I simply cannot make sense of it. I have one. Her mother has one. Her father has one. Even the ruddy kitchen cat, that insists on bringing the benighted results of its nightly wanderings home, has one. But, no, Hope Stapleford, at the tender age of eight, hasn’t the slightest sense of direction.

She can, at least, tell her left from her right, although I have noticed that she hesitates momentarily when asked to indicate which is which. Sometimes she glances down at her hands, when she thinks I am not looking, to see which index figure and thumb form the tell-tale ‘L’ for left. I didn’t comment on this but assumed she would grow out of it. I haven’t ever trained a child before, so have no real idea of when they should reach certain developmental milestones. I don’t compare her to my siblings’ offspring as in general they were all dumb as posts at her age. Only my mother’s genes save me from a similar fate.

Hope was reading by three years of age. Walking before she was even one. She is confident, perceptive and far too fearless. She merely laughs when falling out of tree, rather than looking to see where she is going to land, or even bracing herself. She has infinite trust in my ability to keep her safe (something which has caused me more than one sleepless night, and I swear is the root cause of my first grey hairs). She is a terrible judge of character, thinking me a ‘nice man’ (ha!) and her father full of wonderful ideas (even though he never puts any of them into practice). But, other than that, I have always thought her quite advanced for her years.

However, after giving her instructions on how to navigate north, to get to the house through her own woods, some twenty minutes later, and mere moments before I was about to relieve myself of the vast quantities of tea I had drunk at breakfast, she appeared back in the clearing, having walked in a complete circle. Fortunately, I was not yet committed to action and was able to stand down without any immodesty having occurred. However, I was caught on the back foot and was unusually short with her. She looked somewhat hurt, which made me feel like a cad. However, I reasoned that I was always kind and gentle with her, and perhaps a little firmness, in this instance, was called for.

‘I do know the way to the house, Godfather,’ she insisted, ‘but when I make my way north, I arrive back here, so this must be north, and the house must be elsewhere.’ She gave me a bright smile.

‘But Hope,’ I said, ‘how could constantly heading North led you back to the same place?’

‘Oh, don’t you see?’ and she drew an imagination compass in the air with her finger. ‘You start at north, then go east, then south, then west and then you complete the circle by getting to north.’

'You should have told me you didn’t understand,’ I said, sighing.

Hope looked at me with her head on one side. We were clearly at an impasse. Her expression was not hostile, but rather like that of a bright young mind looking at someone older and confused. I found a log for us to sit on and we started again. I paused frequently in my presentation and asked the child questions. She answered correctly every time. We then did some instinctual exercises - such as finding north using the sun as a guide, or by checking moss on trees - all very rough indications. She did adequately, but not exceptionally well. Then I took her into the woods a short way from the clearing and asked her to lead me back.

She led me, with complete confidence, in entirely the wrong direction. We repeated this exercise several times until I came to understand that she simply had no sense of direction whatsoever. Curiously, if I asked her to find a particular tree or flower, she remarked that she could take me there - although usually by a somewhat convoluted route. I was forced to conclude she remembered her way in pictorial form, rather than by having a wider sense of the landscape.

When we finally returned to the house, I got her to draw map of the house and grounds, only to discover that her version was as unique as her perception of north. She drew a lovely map that bore no resemblance to reality. I now consider it of prime importance that any geographical lessons of Hope’s are reinforced by the use of paper maps and a real compass.

When I told the story over dinner that night, her mother said she thought that Hope’s sense of direction was just a little slow in development and that she’d improve in time. Her father laughed and suggested she may have been frightened by a homing pigeon when she was a baby. It is undoubtedly his genetic contribution that is at fault.

At birth, I was so far down the family food chain that my presence barely registered with anyone but my mother. As my father’s second wife, of independent means, she was more than able to provide for my future herself. Which is just as well, as my share of my father’s estate would be less than a shilling.

As I have never much liked the man who sired me, this suits me down to the ground. It also leaves me with no responsibility to reproduce for the sake of the title. Again, a positive bonus in my mind. If one is to have children, I have always thought it should be because one wants them, and as a child of an unwilling father, I am quite adamant in the belief.

Sadly, my family has passed through several decades of attrition; wars and plagues (or influenza, if I must be less poetic). This coupled with accidents brought about by carelessness, arrogance, and in a very few cases, simply damn, bad luck, has brought the title very much nearer my head than anyone ever thought it would come.

The situation is bad enough that my father has not only written to me for the first time in over twenty years but is advising me to acquire a wife! The sole purpose of which would be for me to impregnate her, and beget an heir for the succession before, as he tactfully puts it, ‘I may finally heed the call to serve my country in its hour of need.’

None of my family have ever known what I do, and other than having to ignore their sneers and snubs (rather than planting them a facer), it hasn’t bothered me much. I owe them nothing, but now it appears they believe I owe them my seed.

It is, admittedly, an old title, and perhaps if family relations had been more amiable since I left home, I might feel some pressure to bow to their request. As it is, I have no intention of marrying for their convenience, let alone setting up a nursery. I regard myself as being in my prime, but a lady of a similar age to myself would almost certainly be past her child bearing years, and I have no desire whatsoever to marry some foolish, younger woman, whose head is turned by the possibility of being present at the next coronation.

But all this has led to me to reflect on my lack of offspring. I chose, open eyed, an occupation totally unsuited for a family man. I have enjoyed enormously being a bachelor. I suspect my single status is written through me, as the name of a seaside town is written through a stick of rock.

Euphemia once asked me to befriend, or at least try to be an uncle, to her younger brother, as he had no significant male adult to look up to. As I still felt somewhat beholden to that family, and wanted her to remain on my team, I did so. Her mother did later marry a Bishop, who was enough of an educated gentleman that you could almost forget he was a man of the cloth. However, he was already an old man when he came into Joe’s life.

