The first mission Alice and I undertook together was long, messy, and tiresome. I still have the scars.

Usually on a mission, in between the boredom and the frantic bits, I quite enjoy myself. But I was on edge for all of our time together. Only having Jack kept me sane.  Alice, on the other hand, was courageous, insightful, daring, annoying and a complete pain in the neck. After that field trip together, we didn’t work side by side for some time. I told her this was simply the way the missions had fallen. I contacted her most days and arranged for myself to be able to receive messages even in the field.

I lied. Our separation was entirely my choice. Whether she eventually discovered this or not, I have never enquired. On that initial mission I was the senior officer. I choose to take Alice to develop her training. I ended up pitying my own trainer, so much did she reminded me of my behaviour when I first joined the service. I was impulsive. My emotions were raw, and I played my hunches. I still have all of those traits, but I have learned to control them. To be cool and clear headed in danger, and while I can react quickly, I always try to bear in mind the long-term outcome. But in Alice’s company, that clear sightedness quickly became more and more obscured.

At first, I attributed this to my doubts that Alice belonged in the field. Almost before we were out of the gate, she had done something outrageous, and I thought at the time, unjustifiable. Later, I thought her presence reminded me too much of my failure to save her father. His untimely death had radically changed the course of her life and put her on an intercept path with me and my shadowy world.

But I am not generally a man to feel regret or remorse. I see little point in these emotions. One must learn from experience, but the past cannot be changed, and it is foolish to fantasise that it can be. I have done unpleasant, and immoral, things in the service of my country, but in each case, I have taken no pleasure in these actions. I merely done what I deemed necessary by duty.

Overall, although I pride myself on my acting, I do not allow myself to feel strong emotions while in the field. Except, with Alice, I did. As a trainee I was responsible for her. I have trained others before - and in far darker matters too. But with Alice, the responsibility felt crushing. I was so overwhelmed by it that I made several mistakes that, in all honesty, I do not believe I would otherwise have made.

So, it was clear I needed to separate us in the field for the sake of the service, and ourselves, until the underlying cause of this issue was resolved.

At first, I believed that cause was myself and my attitude towards the fairer sex. No matter how much I respect and admire the abilities of intelligent women, I have a tendency to feel a duty to protect them. Of course, the last thing one wants to feel on a mission is that one must protect their partner. Yes, she was my junior, but the department has always had a robust sink or swim attitude to new recruits. I could not allow Alice to sink, and constantly stepped in to protect her. She grew rather cross about this and suggested I re-examine my beliefs. She even gave me a little talk as to why I was like this. It was a most believable hypothesis and I let her think I believed her. I never told her the real reason, and after a time, I managed to get myself in hand. I still thought about her safety, but after her completion of two solo missions, I forced myself to accept her, if not my equal in experience, as a fully trained and competent field officer in her own right. When Hope came along that all changed. Of this, I was most grateful. I do not know how much longer I could have kept up the charade. It remained imperative she did not - does not - uncover the truth.

A New Year is always a good time for reflection on one’s achievements, one’s failings and what one might realistically expect to accomplish during the next twelve months. I weighed up the pros and cons of the past year of my life, and on the whole, I find the outcome acceptable. However, in certain ways, I have begun to question if I should stretch myself. I know it is said that a gentleman, or indeed a gentlewoman, should have at least one hobby to round out their character. I am of an age when most of my contemporaries are marrying and thinking of establishing their families. As this recourse is not open to me, I came to realise that between missions, in my leisure hours, such as they are, I may begin to find myself at a loss. Thus, the adoption of a hobby may be in order. Many hobbies are social in nature but as I am quite content with my own company, I have no need or desire to involve others.  

My skill sets are of an active variety. Languages have always been a strength of mine, so I generally find it necessary to peruse languages books only when a mission demands it. When it comes to reading, naturally, I have read the classics. Unlike Euphemia, who, in my opinion, indulges far too much in modern fiction, I find no need to fill my mind with idle twaddle. My own life has proved, to my satisfaction, to be far more entertaining and exciting than the turgid expulsions of modern authors.

I do enjoy non-fiction, mostly philosophy, morality, history and culture. But can this really be considered a hobby when much of it informs my work? I contemplated philately, but I found I was far more travelled than what lay between the covers of most albums. Numismatics is a grubby habit and leaves one’s hands smelling unpleasant. I could don tweeds and boots and hike in the countryside, but I would rather admire such breath-taking views from the vantage point of a comfortable seat, and with a decent brandy in my hand. I also enjoy cooking, but I consider that a basic life skill. All those I have known who have branched into epicurism have, as they increased their expertise, also substantially expanded their girth.

I was quite without hope of ever finding a hobby. Then, while on the way to visit an acquaintance in the country, I passed a farm. As my acquaintance had the habit of not keeping fresh milk to hand, I decided, on impulse, to enquire if the farmer had any for sale. The farmer’s wife welcomed me into her kitchen, and as she did so, I was almost overrun by a sea of white fur. One of their bitches, a white Pitbull Terrier, had whelped two months previously and they were yet to home all of her offspring. So, instead of milk, I came away with Jack, my dog. Jack is a living creature, not a hobby, but he is an interest that will stay with me for some years. We have been enjoying getting to know one other. He is intelligent and more responsive to training than many of the new recruits I have been asked to initiate.

When war eventually comes, I will have to send him out of London. I think Bertram can be encouraged to be a dog sitter. After all, in the cold light of day, one might consider Bertram to be Euphemia’s hobby. This will fit well as, when Euphemia and I are away on missions together, they can console each other until our return.

Jack first appears in A Death at the Races (a double-length Euphemia Mystery), released March 2020, available for pre-order now

I spend my life reading people and making them do what I want. Some spies specialise in a variety of other skills, but this one is my forte. I have learnt to read people quickly, to pinpoint their pressure points, the weaknesses, their desires, all the things that mean their cooperation is easily gained. Generally, I get people to trust me before I begin to utilise them as assets. Once I have their trust, I have them.

Whenever I meet someone, I immediately assess their usefulness and how I might utilise them – even if only briefly. I have done this for so long it has become an automatic process, no matter how informal the setting. I have been doing this for a long time.

