verte has broken. Nothing to worry about, Pelham, I assure you.”

His son tugged at the hem of his coat. “Daddy, what’s that noise?”

“What noise? I don’t hear anything.”

“Yes, you do. It’s coming from inside your coat.”

“Oh, that. It must be my tie. It is rather loud, I agree. Don’t know why you let me pack it, Pelham.”

Harry’s shiny black button nose peeked out from a lapel.

“It’s not a tie, Daddy, it’s a puppy! May I see him?”

“Puppy? I don’t recall any puppies stowing away inside my wardrobe . . . oh, wait . . . you were right. Yes, there is definitely a puppy in here.”

Hawke handed the yipping border collie to his son. Alexei kissed the puppy all over, hugging him to his chest.

“Oh, Daddy! He’s the best puppy ever, ever, ever. Is he mine?”

“Of course he’s yours, Alexei. Happy birthday.”

“My birthday present!” Alexei exclaimed.

“He’s adorable, Alex,” Nell said.

“What’s his name, Daddy?”

“Harry. That was the name of a dog my grandfather gave me when I was your age. And I’ll tell you a secret. When I was four, I was exactly the same age as you are now. Isn’t that funny?”

“Thank you, Daddy. I love Harry more than anything in whole world. ’Cept you and Pelham and Miss Spooner, I mean.”

Hawke was nearly overcome by a surging tide of emotion. Few feel the powerful desire for family more keenly than those who have lost theirs at a very young age. Alexander Hawke had lost his own dear mother and father at the tender age of seven under circumstances too brutal and painful to recall.

“It’s good to be home,” he said, gazing up into the shadows of the familiar station. “Yes, awfully good to be home.”

And with that, this particular little family gathered itself together and made their way through the rail station’s thronged masses for the journey homeward to Hawkesmoor in the Cotswolds. Hawke would insist on driving, of course; he hated being driven.

In the old days, during a few years when Pelham really was a chauffeur, Hawke would drive and Pelham would sit in the rear, reading aloud to him his favorite books. Now Pelham sat up front with him while Nell, Alexei, and little Harry had the run of the old Locomotive’s cavernous rear seat.

It had begun to snow, great feathery flakes. Hawke knew by morning the countryside surrounding his rambling old family pile on the hill would be blanketed with the white stuff. Hawke suddenly felt an unerring sense of the quietude and peace he had so longed for over the years. He welcomed it to his heart. He began to whistle with contentment, so very happy to be home again.

We’re going to be all right,
he said to himself.
We’re all going to be all right now
.