If I am honest, I cannot say that my interventions with him went well. Once it was clear he would inherit his grandfather’s estate (another family suffering the effects of the Great War), and that having been home schooled by his ferocious mother, he had no intention of entering university, and there was really very little left in my skillset to offer the chap. We did have a couple of conversations about women, but as he has followed me into a bachelor lifestyle, I don’t think I helped there either. I did manage to steer him away from older, grasping women on more than one occasion, and I did put a downer on some of the wilder parties he threw after his grandfather’s demise. Fortunately, his mother has come to live with him now, so on that level I need have no more fears (and by wild, I mean hedonistic and cocaine fuelled, something which I have kept from Euphemia as she still dotes on him).

Overall, the experience has led me to believe I would make a poor father. Having effectively not had much of one myself, I simply don’t have the knack of it.

When Hope became my goddaughter, it was very different. I wasn’t keen when Euphemia first asked me, but when she explained she wanted her daughter to grow up knowing spy-craft for her own protection, in case any of her (or rather our) old enemies ever came out of the woodwork, I at least knew what I could and would do. That Hope turned out to be such a darling child, who in many ways is a reflection of her mother, but in calmer and deeper waters, was an unlooked-for delight. Of course, she had a father, but Bertram’s continuing bad health, for which some of that blame is rightly laid at my door, meant he could not be the active type of parent a country child required. I found sharing my love of the outdoors, teaching her to ride, and how to live on the land, as enjoyable as training a young mind in spy craft (that, in and of itself, was a fascinating experience).

But Hope is not my child. She is her mother's daughter, and I believe the heart of her has been formed by this unique and remarkable woman. I suspect I might have faired slightly better with a daughter, but clearly without Euphemia’s assistance, I would have been hopelessly lost.

All in all, I think it better for the world I remain childless. I am too much of a maverick, and too much of a wanderer, to be a decent parent. My fourth cousin, Gerald, will simply have to step up to the mark when I shuffle off this mortal coil and take on that dratted title. May the poor oaf enjoy it!

In my private apartment I have a number of collections, from snuff boxes to incunabula. The majority of these I started while up at college and abandoned some years ago as they seemed of increasingly less importance given the state of Europe. The incunabula being the exception. These frequently document mankind making the same kinds of errors of judgement back then as they do today. I can reread them as much as I like and have my hearty cynicism of humanity confirmed.

I have no fear of Griffin handling any of these. I instruct him on how incunabula must be handled, but short of a little light dusting, I cannot see why he would need to touch them. Unless, of course, he proves to have an interest, which would be no bad thing. The man needs constant occupation to keep his mind steady and here with us in the present. I cannot have him brooding on the past or he will fall into a brown study and be of no use to man or beast. Much as he was when I found him.

No, what presents itself to me as a slightly ticklish problem is my other collection, the one that I am very much still actively collecting. I heard at my club the other night of a new form of chair, which has hidden compartments, ranging from those where one might hide decanters from too strict a wife, to those you can tidy away such games as chess and Chequers. But what intrigued me most was being told that the whole inside panel of this leather wing-backed chair could be removed.

When removed, there is revealed ample storage for a gentleman’s favourite photographs. Certainly, when one is sitting in the chair, one could be safe and fear no discovery, but just how secure is this piece of furniture? I suspect if it is being made en-masse it’s secret will soon be no secret at all.

My collection of erotica began in the later stages of school, and while many of my schoolmates showed little appreciation of the artistic side of the endeavour, I was never interested in the ones that were blatantly sexual. I like to think my taste is subtler, more honed to an appreciation of the female form rather than a greedy appetite for the sort of smut a schoolboy craves.

To further my collection, I began to take pictures myself - of willing subjects, naturally. Indeed, the smiles on the faces of my models are most definitely for me alone. I do not wish this collection to shared, now or ever. I could place them in my bank box, along with other vital papers, and ask for them to be destroyed by my bank if I do not return from a mission. But then, of course, I would not be able to admire them at my leisure.

But the thought that I may not return has, of late, become a more pressing worry. Europe is as ripe as a fly-blown fruit and ready to erupt. My brush with an over exaggerated demise - supposedly at the bottom of the sea - has left me seeing the world in quite a different way. I now wonder about how it will be when I am truly gone.

Fortunately, I returned to life before my lovely executor had fulfilled all my bequests and left me penniless. Nevertheless, it turned out quite fortunate that she had told some people I was dead and had remunerated them accordingly. It allowed me to close certain chapters of my life with an unburdening finality.

But yet there remain possessions I do not wish to outlast my mortal span. Perhaps I would be better to trust Griffin with my secrets and allow him to destroy the evidence of certain indiscretions (on the ladies’ side, not mine). Yet, I feel this too is an intrusion. I suppose a gentleman would destroy such images now. Fortunately, as I am always telling others, I am no gentleman.

I find it enormously hard to say goodbye. I don’t like finality and ends set in stone. I’ve always been one to wander off the beaten track and not rule things out. So, the finality of a goodbye is an anathema to me. Goodbyes make me feel nauseous.

Of course, there are people I’m only too happy to see the backs of. Down the years I have killed people in the line of duty, but in truth, I mostly avoid killing, even when it would make me feel very much better. To those whose lives I am not permitted to foreshorten, but who deserve it, I wish the heartiest of goodbyes in the hope that fate takes them. It is a small balm to my soul.

I am perfectly content with my own mortality. I admit, I am rather amused by the thought of being shot dead by an aggrieved young husband when I am discovered, at the age of one hundred years or so, in flagrante delicto with his wife. However, it is the potential death of colleagues, associates, and friends, that troubles me the most. The thought that I might not be around to prevent misadventure to their persons fills me with guilt. Thus, I adopted the habit of never saying goodbye to anyone I even vaguely like.

I do not like to acknowledge that some partings will be final. When I say goodbye to a colleague, I always feel that I am admitting the possibility that one or other of us might die. It feels like the word is a curse. I much prefer ‘till later’, or even, if I am showing my more poetic side, ‘Adieu’. I find women at the end of a love affair find it tearfully titillating to be ‘adieu’ed. And who am I to deny them than final pleasure as I trot off over the horizon to pastures new?