In school, as a late arrival, after the death of my mother, and being someone not keen on any particular sport, I could have become the whipping boy of the class. Instead I learnt to ferret out what my fellow pupils wanted.  Every now and then I would covertly fulfil their particular desires, for no readily apparent reason. A fruit cake, a forged sick note, a tip of how to be excused from detention. All minor things, but each and every one of these events became associated with me, and without anyone really being able to say why, I became a ‘good chap to have around’ and in classes generally known as a ‘jolly good egg’. Though I have to say, I remember nothing jolly about my younger self, or particularly ovoid.

I could simply have blackmailed by fellow students, but I don’t like blackmail, or any of the unpleasantness associated it with it. Instead, I merely did people small favours, and eventually they remembered, and treated me well.

On the whole, I believe I must have learned the ability to read people from my mother, who was very much a student of human nature (I have no idea why she married my father, although I suppose everyone is allowed a momentary lapse in judgement).

But, to my point, I can’t turn the damn ability off now. I see others largely as tools to use, as and when I must, for the sake of the crown and, in duller times, I confess, for my own amusement. It is rare for me to encounter someone that I cannot bend to my will.

Alice and I met when she attempted to bludgeon me over the head with a large dried sausage (to be fair, she thought I was a burglar at the time, and it was very dark). Her resolve, to confront a possible threat rather than flee screaming, both amused and pleased me. It was only later on that I would learn she would be one of the very few people ever to see through me. Her ability to follow my thinking so acutely makes her a damn good partner, and quite without my ever intending it, has made her the closest of confidants - a position I thought would remain vacant for the rest of my life. Although she might believe otherwise, she has never merely been a tool to me. She is far too sharp and far too self-aware.

Bertram, her husband, I can tolerate. Not because he too can read me, but because he generally anticipates anything I do as potentially malevolent and is therefore always on the alert. This makes his company both entertaining, and slightly unpredictable. The latter being a state that delights me. This cannot be said for the rest of their New Year’s house guests. They remain, for all their brilliance, as predictable in inclination, ambition and desires as your average pigeon – and just as easily plucked and stuffed, I’d wager. I suppose I could find some small distraction in that, but Alice always makes me promise to behave. For an adventurous woman, she can sometimes be quite the bore.

I shall go armed with the very best brandy and attempt to extract incriminating secrets from the two government ministers I know to be going. Alice cannot object to that. I shall frame it as ‘damage limitation’ (well, better I know before any foreign agents do).

Christmas comes but once a year - thank goodness. I discovered, the year I acquired Jack and Griffin, the very best way to celebrate Christmas. That is, alone, at home in my apartment, having been well-fed (by my own hand) then retiring to my favourite chair with a roaring fire in the hearth, a dog at my feet, an excellent book (that I gifted myself) and a glass of brandy. This, along with the knowledge that Griffin was manning my section of the office and would contact me if anything I needed to know arose, was quite all that I desired.

Of course, over the festive period, I would spend a day at my father’s house, to remind my dear relatives that I am still very much alive. I am the youngest among my siblings by ten years, and my father, being completely indifferent to me, I have always found myself being something of the spectre at the feast. This being infinitely preferable to the weird uncle/cousin all families have. That my family believe I work in administration has, naturally, never helped my cause. By the first Christmas of the Great War, my family had already suffered losses such that many a cold stare was aimed in my direction. I can generally ignore these, but they do promote indigestion. Being thought a coward by one’s own kith and kin is not an experience I would recommend but telling my numerous and assorted relatives that I am a spy would be a serious breach of the Official Secrets Act, never mind being a damned stupid thing to do. Their combined ability to avoid gossip and keep secrets being on a par with holding water in a sieve.

So, just my dog, my brandy and I - an excellent combination, and thus is would have stayed, except for Alice.

You would have thought that going on missions for King and Country would be enough to keep any female entertained and that she might actually relish a break in the countryside, in the Fens with her devoted husband. I know Bertram is happiest being beaten at chess (I’m not sure he has ever won a game, either playing Alice or myself, but he has come close), discussing politics, buying books and instructing his excellent factor. There are similar domestic tasks for Alice to pursue, but having been a housekeeper, and having been trained by her mother to run a Great House, she found these took up far too little of her time. Hence her decision to have the parties. These parties, over Christmas and New Year, include a Duck Hunt (to please Bertram) and, oh, how I hate a duck hunt. But the rest of the time is taken up by feasting and talking. As she managed from the start to get some of the most forward and interesting thinkers of our time (and for once I do not mean myself), an invite to one of her parties became quite a thing among the intelligentsia. Which meant the department decided they were also an excellent way for discreet discussions to take place and that, therefore, my presence was required, I still being more experienced in the way of these things than Alice.

Naturally, she had always invited me, I always made a point of visiting for a couple of days. Always good to ply Bertram with a bloody decent brandy and not the pig swill that he claims is all that he can afford. Jack liked running around the countryside and being overindulged by the cook. For some reason Bertram has continually refused to have a dog. Happily, he has realised Jack and I are a team, and that where one goes the other follows (I’ve kept to myself the fact that I often have to leave him with Griffin, depending on where work takes me).

So, what started off as a mere couple of days soon escalated, thanks to the department, and I’m now expected to be there for the whole two weeks of the bally show. After France I dare not flirt with the prettiest women without fear of arising Alice’s wrath. Of course, I enjoy spending time with her, but as hostess, I rarely see her. In fact, I only began to really enjoy the parties when dear Hope came along.

But I do so miss the Christmases with just my dog and me.

There are those who work in my department who spend most of their time behind an office desk. They either shunt papers or handle field agents and assets from a distance. Both seem to me to be the most awful bore.

Before my education was interrupted, and this time I’m not referring to the Dean’s daughter, I had planned a global expedition, travelling to a list of culturally and linguistically remarkable places. When my life changed, somewhat abruptly, and I entered His Majesty’s Service, I was assured there was no need to give up my desire to travel, and that I would be sent hither and thither.

Despite that, a few things in particular thwarted my plans. One of those was the damage to my right hand, which kept me out of the field, at least as far as overseas work was concerned, until I learned to shoot with my other hand. Which, incidentally, is a bloody hard thing to do. Thankfully, the level of skill required in using a firearm is not yet that high a bar. Fists and canes remain the current preference – or, better still, using one’s intellect.

