A Matter of Honour (2 page)

The Russian leader waited for some time
before he turned back and passed over to his colleague a single sheet of paper.
“This is the Tsar’s testimony indicating what we would find hidden in the icon
of St George and the Dragon. At the time, nothing was discovered in the icon,
which only convinced Lenin that it had been a pathetic bluff by the Tsar to
save his family from execution.”

Zaborski slowly read the hand-written
testimony that had been signed by the Tsar hours before his execution. Zaborski’s
hands began to tremble and a bead of sweat appeared on his forehead long before
he had reached the last paragraph. He looked across at the tiny painting, no
larger than a
book, that
remained in the centre of the
Chairman’s desk.

“Not since the death of Lenin,” continued
Brezhnev, “has anyone believed the Tsar’s claim. But now, there can be little
doubt that if we are able to locate the genuine masterpiece, we will
undoubtedly also be in possession of the promised document.”

“And with the authority of those who signed
that document, no one could question our legal claim,” said Zaborski.

“That would undoubtedly prove to be the
case, Comrade Chairman,” replied the Russian leader. “And I also feel confident
that we would receive the backing of the United Nations and the World Court if
the Americans tried to deny us our right. But I fear time is now against us.”

“Why?” asked the Chairman of State Security.

“Look at the completion date in the Tsar’s
testimony and you will see how much time we have left to honour our part of the
agreement,” said Brezhnev.

Zaborski stared down at the date scrawled in
the hand of the Tsar-June 20, 1966. He handed back the testimony as he
considered the enormity of the task with which his leader had entrusted him. Leonid
Ilyich Brezhnev continued his monologue.

“So, as you can see, Comrade Zaborski, we
have only one month left before the deadline, but if you can discover the
whereabouts of the original icon, President Johnson’s defence strategy would be
rendered virtually useless, and the United States would then become a pawn on
the Russian chessboard.”

June 1966

“And to my dearly beloved and only son,
Captain Adam Scott, MC, I bequeath the sum of five hundred pounds.”

Although Adam had anticipated the amount
would be pitiful, he nevertheless remained bolt upright in his chair as the
solicitor glanced over his half-moon spectacles.

The old lawyer who was seated behind the
large partners’ desk raised his head and blinked at the handsome young man
before him. Adam put a hand nervously through his thick black hair, suddenly
conscious of the lawyer’s stare. Then Mr Holbrooke’s eyes returned to the
papers in front of him.

“And to my dearly beloved daughter, Margaret
Scott, I bequeath the sum of four hundred pounds.” Adam was unable to prevent a
small grin spreading across his face. Even in the minutiae of his final act,
father had remained a chauvinist.

“To the Hampshire County Cricket Club,”
droned on Mr Holbrooke, unperturbed by Miss Scott’s relative misfortunes, “twenty-five
pounds, life membership.”

Finally paid up, thought Adam. “To the Old
Contemptibles, fifteen pounds.
And to the Appleshaw Parish
Church, ten pounds.”
Death membership, Adam mused.
“To
Wilf Proudfoot, our loyal gardener part time, ten pounds, and to Mrs Mavis Cox,
our daily help, five pounds.”

“And finally, to my dearly
beloved wife Susan, our marital home, and the remainder of my estate.”

This pronouncement made Adam want to laugh
out loud because he doubted if the remainder of Pa’s estate, even if they sold
his premium bonds and the pre-war golf clubs, amounted to more than another
thousand pounds.

But mother was a daughter of the Regiment
and
wouldn’t complain, she never did
. If God ever announced
the saints, as opposed to some Pope in Rome, Saint Susan of Appleshaw would be
up there with Mary and Elizabeth. All through his life ‘Pa’, as Adam always
thought of him, had set such high standards for the family to live up to.
Perhaps that was why Adam continued to admire him above all men. Sometimes the
very thought made him feel strangely out of place in the swinging sixties.