I don’t say goodbye to Euphemia. I walk out, or disappear, or even storm away. I prefer to leave her with an exit that she might remember, if I can, but I don’t say goodbye. If I looked her in the face and thought I was saying goodbye because she might die on a mission, I couldn’t let her go. I probably couldn’t do it with half the young spies I send out into the field. I don’t want either of us to admit the possibility of defeat that the word goodbye raises in my mind.

Of course, I did the same with Hope, which confused her mightily. She has been brought up to be almost intolerably polite. Euphemia once told me, when I left White Orchards one Easter without seeing the child, she spent the rest of the day searching the house for me, convinced I was ‘only hiding’. Apparently, she cried herself to sleep. Since then I have had to alter my modus operandi with young children. Fortunately, apart from Hope, I rarely encounter any. Anyway, for her, I have condescended to say goodbye to her bear, ‘Fitzy’, a stuffed toy I bought her, and which she is hopelessly attached to. I say goodbye to the bear, not only because it helps her understand I am about to depart, but because, quite frankly, I would be delighted if I never saw my disgusting drool-soaked namesake again.

These days, with a lack of supplies, it’s important not to waste food, and there has been much discussion on whether formal evening meals should be shortened. Personally, I am in favour of abandoning the fish course. This is not a thought I am promoting widely, as I realize the fish industry needs our support, but on the whole, when I have been in the middle of nowhere, in danger of my life and foraging for food, I usually end up eating fish. Thus, the white flesh of piscine creatures reminds me of more uncomfortable times - and do not get me started on eating lobster or the like. Honestly, why would anyone eat something that feeds off the seabed, with all the detritus and dead creatures that fall there?

Overall, I am of the opinion that, rather than reduce the number of courses, and foreshorten the conversation and conviviality of dinner companions, portion sizes should be reduced. Many of those who enjoy the luxury of dressing for an evening meal also enjoy the luxury of spending much of their time sitting on their posterior, so such a move would ultimately reduce their girth and give a much-needed boost to their health.

I do very much value eating times. As a very active male, I need my food, but I have also found that having difficult, or important, conversations is eased by the connection provided by breaking bread together. As no-one has yet refused to dine with me, I believe that those to whom I have delivered bad news have overlooked the false intimacy and trust a full stomach can inspire (even Hope and Euphemia, who are often wise to my tricks, have missed this). Certainly, if nothing else, a well-fed person is slower to anger.

When I am not working - which, admittedly, is infrequently - my favourite dining companions are those who can provide me with good, stimulating conversation during dinner, or those who will provide me with good, stimulating activity after dinner.

Often Jack and I dine alone, then go for an evening walk. I find this brings a tranquil end to a busy day, aids ingestion and prompts restful sleep.

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Recently, when discussing with Alice her newfound status as an Agent of the Crown, I mentioned that she would never be able to vote. Talk about opening a cage of tigers. It was several minutes before I could explain, that I too, was unable to vote. Our work requires us to be apolitical. I also expressed my opinion that women should have the vote, but also that a large percentage of the working male population did not yet have the vote either. I even went as far as to say this went beyond a group of privileged ladies wanting to challenge their husband’s superiority in everyday life.

Why do I do these things to myself?

It was some time before I managed to redirect the conversation towards the concept of democracy. I attempted to close this down with the flippant comment, ‘that it was good enough for the ancient Greeks, but an English gentleman needed something better.’

Of course, I had forgotten the Alice’s father had schooled her in some depth in the classics. The conversation continued and I yearned for a glass of my best brandy, with Jack lying contentedly at my feet (I have discovered that a sleeping dog is my ideal companion).

Alice approves of democracy. She likes the idea of the right people being voted into power to run our country. Of course, she also approves of the monarchy, and I took that as a given. However, she struggles, as others have before her, with the realisation that many of the politicians voted into power are absolute idiots. She contends that when women gain the vote, much more sensible choices will be made.

Sometimes I think she fails to understand the flaws that run through humanity, regardless of gender. My personal opinion, not that it counts, as I can’t vote, is that individuals allocate their vote due to fear, persuasion, loyalty or indifference. They very rarely vote according to their understanding of the issues at the time - because they don’t want to spend the time separating the truth from the misinformation. Instead, they want to hand over responsibility to someone else, who will keep things rolling along in the usual way.  Not only is this an abdication of responsibility, but also an opportunity to blame someone else, should things ‘go wrong’. Political promises, in my experience, are rather like military plans, they rarely survive their initial engagement.

Those who stand for parliament are generally privileged, it is not a cheap enterprise, and have the support of a wide range of cronies. Said cronies are normally motivated as much by remuneratory rewards as much as ideology. In fact, ideology comes a long way down the list. Although I accept that ‘not changing the way things are’ is a strong motivator for many political lobbyists who know they are currently advantaged. Thus, an immediate mockery of the whole system of four-year elections is made. Why, I foolishly wondered aloud, would the female gender, even want to get involved in such a farcical show? (I may have used a term stronger than farcical here as I have given up watching my language with Alice. We work too closely together for me to spare the energy).

Alice’s take is based on the idea that those who want power should rarely receive it, and that those who do not seek it, but would be good at it, and good for the people, should be elected. This, as I told her, is a meritocracy not a democracy - the former word being invented, but never yet accurately used for its purpose. I added in a few Grecian tags, along with a few Latin ones, about Emperors to show I knew what I was talking about.

The wretched woman - by which, of course, I mean my dear friend and colleague - translated each of them perfectly, totally undermining my argument. I did the only thing I could think of and suggested it was time for some combat training. We engaged in some stick training for an hour, and it says much for the troublesome thoughts she awoke in my breast about the true nature of democracy, as opposed to its realisation today, that she managed to land several blows.

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NB: My publisher has kindly offered ten copies of A Death at the Races to be allocated at random among those who have signed up for my mailing list before Monday 11th May, so if you haven’t already done so, please send an email confirming your interest to carolinedunfordauthor@gmail.com. Thank you!

I have been watching the nervous twitching of our government as it attempts to befriend Herr Hitler. I can tell them now, it won’t work. This is not because I retain any particular antipathy towards the German people for the last conflict. I may loathe and abhor their leaders and the men whose naked ambition led us into the Great War, but I make a distinction between them and civilians, and even ordinary soldiers.