Anyway, having reacquired the skill to effectively use a pistol, should I happen to be challenged by any malevolent barn doors, I was cleared for foreign affairs work. There is nothing quite like it. Unless I’m with Alice, I generally work alone. I go where I please. I do what I think is in the best interest of the mission. I am answerable to the Crown, should I ever be caught doing something unfitting of a service agent, and I am answerable to my superiors, for the overall success of my mission. But, as long as I don’t litter the place with bodies, or seduce senior royal figures, I pretty much get to do as I please. It is an utterly blissful existence, without estates to manage, families to deal with or even co-workers to endure. I don’t count Alice, of course. The reason we work together so well is, I believe, that we are both footloose adventurers at heart. Alice, being a woman, only gets to enter my world part time - and to be honest I don’t think I would like to see her, or any woman for that matter, hardened by the work we do. By returning to her husband and family, she regains a sense of normality. She manages to walk between our two worlds with an ease I can only admire and envy.

And now we have the damn war. War is always unconscionable in my opinion. As soon as the violence starts, all sides have lost. All sides suffer. And, what’s more, it always makes foreign travel so damned difficult.

In the course of my career I have come into direct contact with those whose honour it is to wear the Crown. I have only ever told one person how I feel about this as it is not, perhaps, what one would expect. Truth be told, I have always felt extremely uncomfortable about it.

I serve the Crown in all its ideals, its very purpose, its representation of a British way of life and all that an Englishman holds dear. To be confronted with the living, breathing, and very human person who embodies these lofty ideals is always challenging.

Two particularly incidents spring to mind.

On one occasion, it fell to me to return property that had been taken, not by the Crown, but by a consort of a late King. It was hugely embarrassing to all parties concerned. A very civil conversation took place as I returned, in this instance, a highly ornate (and expensive) vintage snuff box. Every word we uttered skirted delicately around the subtext that this particular consort was…well… let’s just say if she had been born a commoner, she would have been described by those in the East End as a bit of a ‘tea leaf’.

I also had to accustom myself to that fact many of the Royal family still prefer to converse in German. They are, of course, of German descent, but it had never occurred to me that this might be used as a common secret language between them. I was once left in agonies of indecision when overhearing one of the married females of the Royal Family joking with a sibling that she thought I might be worthy of an indiscretion. Should I have explained immediately that I understood, causing embarrassment, or should I have remained quiet and risk inadvertently hearing more private conversations. In accordance with my nature, I chose the latter.

I am content to say that while the majority of my career has been spent in the protection and defence of the symbols and ideals of the Crown, I am generally far happier falling out of a speeding vehicle than I am spending time at court.

When I visited REDACTED and met with REDACTED, little was I to know the consequences of just such an action. It resulted in me being deployed to REDACTED where I was expected to recover a copy of REDACTED which, it had been impressed upon me, was imperative that I took to REDACTED. Had I failed in my task, the lives of REDACTED, REDACTED and even REDACTED would have been forfeit. What’s more, everything that REDACTED had been working toward with regard to operation REDACTED would have been for naught. It’s a good job then that I successfully recovered REDACTED, delivered it safe and sound to REDACTED and saved the day. Even now, any and all talk of REDACTED is strictly prohibited, hence this diary entry being…oh, bugger this, I give up…

Since my childhood I have never felt the desire to rely on anyone but myself. During the brief time I spent at University I was on nodding terms with my fellow students on the same stair, but no more. I joined the shooting club and also took up Bartitsu at this time, but I did not find another student who interested me enough to engage in more than polite conversation. Of course, I did get to know the daughter of one of my tutors, but that is an entirely different circumstance.

When I was summoned to a meeting at my father’s club, to face an inquisition by an aged gentleman who wanted me to look into something over the long vac, I believe I had no actual friends. This made me all the more attractive as a potential agent for the service.

The particular incident he sent me to observe is documented at some length elsewhere, and so imprinted on my psyche that I have no desire to reflect on it any further. Suffice it to say, if I thought I was a loner before, I returned an even more self-sufficient young man.

Of course, this is only half of the basic necessity for an agent. The other is the ability to think on one’s feet. I’m not entirely sure ‘think’ is the right word. In such cases there is no lengthy pondering, but only the briefest of moments to determine an action that may well save one’s life. The importance of this can’t be stated enough, for on the most interesting missions, one rarely has any form of back-up or support.

I recall a time when I was being chased through a souk by two very angry men brandishing koummya, daggers with a long, curved blades. While traditionally carried as a mark of social standing, I suspected their owners had a rather more visceral use in mind. I could have been no more than twenty at the time, and fresh in the service of the crown.

Souks are unforgettable places. To call them marketplaces does them no justice, once inside they stretch on forever. All serious negotiations take place over strong sweet coffee, or fearsomely dark mint tea. No prices are fixed; indeed, the bargaining is an art in itself. Should anyone be foolish enough to accept an opening price, then the merchant will often raise it as he has been denied the pleasure of bargaining.

The heat, dust and aroma of teas combine with voices raised in friendly barter, the sizzle of frying food that smells both unfamiliar and inviting, while everywhere the smell of spices permeate the air and prickle the inside of your nose. Boys, in brightly striped robes, run hither and thither attempting to draw people to their master’s stall. Hung from the poles that support the tented structures are textiles of every kind, from rugs and carpets to far more delicate wares like silks. It is forbidden for those who follow the religion of Islam to depict the forms of men or animals, but there is no stricture against colour, and so everywhere bright colours combine in intricate patterns. It is all a barrage on the senses, but in the most glorious of ways.

This is less of a pleasure when being chased. The haphazard nature of the souk means that while the locals may know how it is laid out, there is no internal logic for the visitor to understand. The vibrant colours confuse the darting eye and materials hung from every available point become obstacles to be dodged around.

As I hurried from my would-be attackers, I tried to pull goods down behind me, but these merchants are clever folk, most of their wares are firmly attached. I managed to free one medium sized rug, but this gained me little more than a few moments and the merchant’s ire. Things were getting desperate. At this stage in my career I knew the chances of my surviving against such men was remote. I was lost in the heart of the souk and they were gaining on me. I could have stopped and offered money to a merchant to hide me, but my instincts told me that, unknown and foreign to them, they were likely to take my money and then take more from my pursuers to expose me.

On and on I ran, hot, thirsty, hatless and panting for breath. I turned a corner and saw an open spice market before me. I had run past a few stands of spices, but this was the real thing. Huge, open containers of spices, every colour of the rainbow, spreading out across the courtyard. If I ran into here the open-air nature of this part of the souk would completely expose me to the men chasing me. It was wide enough that there would be no place to hide. Running in rows as these stalls also did, it would give the two men the opportunity to flank me. It would be suicide to go out there, yet, inside the souk I knew I couldn’t evade them for much longer.