Adam began to move restlessly in his chair,
assuming that the proceedings were now drawing to a close. The sooner they were
all out of this cold, drab little office the better, he felt.

Mr Holbrooke looked up once more and cleared
his throat, as if he were about to announce who was to be left the Goya or the
Hapsburg diamonds. He pushed his half-moon spectacles further up the bridge of
his nose and stared back down at the last paragraphs of his late client’s
testament. The three surviving members of the Scott family sat in silence. What
could he have to add?
thought
Adam.

Whatever it was, the solicitor had obviously
pondered the final bequest several times, because he delivered the words like a
well-versed actor, his eyes returning to the script only once.

“And I also leave to my son,” Mr Holbrooke
paused, “the enclosed envelope,” he said, holding it up, “which I can only hope
will bring him greater happiness than it did me. Should he decide to open the
envelope it must be on the condition that he will never divulge its contents to
any other living
person.
” Adam caught his sister’s eye
but she only shook her head slightly, obviously as puzzled as he was. He
glanced towards his mother who looked shocked. Was it fear or was it distress?
Adam couldn’t decide. Without another word, Mr Holbrooke passed the yellowed
envelope over to the Colonel’s only son.

Everyone in the room remained seated, not
quite sure what to do next. Mr Holbrooke finally closed the thin file marked
Colonel Gerald Scott, DSO, QBE, MC, pushed back his chair and walked slowly
over to the widow. They shook hands and she said, “Thank you,” a faintly
ridiculous courtesy, Adam felt, as the only person in the room who had made any
sort of profit on this particular transaction had been Mr Holbrooke, and that
on behalf of Holbrooke, Holbrooke and Gascoigne.

He rose and went quickly to his mother’s
side.

“You’ll join us for tea, Mr Holbrooke?” she
was asking.

“I fear not, dear lady,” the lawyer began,
but Adam didn’t bother to listen further. Obviously the fee hadn’t been large
enough to cover Holbrooke taking time off for tea.

Once they had left the office and Adam had
ensured his mother and sister were seated comfortably in the back of the family
Morris Minor, he took his place behind the steering wheel. He had parked
outside Mr Holbrooke’s office in the middle of the High Street. No yellow lines
in the streets of Appleshaw – yet, he thought. Even before he had switched on
the ignition his mother had offered matter-of-factly, “We’ll have to get rid of
this, you know. I can’t afford to run it now, not with petrol at six shillings
a gallon.”

“Don’t let’s worry about that today,” said
Margaret consolingly, but in a voice that accepted that her mother was right. “I
wonder what can be in that envelope, Adam,” she added, wanting to change the
subject.

“Detailed instructions on how to invest my
five hundred pounds, no doubt,” said her brother, attempting to lighten their
mood.

“Don’t be disrespectful of the dead,” said
his mother, the same look of fear returning to her face. “I begged your father
to destroy that envelope,” she added, in a voice that was barely a whisper.

Adam’s lips pursed when he realised this
must be
the
envelope his father had
referred to all those years ago when he had witnessed the one row between his
parents that he had ever experienced. Adam still remembered his father’s raised
voice and angry words just a few days after he had returned from Germany.

“I have to open it, don’t you understand?”
Pa had insisted.

“Never,” his mother had replied. “After all
the sacrifices I have made, you at least owe me that.”

Over twenty years had passed since that
confrontation and he had never heard the subject referred to again. The only
time Adam ever mentioned it to his sister she could throw no light on what the
dispute might have been over.

Adam put his foot on the brake as they
reached a T-junction at the end of the High Street.

He turned right and continued to drive out
of the village for a mile or so down a winding country lane before bringing the
old Morris Minor to a halt. Adam leapt out and opened the trellised gate whose
path led through a neat lawn to a little thatched cottage.

“I’m sure you ought to be getting back to
London,” were his mother’s first words as she entered the drawing room.