The Great War was meant to be the war that ended all wars. But did we learn from it? Hardly. The dust had barely settled before we determined to take every ounce of flesh we could out of a cowed and defeated country. The treaty of Versailles, as I have said till I’m blue in the face, was an act of despicable vengeance. It’s hardly surprising that when a decent orator came along that promised a new Germany, it began, like a Phoenix, to rise from the ashes, brighter, braver and bolder than ever.

I hear reports coming out of the country, and I advise strongly that we do not sue for peace. I advise we fight. Indeed, I am making myself extremely unpopular politically by holding fast to my opinion. There have been a number of pointed comments made that as I was never in the trenches I do not understand the true brutality of the last war. I have even been called blood-thirsty and ruthless. Which is ironic as I am actually, at heart, a pacifist. But I am a pragmatic one. There are times when one has to set aside one’s dislike of the taking of life in order to preserve life. Hitler and his cronies are not merely dangerously ambitious - far more so that the Kaiser ever was – but they come close to the very embodiment of evil.

I’m not a religious man (I doubt I could do what I do if I was), but the Nazi party are unlike anything seen before. There is a twisted, arcane doctrine within Hitler’s inner group, but even throughout the party in general there is a belief that all should bow before the Aryan people. One cannot help wondering if they noticed that their great leader is short, dark haired and as far from the Aryan concept of their Ubermensch as a bucket of Scarborough sand is to the golden beaches of the French Riviera? Still, besotted devotion is a marker for blind obedience. Since the party came to power in ’33, six years ago, they have gathered a stranglehold on their nation, such that no one dares to disobey them. It’s far easier to close their eyes or simply look away. The Youth Party is even indoctrinating the young into their particularly unpleasant beliefs.

I am therefore setting my house in order. I believe this will be a very different type of war and it will require different tactics. That said, I am gathering my people around me. I have the luxury of having been in the game longer than most, and the foresight, through my contacts, old and new, to have some sense of what is coming. Frustratingly, before this war begins, I must fight my own war to secure my department. Euphemia is, of course, naturally onside with me. We have been discussing how she will deal with Bertram’s increasing invalidism. I intend her to handle a number of agents for me, and to also aid in training, as well as her continuing role of analysing incoming material. Of late, in our discussions, I have heard her horror as she too sees what is coming, but I have also heard a return to the old Euphemia. She is like a waking lioness, ready to show her claws and teeth in defence of her country.

The question of what to do with Hope troubles us both. We feel she is far too naïve and unskilled to be sent abroad. However, she is smart, and like everyone, she will need to do her bit. The best that Euphemia and I can think of at present is that she be sent into one of the embryonic ‘new ideas’ departments. It’s a bit of a gamble as we have no idea what these may evolve into, but hopefully it will keep her from being deployed behind enemy lines. Although, in the end, if she must enter into the foray, we both know we have to let her. It will be no more than others are doing with their sons and daughters - and I have always thought of Hope as my own. I am not sure Bertram will be able to bear it. Euphemia will show no distress, but of all of us, she will be the one that hurts the most.

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I’ve never seen my service personnel report. I’d like to think it’s blank, because I’m such an enigma, but I suspect it says things like ‘maverick’ and ‘doesn’t play well with others’. It should also, if there’s any justice in this world, note that I’m a prodigious linguist, an expert practitioner of various martial arts, and although my methods are not always orthodox, I get things done. I think that’s a more than modest assessment of my worth.

Though, it may well say something entirely different - which is why no one will ever let me see it. But then, what is such a thing really worth? I have always shirked working in a team environment, so how they can judge me, except on my results, I have no idea.

When I entered the service, most spies were loners. However, the majority of us from that time are either dead or disgraced over one thing or another. The types of personalities who are attracted to spying, especially those who prove to be competent at it, are generally unstable individuals. We need a sangfroid attitude, a dash of devil-may-care, and absolute loyalty to the British Empire. Your moral outlook is required to be flexible, but to always snap back into being a decent English gentleman at the end of the day.

All spies have their own reasons for not wanting to be part of the general herd, but regardless of whether we admit it or not, the main reason is a desire to work outside the confines of rules. We are the kind of people who not only see how corners can be cut, but then do so, if we believe it’s for the greater good. It’s a difficult moral position to maintain. You are constantly tempted to overstep - from doing yourself a good turn (the appropriation of enemy commodities) to taking matters into your own hands and hastening justice. Of course, from there on, the only progress is downward, toward the Devil’s own abode.

I have more than once executed an individual in the field. Fortunately, this gives me no pleasure and I only do this when I believe there is no other option. So far, after the fact, the service has agreed with me, but we both know that if I had sought permission beforehand for many of my actions, it would have been denied.

My secret is that I have always reigned myself in, and clambered, all be it reluctantly, back to the side of right. I may not like my colleagues in general, but I have always sought to take care of my assets, in a most avuncular manner. People who work for me are unfailingly treated well, unless they cross me. I will go to Hell and back to rescue an asset if there is the least chance of doing so. My people know this, and while I doubt any of them see me as a friend, they do trust I will take care of them. I like this. I like being a sheepdog rather than a sheep (or, rather, as I like to think of myself as a wolf in a sheepdog’s clothing).

Euphemia is the only other officer I have ever desired to work with. She entered my life at a point when my moral compass might not have slipped exactly, but I did have a tendency toward self-indulgence. Without her direction, I might have ended up the way most of my generation of spies did. By contrast, her daughter, Hope, makes me want to flout rules all the more to protect her. I often felt I was protecting Euphemia, but in many ways, it was the other way around. It is only now, working with Hope, to whom I taught much of my philosophies and my skills, that I realise what a bounder I could be without Euphemia’s tempering influence. Hope is, while not entirely estranged, not exactly close to her mother. She has relied on me largely for moral guidance, and that has been a great error on both our parts.

Her father, who could have taken on the role of moral mentor, and I fell out a long time ago. We smile, and are civil to one another, for the women’s sake, but we both secretly abhor the other. I have inadvertently taught Hope to think of her father’s views as naïve and insular. I am now concerned as to how she sees the world. She is about to enter spying as a career, and I wonder what I have created. Will she be able to withstand the many temptations and sense of superiority that our role inevitably offers?