I sprinted out, dashing across in such a way that they could flank me. I had a something in mind, but I could only do it once, so I needed both of them near me and I needed both hands free.

As they closed in gleefully, daggers raised, I scooped up two handfuls of vibrant red, ground chilli powder and threw it in each of their faces. The result was all that I desired. Blinded, coughing and sneezing as they were, I disappeared back into the souk and quickly lost them.

I survived, not by superior fighting ability, but by thinking quickly. Thinking on my feet and acting on instinct have frequently been my saviour. Every plan fails at some point. It is how quickly and how well you deal with disaster, when you have no help to hand, that determines the length of your career as a spy.

I’ve always thought that I’m rather a good dancer. This seems to surprise people, but then, what is dancing if not the strict control of one’s limbs? It’s a skill I wish more would master. Walking down a busy Oxford Street on a rainy day, knowing how to move oneself quickly and skilfully, is all that really separates a gentleman from losing an eye to the spokes of a dowager’s umbrella. On certain days, especially those in the run up to Christmas, excessive crowds and inclement weather can cause one to do a positive tango along the streets in order to survive.

Dancing is all about balance, so when an opponent attempts to push one under a tram or bus on a busy thoroughfare, one can quickly rebalance and assist them under the wheels of the oncoming vehicle instead. Of course, this is not an option to be taken lightly. It’s a very showy way of dealing with an attacker, and simply not the done thing. We British are all about subtlety. If I’m in the unfortunate position of hastening someone else’s mortality, my aim is to accomplish the task as swiftly and quietly as possible, so that their demise is attributed either to nature or misadventure. So often my work for the service is to avoid distressing the general public with dangers arising from bloodthirsty misanthropes or foreign agents.

Balance and foot placement are also the fundamentals of any fighting art. Personally, I am fond of the art of cane fighting (or Bartitsu, to give it its proper name) as I often have one to hand. Female agents can be trained to use an umbrella or parasol instead, which gives the added option of swiftly opening the canopy in their opponents face to blind and disorient them. Most disconcerting, as I can personally confirm. I will never forget that female Dutch spy, quite the beauty, who violently engaged me with her parasol one early morning in Antwerp. My own cane has the added benefit of being a swordstick, its blade being tempered steel, well-oiled for easy access.

Of course, when an agent has nothing else, he still has his physical form. Learning to make the most of this, and keeping oneself in good shape, is an obvious necessity. Escaping from bindings, trapping and locking an opponent’s joints, easing them into unconsciousness (without actually suffocating them), leaping from moving vehicles and plain old running are all basic spy skills. I also rather enjoy skiing, though I rarely get the chance.

It can be difficult to practise one’s skills when on an undercover mission of some length. I am fortunate that many of mine take place among our country’s aristocracy. Not only is the bedding generally clean and comfortable, but there is always an opportunity to dance. The better one dances, the better one can make their dancing partner seem, even if they’ve been born with the hooves of a staggering mule.

It’s also a most excellent form of exercise, with the added bonus that one has the opportunity to enjoy the close proximity of a lady without being seen as inappropriate. During a dance, one may flirt outrageously while still maintaining the appearance of behaving in a gentlemanly manner. Ladies are much desirous of talented dancing partners. If married to successful men, they generally find that as their husbands age (and generally being somewhat older than their wives to start with), their increasing portliness hampers their ability to dance - as well as other physical activities.

It is an unspoken rule, though widely known, that dancing gives an insight into one’s abilities in the bedroom. Many a woman, who would never contemplate being unfaithful to her spouse, has been content, if not delighted, to spend a dance in my arms as I whirl her masterfully around the room. I can see from the look in her eyes, she is not thinking about us as dancing partners, but fantasising about quite a different form of pairing. Generally, under those circumstances, I hold her more firmly, spin her more forcefully, and allow her to indulge in her fantasy without bringing her reputation into question.  On occasion, I admit, I use dancing as an act of deliberate seduction, but more commonly, it simply leads to a better acquaintanceship and thus to the eliciting of any required information.

When a spy dances, things are rarely quite what they seem.

I once referred to myself, during a relevant mission, as a ‘civil servant’. Needless to say, it afforded my so-called loyal partner enormous hilarity and, myself, much ribbing.

But technically I am, by employment, if not by nature. On the other hand, those who are voted into power prove to me every day that they are far from civil. The noxious braying and self-serving egotism displayed on a frequent basis in parliament is shocking - I am glad it is not witnessed by the general public. Should they ever see first-hand who is in charge of the running the country, and how they behave, confidence in our parliament would be as severely challenged as it was when Oliver Cromwell rose up.

I have committed myself to King and Country and, in doing so, have taken on a responsibility for life. I have forsworn family and personal commitments in favour of serving our nation. I am proud of taking my vow and I am proud of what I do (for the most part). However, a consequence of my duty means I cannot espouse political opinion, so it is only within these pages that I can vent my ire at the swaggering, champagne swilling, peddlers of prevarication that call themselves politicians.

I do not claim that all of them are terrible. As a nation we have produced some outstanding statesmen, but from my privileged perspective, this is the exception rather than the rule. Still, what else might one expect from those who undertake a four-yearly ritual of self-aggrandisement that allows them to retain their parliamentary privileges? (and those are many - the food and wine in parliament is almost as good as the fare on offer in my preferred private club - a positive haven, which forbids membership of anyone currently in government.)

The majority of our elected members, regardless of party, spend more time preening and posturing, desperate to gain the attention of the nation’s press, as if participating in some bizarre, and quite frankly disturbing, mating ritual.

It has been my absolute pleasure to have encountered, and frequently trounced, many treacherous, manipulative and deceitful people in my time, ranging from foreign spies to traitorous industrialists who are quite content to sell out their country just to inflate their bank balance. I would never describe any of these people as friends, but I infinitely prefer their company to that of politicians. Perhaps it is because politicians are generally beyond my touch. I have indulged in a little light blackmail of some (very easy work) to further my missions, but generally we run in different circles. I attend to my duties and they do - whatever it is they do.

I am not, in principle, against democracy, but I am fervently against the duplicity and manipulation that so many politicians pull out during their hustings. Surely, parliament and its members should be held accountable in respect to the truth. Is this not what we fight for?

My own loyalty always has, and always will, lie with the Crown and those who bear the burden of lifelong service to their country, regardless of the cost to themselves. That is true duty.

God Save the King!