“I’m in no hurry, mother. There’s nothing
that can’t wait until tomorrow.”

“Just as you wish, my dear, but you don’t
have to worry yourself over me,” his mother continued. She stared up at the
tall young man who reminded her so much of Gerald. He would have been as
good-looking as her husband if it wasn’t for the slight break in his nose. The
same dark hair and deep brown eyes, the same open, honest face, even the same
gentle approach to everyone he came across.
But most of all
the same high standards of morality that had brought them to their present sad
state.
“And in any case I’ve always got Margaret to take care of me,”
she added. Adam looked across at his sister and wondered how she would now cope
with Saint Susan of Appleshaw.

Margaret had recently become engaged to a
City stockbroker, and although the marriage had been postponed, she would soon
be wanting
to start a life of her own. Thank God her fiance
had already put a down-payment on a little house only fourteen miles away.

After tea and a sad uninterrupted monologue
from his mother on the virtues and misfortunes of their father, Margaret
cleared away and left the two of them alone. They had both loved him in such
different ways although Adam felt that he had never let Pa really know how much
he respected him.

“Now that you’re no longer in the army, my
dear, I do hope you’ll be able to find a worthwhile job,” his mother said
uneasily, as she recalled how difficult that had proved to be for his father.

“I’m sure everything will be just fine,
mother,” he replied. “The Foreign Office
have
asked to
see me again,” he added, hoping to reassure her.

“Still, now that you’ve got five hundred
pounds of your own,” she said, “that should make things a little easier for
you.” Adam smiled fondly at his mother, wondering when she had last spent a day
in London. His share of the Chelsea flat alone was four pounds a week and he
still had to eat occasionally. She raised her eyes and, looking up at the clock
on the mantelpiece, said, “You’d better be getting along, my dear, I don’t like
the thought of you on that motorbike after dark.”

Adam bent down to kiss her on the cheek. “I’ll
give you a call tomorrow,” he said. On his way out he stuck his head around the
kitchen door and shouted to his sister, “I’m off and I’ll be sending you a
cheque for fifty pounds.”

“Why?” asked Margaret, looking up from the
sink.

“Just let’s say it’s my blow for women’s
rights.” He shut the kitchen door smartly to avoid the dishcloth that was
hurled in his direction. Adam revved up his BSA and drove down the A303 through
Andover and on towards London. As most of the traffic was coming west out of
the city, he was able to make good time on his way back to the flat in Ifield
Road.

Adam had decided to wait until he had
reached the privacy of his own room before he opened the envelope. Lately the excitement
in his life had not been such that he felt he could be blase about the little
ceremony. After all, in a way, he had waited most of his life to discover what
could possibly be in the envelope he had now inherited.

Adam had been told the story of the family
tragedy by his father a thousand times – “It’s all a matter of honour, old
chap,” his father would repeat, lifting his chin and squaring his shoulders.
Adam’s father had not realised that he had spent a lifetime overhearing the
snide comments of lesser men and suffering the side-long glances from those
officers who had made sure they were not seen too regularly in his company.
Petty men with petty minds.
Adam knew his father far too
well to believe, even for a moment, that he could have been involved in such
treachery as was whispered. Adam took one hand off the handlebars and fingered
the envelope in his inside pocket like a schoolboy the day before his birthday
feeling the shape of a present in the hope of discovering some clue as to its
contents. He felt certain that whatever it contained would not be to anyone’s
advantage now his father was dead, but it did not lessen his curiosity.

He tried to piece together the few facts he
had been told over the years. In 1946, within a year of his fiftieth birthday,
his father had resigned his commission from the army.
The Times
had described Pa as a brilliant tactical officer with a
courageous war record. His resignation had been a decision that had surprised
The Times
correspondent, astonished his
immediate family and shocked his regiment, as it had been assumed by all who
knew him that it was only a matter of months before crossed swords and a baton
would have been sewn on to his epaulette.