If she had been my own daughter, would I ever have considered myself as her sole moral guide? She has become too much like me. I can only hope that the curious characters she currently keeps company with will help keep her feet on the ground. Harvey will help her if she lets him. As for Bernadette, I don’t doubt her affection for Hope, but I doubt almost everything else about the wretched girl – although, it must be said, her connections are most useful.

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Today I saw Hope and Euphemia sit side by side. This is a rare event, now Hope has grown to womanhood and moved away from White Orchards to live in London. I do not doubt there is genuine affection between them, but it is constrained, for many reasons, of which I suspect I only know half. I find their estrangement difficult as I am as fond of them both, as much as if they were my own family. Or rather more so, as I have never particularly liked any of my family, with the exception of my late mother.

I first laid eyes on Euphemia when she was eighteen years old. Hope is now in her early twenties and the very image of her mother as I remember her then. When Hope was a child, I knew she resembled her mother more than her father in looks, which is a blessing! I could imagine that Euphemia might have looked just so as a child, but as Hope turned eighteen, I finally saw that she looked exactly like her mother in height, form and colouring. As she continues her journey into womanhood, it is as if time has turned backwards for me and I am seeing the younger Euphemia reborn in Hope.

Euphemia remains beautiful. At times her old spirit and passion for life comes alive in her eyes. Even working with her now, I see her fall back into her old ways - her quickness of thought, her humour, dark on occasion, but always beneath it a depth of concern for her fellow beings that I have never been able to attain. When occasion required, Euphemia could be as icy cold as necessity demanded, but by natural inclination, she is a compassionate and kind creature.

Hope has had all the advantages that Euphemia did not. She has been raised in a respectable, if small, upper class household. She was educated at home, and later at University, where she was privileged to hear some of the finest minds of our time speak. She has never been hindered by lack of funds, nor felt the need to sacrifice her own happiness for the sake of others. She has always been able to do as she chooses. Her family are open-minded enough to let her steer her own course. With such a beginning I could imagine that Euphemia would have blazed her way through the world, but her youth was much harder.

Hope is quiet, reserved, and her anger burns slowly. Her mother is impassioned and will argue with those she cares for with fury and fire, but she will forgive easily. Hope broods. She remembers and stores up all that has been cast against her. She hides it well and thinks even I do not see this side of her personality, but I know she bears grudges badly. She is an observer, a recorder of events and personalities. She is a planner and natural analyst. She keeps her thoughts and intentions close to her chest. I am one of the few people who can read her, and that is only because I helped make her what she is. But, I admit, by training her in observation and evasion throughout her childhood, I did not think to make such a silent, plotting, secretive, watcher of a creature. I am in equal parts concerned and proud- she makes a terrifying enemy for anyone.

Euphemia is an excellent operative. She can mask any and all of her emotions, but inside she remains driven by her passions. She thinks on her feet, acts and reacts with the courage of her convictions. She made an outstanding field agent. Now, as a desk bound one, she is insightful, intelligent, and knows better than anyone how to work with someone as difficult as me.

The greatest irony is that Hope, who would undoubtedly be far more suited to analysis, perhaps even the study of cyphers, must, due to her youth and circumstances, be a field agent in this war. It goes against her nature to react to circumstances, to think on her feet, but it’s what will be asked of her.

Between the two of them, they share a multitude of talents that, jointly harnessed, would be formidable. Unfortunately, the one person who might reconcile them, myself, has proved wholly unable to do so. It does not help that Hope suspects that, should she ever force me to pick a side, much as it would wound me, I would pick her mother’s.

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I have the beginnings of a cold and am due to arrive at White Orchards this weekend. It is the celebration of Hope’s third birthday and I am in two minds about whether to go or not.

It is most unlike me to come down with an ailment. I am far more likely to be shot, stabbed, or the victim of a half-successful strangulation than I am to be brought low by a sniffle. I keep physically fit, and while not as agile as man in his early twenties, I temper my age (early thirties, though I rarely admit this) with my experience. Overall, I consider myself a prime specimen of manhood and, as such, I should not succumb to sickness!

Worse still, if I arrive with a mild cold, Euphemia will attempt to coddle me and take care of me. A practice I find entirely revolting. Previously, when we were in the field, and I’d sustained an injury, she might nag me to ensure I’d not reopen a dressed wound, or even, when I felt I was far too busy to bother, forcibly tighten my bandages. But she didn’t fuss. If I sneezed, she would say ‘Bless you’ and leave it at that.

Now, caring for a husband who has becoming increasingly an invalid, and having a small child who, like most small children, goes from one illness to another with carefree ease, she has become a fusser.

Once, when it was cold and wet out, she even put a hot water pig in my bed, as if I were a child and she were a doting mother. She knows better than anyone that I can weather the vilest of environments, as we have often done so together. The next thing that’ll happen is that she’ll send the maid to my room with hot milk when I retire, and while I have no objection to a hot maid, I draw the line at hot cow extract.

On more than one occasion I have had to sternly remind her that before her entry into my life I managed to take care of myself - and still remain up to the task. Indeed, since I was nine years old, when my mother passed away, I had been sheltered and fed, but no one was particularly interested in my health.

I can’t bring to mind exactly when it happened, but I do recall the first time Euphemia enquired into my wellbeing. I felt rather touched. It was a novel query, and I took it to mean our professional relationship was well forged. Oh, but I should have knocked it on the head there and then. Give Euphemia an inch and she will take the whole bloody yard.

But Hope will only be three once. I have also invested a ridiculous amount of money in a fine stuffed bear that I hope she will heartily approve of. In fact, I am rather looking forward to the expression on her face when she opens my parcel. Euphemia will have bought her something educational, and Bertram will doubtless have invested in a first edition of something, for when she is older (I sometimes wonder if Bertram was every really a child himself). So, really, I am the only one who will be giving a gift she will actually enjoy. Damn it! I shall have to go. But if there is so much as a whiff of solicitude for my wellbeing, I shall become the most insufferable house guest until she desists.