The use of females for the purposes of spying is frequent, with seduction being the most common practice. This tends to be done by the sort of female one really cannot ask anything else from. It is a great shame as it perpetuates the belief that this is the main purpose of the fairer sex in all affairs. In reality, I have known many women of quick wits, who are calm under pressure and who, having undergone the trials of birth, or merely being equipped for such an endeavour, barely raise an eyebrow at the sort of pain that brings most men to their knees. I have always been of the opinion that, suitably trained, female spies are the equal of their male counterparts. The strengths of the two sexes may differ, but this can form the most unusual and effective of partnerships.

Euphemia was far behind me in training when we partnered up, but she had the benefit of one-to-one training from the best; namely myself. I doubt she was ever quite my equal, she started her training too late on, but during the time we were in the field together she could be quite breath-taking. Now, of course, she tends to concentrate on analysis and training. Quite my own fault. I didn’t want her putting herself at risk while her child was young. Perhaps if her husband had been of a stronger constitution, but then I would have worried constantly about leaving the child motherless, as I myself was.

And so, we come to the biggest challenge facing any female spy; her male comrades. I have always been unfairly over-protective of Euphemia, when the reality is, she has saved my life at least as often as I have saved hers. I nurtured our relationship with great care. Among male spies there is a brotherhood and a bond that is recognised. Any such closeness with a female immediately raises comments of an unsavoury sort, even when the partnership is purely professional. Even today it appears so-called gentlemen cannot remove their minds from the gutter when it comes to the sexes intermingling. Euphemia and I braved it out and held our heads high. It helped that Bertram was ahead of his times in allowing his wife to do as she wished; not that he would have had much choice, even if things had been different. Also, Euphemia was always ready to turn the expectations of others on their heads.

Still, I believe she suffered for it. Her close female friends were always few. Others, who knew her, no doubt talked behind their hands off how often she was away from her husband. Certainly, even in our own department, there were rumours. Conversations that stopped when either of us entered a room - that sort of thing. Other agents never said anything in my presence because they knew I would happily punch them in the face for the insult - and being of superior rank to most of them, I could bloody well get away with it. Euphemia, on the other hand, floored one chap when his comments became a little too raw. Of course, I never heard about such a thing officially, otherwise I would have had to discipline her - and that would have been quite hypocritical of me.

Killing leaves its mark on a man. To kill another is not a natural instinct. Passions can run high and one man may hurt another but setting out to take a life is no easy task. In the Great War we saw many men, on both sides, though in fear of death themselves, refuse to shoot straight at the other side. They fired above the trenches, intent on missing their targets.

So began a new initiative. The soldiers, via propaganda, were encouraged to think of the enemy not as men, but as ‘others.’ Others, who would invade their country, defile their women, kill their children, and in general behave in every way that a decent Englishman would find abhorrent. The aim was to utterly dehumanise the enemy, to the extent that a man did could not, would not, object to killing them. War is a dirty business.

Spies, however, are far more likely to have to kill face to face, even hand to hand. I don’t like it and anyone who does bothers me immensely. There have been a few like that in service to the Crown, but for my part I have always tried to keep them on a tight leash. I believe there are occasions when killing is the neatest solution - in terms of preventing a far greater loss of human life. When it needs to be done it should be done so professionally and with as little fallout or mess as possible.

There are also times when an individual has gone so awry from being a decent human being that only the grace of God can save them and so we expedite their return to him.

Teaching women to drive is not a task many gentlemen care to undertake. I have done so twice in my life and, in each case, it was my duty to the crown that compelled me do so. When Euphemia and I began to work together properly, it was shortly before the Great War and cars were far from being what they are today. As I have found myself far too frequently being shot at or having knives or other incapacitating weaponry lobbed my way, it seemed reasonable to train her as a backup driver.

At first, I thought that she was merely heavy-footed. A trait that could eventually be corrected, but as we shot forward yet again in too low a gear, listening to my poor motor grinding itself to death, she assured me ‘She had no fear of speed and if she wasn’t going fast enough I was to tell her.’ As I had just inadvertently swallowed several small flying insects, it took me a few moments to choke out the word ‘Stop!’ Apparently, the speed she attained was no match for the sensation of unbridled velocity she had enjoyed while riding in the country as a child. I tried to explain how different speeds were experienced, and how the motion of horseflesh beneath one is a headier experience than sitting in what is effectively an armchair on wheels. I had little effect.

Then there was her habit of leaning back when using the brake, which put her body into the oddest contortions. Again, there transpired to be a reason, an illogical Euphemia-type one, but a reason. She had always pulled back on the reins while riding and assumed a similar position while driving the car.

It took some time to turn her into a competent driver. I do not think she ever understood how much patience I extended to her. I had recently dragged her into the intelligence service business and so cut her far more laxity than I would otherwise have extended.

Teaching Hope was an entirely different matter. First of all, she required an explanation of how the basic mechanics of the car worked (her mother was quite happy to accept that the car worked by inscrutable means - possibly even magic - I never enquired too closely.) Hope told me she was very happy to hire a mechanic when required, but in case of the car breaking down when she was alone, or in danger, or simply in a hurry, she thought it best to understand the basics.

She listened closely as I explained, sketching out a few things on my notepad, then asked me to accompany her to her vehicle, a present from her indulgent Uncle, and opening the bonnet proceeded to repeat back to me what she had learnt. She got the majority of it right. I was pleased, and for the first time, begun to imagine that teaching her to drive might not be the same nightmare as teaching her mother had been.

I had stepped in to help her when Euphemia had offered to come up to town to do the lessons herself. Besides my being the better driver, I pointed out that Bertram still did not know she drove, and it was unfair to place the burden of that secret on Hope. It was the only appeal I could think of that stood any chance of getting my way. Euphemia still drives with gusto and great daring. I can only think the gods of motoring watch over her - and anyone else who happens to be on the road at the same time.

At first, Hope was an absolute dream to teach. She did exactly what I told her and did it perfectly. The challenge came when I ceased instructing. She obeyed me, as she has always done, without the intervention of thought, so when left to fend for herself at the wheel, it was very nearly the end of us. As I hadn’t told her to slow down, she took a bend in the road far too fast and only my reaching across to pull the brake prevented complete disaster. I recall being quite angry at the time. We had almost gone through the side of a small bridge and into a river some ten feet below. In hindsight we would probably have survived, but it would have not been without indignity and injury.