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I was about to debrief Hope for the first time. We were sitting in the dining room of my club, which had so many influential members that it could still rustle up decent food, even during wartime. The tables were in full regalia, with shining silver candlesticks and a little crystal vase that held a single red rose to mark that it was ladies’ day. This was not so much decoration as a necessity, in case any aged general from the Great War stumbled in unawares and was startled into a heart attack by the sound of a female voice in his hallowed sanctuary!

Hope sat opposite me, toying with an exceptionally fine plate of food. She wore a silver evening gown that made her look very elegant - or it should have done. In some ways she was the very image of her mother at that age, except Euphemia would never have slouched, or treated a potato in any way other than to gobble it straight down. It occurred to me that Hope was not simply nervous. She was frightened.

She had no cause to be so on edge. She was on a probationary mission, and she wasn’t even aware of being on it for most of the time. If anything, she should have been angry with me for tricking her into it. Euphemia would have been incandescent if I had done such a thing to her.

Naturally, Hope hadn’t got everything right. She’d made a couple of blunders, and lost two potentially minor assets, but nothing of any great significance. Did she think I would blame her? For a first attempt, I thought she had done pretty well, and I was debating how much praise I should give her. Certainly, she had done better than many of the callous youths I was normally sent to train.

The introverted attitude she displayed was so out of context with times I had spent with her as a child. I still remember when she would still rush into a room when I came to White Orchards, yelling ‘Godfather! Godfather!’ with her arms outstretched in welcome. I’d sweep her up in a hug and she would squeal and giggle delightedly.

It was true that when she became a young woman, I distanced myself somewhat, though I thought she still held me in some affection. She often treated me as a confidante in her letters as she tried to work out what to do with her life. However, mindful of that young girl, presumably somewhere still inside, I had withdrawn my attention in person. For my age I was (and still am) far from unattractive and receive plenty of welcome female attention. I was concerned there was a chance that, having spent much of her childhood secluded in the fens, that she might have formed what was then known as a ‘pash’ for me. Something that, in later life, would have placed a barrier between us. Accordingly, when she went up to Oxford, I went down and took her out for dinner at least twice a term, but little more. I never sent her gifts of money, as Bertram’s absurd insistence of creating a trust for their offspring with Euphemia’s inheritance means that Hope has more money than she knows what to do with.

But I had arranged introductions to all the interesting people, and even managed to get her into the private libraries of some of my acquaintances. She is a confirmed bibliophile. I’d rather imagined that when she came to live in London, we would have established a firm friendship, with me playing the role of an affectionate uncle-type figure. However, this new war changed everything.

The young woman who sat before me is more like a frightened child than a sophisticated woman about town. She looked unable to take on a tenth of the tasks I that needed to set her. I ruthlessly crushed my desire to hug her, as if she were still that child I remembered (besides, physical expressions within the club’s boundaries are expressly discouraged, except for a hearty slap on the back, or the faint quivering of a gentleman’s moustache, when the occasion warrants it).

Still, I would have liked to take her hand, and to have told her not to be scared. I wanted to tell her I was still the Godfather she knew and used to adore. In being able to see her, both as the child she was and the young woman she has become, I felt like an aging tiger. And when I had seen some of the men at the club looking at her in a manner that I deemed inappropriate, it took an extreme effort of will not to unsheathe my claws and rip their throats out. I wanted to protect her, as much as I could, until she found a man worthy of her, or whom, at the very least, she loved and who loved her back. However, right here, right now, she looked as if she might flee from the room at the slightest provocation. This was not the Hope I knew. It was clear that I would have to be the one to establish the relationship.

I had suggested pudding and had persuaded her to choose the trifle. It’s always far too overloaded with sherry and I hoped the unaccustomed intake of alcohol (she had been drinking lemonade with her dinner) would dissolve some of the barriers between us.

I resolved to still ask her to work for us. Her mother and I had never intended her to follow us into the service. We had trained her, albeit without her knowledge, in surveillance and evasion - but that had merely been as protection against any of our old enemies tracking her down. But now that war was here, at least I could keep her under my watchful eye in the service. I hoped that our professional relationship would evolve into an adult version of the one we enjoyed in her childhood years, although it was clear to me that this would involve considerable effort on my part. I wanted my Hope back. I wanted her respect, certainly, but never her fear. I have watched over her all her life, so the thought then that she might withdraw completely from my life was more painful than I could bear. This was when I began ‘Campaign Hope’.

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Traditionally a barbers is a place of male refuge, and somewhere one can pick up something for the weekend with a touch of discretion (although, I doubt any gentleman who might be overheard would ever answer in the negative - even if he already had a significant collection of French Letters sitting unused in a drawer). Yes, most definitely a very male place.

It can also be a place to pick up useful gossip, for this vice is not only the province of women. Usually, one’s club is the best place to do this if one is looking for information about which laws members of parliament, and the aristocracy in general, have most recently broken.

However, the barber shop offers a more intimate atmosphere. Taking someone who considers themselves a chum of yours is somewhat akin to rite of passage. After all, you both sit together while the barber holds a sharpened razor to your throats. Of course, I don’t have chums - perish the thought. But I am not above making someone believe I am their friend and contriving a situation where they may feel safe enough to open up to me. Strangely enough, accompanying someone on a shoot, at a weekend party, also seems to bring out the same bonhomie in such men. I can only think that the presence of (extremely) mild danger makes them feel a bond. Good grief, if I felt a bond with everyone that I had been in danger with, I’d have hundreds of friends. What a horrid thought.

The crux of the matter, with finding a decent barber, is twofold. Firstly, it is essential that they can give a decent hot shave and trim one’s hair to one’s liking without question. When I am going undercover, I often change the way my hair is cut, or simply have it shorn extremely short if I know I’m going to be working in the field for some time. Sometimes, in the pursuit of one’s duty to King and Country, one does not have time to worry about one’s hair, or even spare the time to shave. My job can be quite uncivilised at times.

Secondly, one has to trust the barber. You might think this should come first, but in my experience, if you bother to watch the man in the mirror, you can tell if he’s about to do the dirty on you. Per my suggestion, the service now keeps a record of trustworthy barbers. I don’t allow this to lessen my alertness when I am sat in the chair, but it does mean I am slightly less tense.  I do very much enjoy the hot towel over the face at the end. Sadly, this is the moment one could easily be taken unaware, so I ask for this to be restricted to below my nose.

I have only ever had to accelerate the mortality of two barbers. The first I doubt was ever an actual barber. He held his razor rather like an assassin. An amateurish move, and a complete give-away. The second had proved, over the course of some months, that he was exceptional at making my hair look excellent. I regret I had to end his career (and his life) so abruptly.

Now that Griffin has joined me, I have sent him to be trained in the art of cutting hair and providing a decent shave by my favourite barber. Griffin is a highly intelligent man, as one would expect with his background, and although the role is somewhat beneath him, such is the need in these troubling times. Besides, I have assured him I will only use his skills in extreme circumstances.

I am as certain of him as I can be, but do not think that when he holds a razor to my throat, I will not watch him as closely as I might watch an enemy spy. I have no desire to have my own mortality accelerated while in pursuit of a decent shave. That would be a terrible epithet for a spymaster. Besides, Jack would miss me.

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There are some who say that the quality of a gentleman may be known by his tailoring. I contest that the quality of a gentleman may be better known by both his shoes and his timepiece. There have been many occasions when I have needed to wear disguises, to become another persona, and one of the greatest difficulties lies in shoes.

A good shoe fits like a glove. It is made from a last (a wooden model of the shape of one’s own feet) which is regularly updated to reflect the wear and tear upon one’s feet in the course of life and duty. Well-made shoes should be made up of top-quality leather, robust and hard wearing, but supple enough to allow a certain degree of movement without creaking (essential when following or sneaking up on someone). Also, it must be easy enough to bring them to a prompt shine when required, to mingle with respectable people - or, at least, people presumed to be so.

It is hardly surprising then that, given my various duties, I have a veritable fleet of shoes. In fact, I do not believe I have ever been intimate with a women who has owned more shoes than I.  Of course, I cannot take them all with me wherever I go, so I must be sure as to the nature of my mission when I choose which ones to take. Nothing can spoil an outfit, or ruin a disguise, more than the wrong pair of shoes. More than once I have spotted a shiny pair of Oxfords on a supposed wharf rat, and realised he is an enemy agent (personally, I prefer brogues as they are casual enough to move between classes with only a spit of polish. Oxfords, on the other hand, are always worn by the upper set and cannot be downplayed). It is always the details that betray.

However, when it comes to shoes and betrayal, such things can be found closer to home than one might like. In most ways, Jack is the most obedient and loyal of creatures but, for some unknown reason, he has developed a taste for my shoes, and the most expensive ones at that (I am in two minds as to whether I should be impressed or not). He has a particular talent for seeking out those with hidden compartments in the heels, which he gnaws into with a will. Yesterday, I offered him a pair of boots I purchased from a rag and bone man, in an effort to show him there were more toothsome morsels than just the ones I wear upon my feet. These torn, ragged, wrecks of former footwear reeked enough that they horrified Griffin, who suggested politely, yet in the strongest terms, they were not brought into the kitchen, but that Jack might prefer to consume them in the outer hall.

Jack did not. In fact, he gave them no more than a small sniff, a lick of disgust and refused to engage with them again. Griffin swiftly removed them from the premises. At this point, all my shoes had been relocated to the top of various wardrobes and bookshelves. Jack is a medium-sized dog and while he has an impressive ability to leap, he is unable to get very high, try as he might (although, he surpassed himself on the occasion that he got to the brined ham - I had to give Griffin a brandy after that particular episode).

Thankfully, Jack’s interest in my shoes has waned slightly, or so I discovered when I went to my library to sit before the fire with an excellent brandy, and I found Jack curled up on the hearth, the merest wisp of sheepskin protruding from his jaws, which informed me as to the fate of my favourite pair of slippers.

When I was much younger, I competed in the Olympics. I was an excellent shot. I thought nothing of entering the pistol duelling event, squaring up against an opponent, and shooting at each other with wax bullets. We did wear leather coats, a face mask and goggles, but my only real excuse was that I was young, reckless and foolish. I’d also been through an incident that had left me somewhat less than enamoured with life. I could have taken the gold, I have no doubt about that, but I deliberately held back and let myself get the silver. The service, as well as insisting I entered under false name, wanted me to go no further than bronze. I think it was my first true act of disobedience. Certainly, I had adopted a new role that I was to embrace for the rest of my career, if not my life, being that of a maverick. As an army man I’ve never been keen on taking orders from my intellectual inferiors. Fortunately, as I almost always get the job done, I find I get away with rather a lot.

Back then, even though I took silver, it was relatively easy to keep the press from getting a clear picture of my face. These days, those jackals of public scrutiny, press photographers, appear everywhere, and I can never express enough my utter disdain for them. They lurk in the bushes at every society party. Even partaking in the general nightlife of London, one can easily find a camera shoved in one’s face when exiting a nightclub. As much of my work depends on my enemies not knowing where I am, this is a great inconvenience. I could have chosen to disguise myself, but a disguise that is effective to the naked eye is quite different to a disguise that is effective to a camera.

One small advantage I can take from these circumstances is that when I create a persona I want known very quickly, I deliberately court press attention. However, this is not a trick I can use very often. Some of the newspapers’ perusers are the dowager brigade, who make sport of keeping track of those who attend societal events. Such beady eyes mean that appearing in the society columns under different personas quickly becomes dangerous.

The press has also negatively affected my private life. I have never taken anyone to my home. But now, with the prevalence of the press, I have chosen to buy a smallish, rural cottage to meet my long-term lover. Long gone are the days when one could dine discreetly at the Ritz or take a quiet stroll through Hyde Park. In my private life I cannot afford to be seen or photographed with anyone, for their safety as much as my own. It is most tedious. Fortunately, I am usually able to think of ways to amuse myself away from the public eye, after all, the best entertainment is usually had in private, with a well-chosen companion of a compliant and willing nature.