As I am never angry with Hope, her eyes filled with tears and I immediately regretted my words. When I discovered how literally she was following my instructions, and not thinking for herself, I got her to pull over to the side of the road and explained why, for example, it was imperative to slow one’s speed before a curve in the road. She listened intently, asked one or two very sensible questions, and then asked if she might try driving a little way again.

Of course, she did it perfectly. Hope has always been happy to not only take instruction from me, but to believe I am always right. Time in her company can be quite blissful. It is a stark contrast to her mother, who would challenge me on the spelling of my own name if I had put her in a temper.

Hope is now a few years older than Euphemia was when I met her and while she is the very image of her mother, their temperaments could not be more different. I always felt a duty to keep Euphemia safe, for which she mocked me. While Euphemia no longer needs my protection, my responsibility has shifted to protecting her daughter. We must all do our bit in this war, and I feel it is better Hope does so under my watchful eye. I am afraid I still think of her as that adorable, but vulnerable, eight-year-old child.

Hope has asked me to marry her. She is currently eight years old and at that stage where she is envious of the intense relationship between her parents but is far from understanding the bond of marriage and all it entails.

I declined as gracefully as I could.

We were on one of our long walks on her father’s estate. Of late, Bertram has been plagued with bad headaches, and as he had opened his very best brandy for me the previous night, I thought I would attempt to introduce the child to the concept of silence, and of being stealthy, rather than running around the house like a small and energetic elephant. She derailed my plans almost as soon as we had begun by demanding to know what elephants looked like, where they lived and what they ate. It was only about half-way through our time together, which by now had turned into a lecture on exotic animals, that she began to talk about love.

She loves me about as much as she loves the stuffed toy bear I bought her, and which her mother mischievously encouraged her to call Fitz, or worse still, Fitzy (she has no knowledge of my cover name as both her parents refer to me as Eric under their roof and she merely calls me Godfather). Euphemia was almost crying with laughter yesterday afternoon when Hope attempted to feed Fitzy a cream bun as he was off his food. Needless to say, by the end of the escapade, both the child and the bear had to be taken away by nanny to get washed. Euphemia really is the most indulgent parent!

But I digress. After I declined her proposal, Hope asked me if I loved her, to which I replied, quite sincerely, that I do, but in quite a different way to how her Daddy loves her Mummy. I said I loved her in a way akin to how her own father loved her and as I was unlikely to ever have children of my own…

I got no further. Why would Godfather never have children? Why was Godfather not married? She went on and on in this manner for an embarrassingly long time - or so it seemed. I felt most uncomfortable, but I had only myself to blame. I have always encouraged Hope to ask me whatever she wants. I felt that one of the supports I could offer her, as her Godfather, was the ability to ask me questions she might find difficult to ask her parents. I also felt it was a good way to gain her trust and affection - it has certainly worked well in my professional life with my adult assets. Oh, but what a fool I was!

I explained that my work kept me very busy and I had always felt it would be unfair of me to have a family when I was so preoccupied. Whereupon she opened her eyes very wide and, to my horror, I saw them fill with tears. ‘But who loves you Godfather?’ she asked.

At this point I was almost reduced to the ‘harrumphing’ noises old men in the clubs make when asked about the politics of the day.

Eventually we concluded I was held in the highest affection by the members of her family and, therefore, reasonably happy. She gave me a hug to be sure. She is quite the dearest little thing, but goodness, she has the interrogation skills of the Spanish Inquisition. I managed to sidestep any probing questions concerning if I had ever been in love like Mummy and Daddy by diverting her attention to particular fine tree to climb. She proceeded to do so and give me a heart palpitations by falling out several times.

That evening, when she came down to the dining room to say good night, I had to endure a hug from a rather damp and smelly stuffed bear as she told me ‘Fitzy loved me too’. Euphemia hid her face behind a quivering napkin and Bertram literally barked with laughter.

I sometimes feel being her godfather is the hardest mission I have ever entered upon, and as Hope likes to remind me, I am her Godfather for ever and ever.

God help me.

Torture can be necessary. When the lives of many depend on the knowledge of a hostile few, it can be a vital weapon. That said, I dislike it intensely.

Having been subjected to physical torture myself, I know how ineffective it is on a trained agent. It ends in one of three ways. Either the agent dies under torture, they offer up a lie, or they tell the truth. Most of our agents will die rather than reveal information, unless the torturer is exceptionally skilled. Under physical torture I believe everybody breaks at some point but breaking and revealing information are not the same thing. Personally, I am wary of believing anything said under physical torture. You can inflict so much pain that your subject will say anything to make it stop.

This is, of course, leaving aside the total inhumanity of torturing another person. It changes those who inflict it, those who watch it and those who order it - and all for the worse.

I prefer a different tack. Generally, I will put all those from whom I seek information in the same room. I will allow them to discuss their situation. I will ensure they are given basic food and basic care. Then I and another agent will enter. I will explain what I need to know. No one will speak - if they do, I don’t trust a word of it. I will then apologise for my tactics, but say I need the information now. After this I will escort one or two of the more popular among the group out of the room at gunpoint.

After I have left the room the remaining captives will hear gunshots, equal to the number of people I have taken. When I return, I will only assure them it was quick as I am not a monster. I will then repeat my request for information. Of course, in playing out this scenario, it is imperative not to remove any of the captives who actually have the information we need.

Usually after the first shooting or shootings, someone will crack.

In case it isn’t clear, the torture of which I speak is psychological, not physical. The people removed from the room are merely taken to another room. The shots fired are aimed at no-one and harm no-one. There is no place in the British way of things to summarily murder agents or civilians. I do not deny we have the death penalty, but execution comes at the end of a fair trial and not at an inquisitor’s whim.

Hope asked me today if I ever made mistakes. What should I tell her?

The truth is, I make them all the time. Barely a day goes by when I don’t think I could have handled something differently. When I was first in the service, that mattered less, as I could generally fight my way out of events. Later, when Euphemia started joining me fairly frequently, that became less of an option. I had taught her to fight. It would have been quite remiss of me to take her on any mission without her having a decent ability to protect herself. I taught her my full arsenal of dirty tricks, bearing in mind she would likely be up against a bigger and stronger opponent. Although, I have to say, on the few occasions we were both forced to fight our foes, the shock and surprise of enemy agents, on discovering my beautiful companion was a no-holes barred fighter, was extremely amusing. So much so that once I got an unnecessary black eye as I was somewhat distracted laughing. Most unprofessional.

But, in general, I hate to see women fight. If a woman is fighting alongside me, I always feel I haven’t done my job properly. Euphemia would laugh at that and Hope would be most indignant, but it’s the way I feel, and I can’t help that.

Perhaps that is another mistake of mine. In this war, women are proving they are the equal, and even the better, of men. I’ve always held that to be true, but at the same time I’ve always felt duty bound to protect the women in my circle.

As I grow older, and have my temper under better control, I hope I make less mistakes. I can always appear calm - or nearly always, at least - I suspect only Euphemia, and possibly my mother, knew how much I struggle with my inner demons. The foolishness of mankind in general fuels my ire to greater heights every day. The way certain ‘gentlemen’ behave makes me want to line them all up and punch them in the face. But I don’t. I can think of only one time when I let my temper get the better of me. Euphemia pulled me off the man, but his head was already a bloody mess from my fists. He died in hospital. My only regret is that Euphemia witnessed it, but then he was attempting to assault her in the vilest of ways.

I think I shall tell Hope that we all make mistakes, but that at my current rank, making mistakes has dire consequences and I must now apply a caution to my actions that I have learned the hard way, through making mistakes in the past. I shall tell her that in her work the making of mistakes is a necessary and unavoidable part of learning. Though I will also say this is no excuse for slack work (I know she never does less than her best, but I am aware that my favouritism towards her, much as I try to hide it, is becoming a matter of some talk within the department. I should ensure that her and I are overheard and that I sound quite stern.)

I have been shot on three occasions. In one instance, I deliberately took a bullet for someone else and I did not expect to survive. On another, I had little choice but to run across a line of fire, a worse fate awaited me if I tarried and finally, I have been shot due to my own miscalculation. In the latter case, I did manage to present a sufficiently small target when I realised what was about to occur, so that the damage was minimal.

My advice to my trainees is simple: don’t get shot. However, if it is going to happen, there are a few measures you can take to minimise the damage.

Firstly, if you are idiotic enough to let someone get close enough to put a gun to your head, to your back or to your chest, you react immediately. You don’t wait to see when and how they will shoot you. You never, and I repeat never, get down on your knees in the execution position. If you do you are dead. Close to, if your hands are free, you swat the gun away, followed by an appropriate manoeuvre. Even if you end up in a tussle for the gun, it is better than being on your knees. If there are other assailants, you obviously position the body of your attacker between you and them. Be aware this is not enough to save you from all bullets, but at the very least, most enemies will hesitate before shooting their colleague. This again gives you further time to assess the situation and respond.

Never be afraid of a man with a gun. The only part you have to fear is the part that the bullet exits. You always have the chance of rushing at a man and dropping to catch him at his knees and bring him down. This is not, even for an amateur, a first reaction, as it is obviously not without significant risk.

The point is that in the majority of situations where you face a gunman in close quarters, it is necessary to react rather than submit. In our profession submission always accelerates our own morality.

If you are turning to get a gun away from your back, you turn in the way that pushes the gun furthest away from you - i.e. if the shooter is right handed then you turn to the right, so the barrel is angled past you. Above all, reacting is the last thing a gunman expects you to do when he has you cornered.

Always run from a shotgun. Every pace between yourself and it heightens your chance of survival. If you must flee when a gun is aimed at you, present the smallest target possible.

Someone once asked me if being shot hurt. I stood heavily on his foot and asked if that hurt. A little unkind perhaps, as generally when one is first shot one feels nothing, it is only later the pain kicks in. Also, contrary to popular belief, being shot does not make you fall over. Make the best use of the initial lack of pain and the ability to still move and you will increase your chances of surviving.

 Once you have experienced being shot, it depends entirely on your personality how you react to a gun being drawn on you again. My reaction is typically to swear loudly and attempt to take down my assailant, empowered by my distaste of people who have shot at me in the past (successfully or not). In other words, drawing a gun on me only raises my ire - something for my enemies to consider. I am, in general, of such a choleric personality that even while enraged I have trained myself to think logically.

Working with a partner undercover has enormous advantages. The ability to be in two places at once being the best of them. However, there are singular limitations if you are working together, but your covers are not together. I remember one extremely boring event in which both Euphemia and I were present at a country house gathering. The issue was we arrived as people who did not know each other. The gathering was an illegal auction and we had both had to stump up some excellent false credentials. As we were supposed enemies in the bidding war, we could hardly have cosy chats in front of the other attendees.

Having studied the location, we had pre-arranged a first meeting spot, but reality is seldom ever so kind as to allow plans to go unhindered. Fortunately, over time, we had built up a system of signals by which to covertly communicate with one another.

The roots of it came from when Euphemia was first studying codes and cyphers, at which she is competent, but not outstanding. At one point she was delighted to come across a covert flirtation system once present in Canada and America. ‘Even if people do spot us signalling,’ she said, ‘they will merely think we are flirting.’ ‘Your husband would be so happy to learn of that,’ I replied, but she merely shrugged. ‘What he doesn’t know…’  She was especially delighted by a system that involved how a man handled his hat. Whether he held it in front of him, behind, by the band or by the crown, where he placed it beside him, and all that. I pointed out that in England, the moment one enters a property, a butler, maid or footman whisks away one’s hat and gloves.

‘Anyway,’ I said, ‘And what, precisely, would you respond with? Gestures with a fan, something that no modern woman keeps about her person?’

‘Drat,’ said Euphemia. ‘But you get the idea, Eric. One could use natural gestures that draw no suspicious attention, but to one’s fellow operative mean a great deal.’

I admit, I disliked that she had voiced this idea before I had, but I do my best to be fair. ‘It’s an interesting idea,’ I admitted. ‘You know the basic military ones, don’t you?’

She nodded. ‘But you mean something more expansive than that. I suggest you start by drawing up a list that we might employ in the field, like ‘leave as soon as possible’, ‘suspect is behind you’, ‘meet at our arranged place’.

‘Or,’ added Euphemia, ‘don’t eat the soup. It’s poisoned.’

‘I doubt you will be able to be that specific. There are only so many normal gestures we can appropriate or such purposes. I shall make a list of those. Then we can match them up as we see best.

I stared sternly at her. ‘And don’t call me Eric when we’re working.’

As untameable as ever, her only answer was to giggle. As she rarely giggles - it would be quite unbearable if one were partnered with a female who giggled a great deal - I let it pass. She had, I recall, been most dispirited of late, as Bertram had experienced another of his turns. I must say that for an invalid, Bertram has a great strength, and propensity for surviving his turns, that is quite remarkable. Another fellow would have turned up his toes long ago.

So, anyway, we created a code between us that proved most useful. Although Euphemia insisted what we include a sign to warn of poison. I railed against this, but later had to eat my words. Her signalling that my drink or steak had been poisoned saved my life on two occasions at least.

Having a creatively minded partner can be tiresome. I find the more creative a person is, the harder it is to tie them down to logical solutions. But Euphemia’s creativity and intuition has always been a boon to our working life. In our personal dealings, which became all the more frequent after I became Hope’s Godfather, they have always been an unmitigated nightmare. She is forever thrusting me onto the back foot.

More than once I’ve been asked if I ever met Mata Hari. I did, but it wasn’t at all as some of my more liberal minded colleagues imagined.

I was in Paris not long before the Great War. As you can imagine, there was a pressing need for intelligence, but this had to be obtained amidst the growing hostilities in the area. I have loved Paris. This time my whole attention was on doing my job and getting out of the city as soon as I could. I went alone, by choice, and I don’t believe I ever told Alice about this particular mission.

I had a better idea than most as to what was coming with this war - although I could not have imagined the atrocities both sides were to inflict on their soldiers in what became a war of attrition. I only knew we were in for a bad time - and I didn’t want Euphemia, or any woman, if I could help it, anywhere near the battle lines. I’d seen war before. No matter how brave or how prepared you may think you are, no man who has ever experienced fighting in a war would willingly inflict that suffering on any other, least of all a woman.

British Intelligence had a passing interest in Mata Hari. Personally, I thought we were at too late a stage for her to be of any use to us. She was ageing by then. Still most attractive and exotic, if her photographs were anything to go by, but rumour had it she no longer exuded the magic that older men once described. The idea she could get military information out of senior military men, or German Princes, I thought overblown.

However, I did not expect what I saw when I finally met her. I use the term loosely; we were never introduced. Rather, I attended a party where I knew she would be, so I could satisfy myself that I was correct in my assumption that there was no point in approaching her.

I do remember, not a silence in the conversation, but a quietening, and the heads of many gentlemen turning towards the door as she made her entrance. She paused in the doorway with her long cigarette holder held so that it was just touching her painted lips. She wore her infamous jewelled brassiere, her strange little bejewelled hair net over long jet-black hair and a cascade of material that covered her modesty but exposed her abdomen in a manner that stopped just short of being lewd. A ripple crossed the room as many of the watching gentleman adjusted their gait.

I confess, it is rare for me not to be drawn to an attractive woman - a failing of mine, but I offer as penance that physical attraction alone has never been enough for me for form a relationship.

However, that is not to the point. What is, is that I felt instinctively repelled by this woman.

I never spoke to her, but as she brushed past my shoulder, she gave me a small, pouting smile. I barely noticed it. I know all about acting a part. Instead I looked into her eyes and I saw a depth of coldness within those lovely orbs that sent shivers down my spine. Despite the seductive attire, I saw a woman, broken and lost, completely undone by life and in the most desperate need of love, or failing that, distraction - any distraction.

I knew in that moment she was the worst choice for a spy. Life had stripped her of all convictions, of all loyalty, of everything. I left the party early, despite strong enticements to stay. I could not bear to be around her.

It was only later I learned of the death of her two young children, the disastrous marriages and the affairs she had embarked upon to save herself, but she had failed. By the time I met her, Mata Hari’s soul was long gone.

Some thoughts on eliciting Intelligence by means of seduction.

 Obviously, one of the best ways to learn is to listen. Both ladies and gentlemen love talking about themselves. However, left to their own devices, the majority of people talk absolute drivel. Unfortunately, it is necessary to allow them to waffle at first, to show willing. To deepen the conversation, one offers something intriguing about one’s self. Preferably a little-known fact that you believe will interest your listener. It is better for the fact to be true - but again, obviously, not damaging. Going undercover, one is often given a detailed character, but I suggest you integrate certain truths. I have often gained the sympathy of women by telling them of my mother’s early death and my subsequent incarceration at boarding school by my distant father. It is far from being an unusual fact, but suggesting a vulnerability, especially to matrons of young children, I inch further towards a supposed friendship, or more.

With men, where one is electing information or respect, one might allude to some business dealing that failed; allowing them to feel the superior man. With weak men, one merely mentions something casually heroic, a shooting score, catching a runaway horse or some such rot. Then one becomes something of a hero and confidante.

Generally trying to get closer to women, who in turn are close to their husbands (how else might they know their secrets?) the marriage bond is a trial. However, familiarity does indeed breed contempt. Remembering to pass the sugar before it is asked for, or asking them to perform after dinner, no matter how it hurts one’s musical sensibilities, endears one. Praise should generally be given rarely. For some women, being distant and enigmatic is more alluring. To a certain extent, one must play it by ear.

Courtesy, watchfulness, attentiveness, a smattering of praise and eventually the offering of confidences are the general basis for seduction. How exactly they are applied depends on the subject. Learning as much as you can about the target, discreetly (I must stress this) before entering the field gives a great advantage.

After a liaison, I always remain a gentleman. I never speak of the relationship, except to pass on the intelligence to the relevant people. Instead I adopt an aloof, but slightly sad demeanour towards the lady, as if I would continue the relationship if I could. Needless to say, one must be careful not to engage the lady’s affection too deeply. Personally, I choose, if I need to spend a night with the target, to ensure it is only the once and that she is fully prepped and ready to tell me what I need. Afterwards, if absolutely required, one can say something about ‘being honoured, but realising one must not intrude upon her life’. The lady is then at liberty to regard one as a cad or a gentleman, once overcome by passion who is now aiming to do the right thing. I prefer the latter option, especially as it may engender some extra guilt on the lady’s part, and she will more likely refrain from mentioning it to anybody.

The consummated liaison is the last resort. It is often surprising what simple attention and a few endearments can achieve. The major benefit of not bedding the woman is that one can part as star-crossed lovers. An ending at which I feel I excel.

Two final notes. If you find the target repugnant and attempting to imagine she is someone else does not light your ardour, tell your superiors. It is accepted within the service that feigning affection is not always possible for an individual and can cause some severe physical limitation upon the agent.

My final note is that if you were seeking advice for what to do after the bedroom door closes, I suggest you either speak to your family doctor or engage professional help. While personally a master, this is one skill I do not teach.