I am, by my very nature, of a somewhat choleric disposition. I suppose if I turned my mind’s eye inward, I might consider this to be a consequence of lasting anger at my mother’s freak accident and early death, and my father’s subsequent lack of interest in me. But, to be perfectly honest, I am not one for looking back.

Of course, there are always lessons to be learned from past missions, but on a personal front, I tend to set my face firmly in a forward direction. My loves have always, of necessity, been of a short-term nature, and when the time comes for us to part, it is important to me that we do so on both sides without regret, and with sustained amiability. Who knows, fate might bring one of us knocking on the other’s door in the future.

My lovers have, on the whole, described me as passionate, and I ascribe my active, though not promiscuous, love life to helping me maintain a health mental outlook. Losing oneself in the act of love allows one to emerge not only sated but, in my case certainly, calmed (but not relaxed enough to fall asleep before the lady does, that would be most ungentlemanly).

I also do my very best not to enter into a physical fracas with an opponent when I am angry. Fighting when your blood is up leaves you at the mercy of a more stoic combatant. Over the years, and I have never admitted this to anyone, I have perfected a morning routine of being quiet and breathing in a position seated on the floor for a full twenty minutes. It’s an exercise I learned in India from a member of the indigenous population, who I found extremely wise, if perhaps a touch too close to the Thuggee gangs. When we parted, only one of us survived the experience.

However, what I was taught was to sit still in the early morning, to breath regularly and concentrate my mind on the mental image of a flame. I was to do this without any other thought intruding. To begin with I found this next to impossible, but now I can manage it, and it is quite infrequent that other thoughts intrude. I confess, I don’t understand how this works, but on the days I do my breathing exercise, I am calmer and more able to concentrate and plan. I fight with a clear mind and without emotion. Thus, I have continued the practice.

I also do not underrate the value of practicing the more physical fighting arts, such as Bartitsu, which force one to pay close attention to one’s actions. Although, equally, I enjoy a good pugilistic encounter in the training hall that allows a reasonable outlet for my anger.

I am often rude to those close to me or working with me.  Saying exactly when I think frees me from the repressed emotions I must often bear while undercover. The very few people, and I can currently count them on one hand, who actually like me, must endure this. Hopefully they come to understand this and consider it part of my unique charm.

Names can be awfully confusing. The number of people who have known my real name are remarkably few. My recruiter knew it, naturally, but he did not pass this on to the service. He merely stated, I believe, that I was of good character and financially well situated. These two characteristics being non-negotiable. After that he would have listed my most useful skills, ones that caused the service to think that I was a perfect recruit, if an expendable one. Of course, they quickly discovered I was indispensable. I do not blame my recruiter. He made his recommendation based on my father’s assessment of me. That man has never taken the time to get to know me, so it is of no surprise that I was initially so hugely undervalued.

But, on the other hand, I have never used my father’s name to advance my career. It undoubtedly would have put me on a fast track, but I preferred to get by on my own merit, to create my own narrative of self which, in turn, became my various separate and well-worn identities.

Among the upper end of the London set I am known as Lord Milton. I am, although some may find this difficult to believe, an actual Lord by birth, though only a fool would think the Milton part was real. However, as I spend my time being as outwardly pleasant and inconspicuous as possible - and most definitely not a gentleman looking for a wife - others rarely choose to look me up in the ‘stud book’ (Debrett’s Peerage and Baronetage). If anyone does mention it, I usually arrange a little chat with them, to correct any misunderstanding. It’s not watertight, and I admit I may have to do something about creating an entry, but it has not yet come to that. I keep Lord Milton on a tight leash, and he has yet to cause offence, or be caught with someone else’s wife.

Those who frequent the racier parties of London, know me as Michael Rose, a painter of some - but not too much - regard. I am believed to live off wealthy relatives, who I never mention, by agreement, and I am always just a little bit the wrong side of any line that is drawn. This is a particularly tiring character and, accordingly, I use him infrequently (although, I admit, he is a most entertaining character to inhabit for a short period of time).

In the business world I am often Roy Irons, a man of money who knows which fork to use at a dinner engagement. He belongs to all the right clubs and can bore anyone about the subject of cricket for hours on end. His suits are well cut but veer toward the rustic rather than the sharp end of fashion. It is easy enough to tap him for a loan but, it is whispered, he takes his repayment in the secrets of others, or, in certain instances, the most salacious secrets of the debtor themselves.

There have been quite a few names I have gone by, and I am sure there will be more, but these three remain my favourites. Perhaps the most interesting aspect is that I do not think of my name as the one I was born with. I feel much more at home with, and think of myself most of the time as, Fitzroy.

Fitzroy is the name other spies know me by. I also often use it when it comes to assets. My files at HQ are headed Fitzroy. No one, other than Alice, knows where the name came from. She only learned about it because I allowed her to come into contact with a close family connection of mine - and that only happened when she was acting as my executor. That I was not actually dead at the time, though I was believed so, is neither of our faults. Certainly, she has never told anyone about the origins of Fitzroy, and if she has ever guessed my real name, she has never mentioned it. However, she does call me Eric when we are alone, or with her husband.  It is the name my late, beloved mother used with me. As this is my real Christian name, I quite enjoy the change when she addresses me thus. Less so when her husband does it.

Alice’s real name is, of course, Euphemia Stapleford. Born Euphemia St John, she spent a good many years going by the name of Euphemia Martins, so as not to embarrass her noble-born mother when she was working as a servant. It was her ability to slip between not only names but identities - the well brought up noble daughter, the vicar’s overly intelligent daughter and the lowly housemaid - that first brought her to my attention.

Names only matter if they carry meaning with them. A name is more than just a sound. It is a suit of armour that you put on to defend yourself from the world. It is what you choose to let others see of you. It is the whole of whomever you become when you hear it.

Euphemia was obviously far too much of a mouthful to use in the field. I suppose I could have simply called her Martins. But that she was a female was not a problem for me, it was a bonus. As such, I wanted her spy moniker to be something suitably feminine, so that when her files landed on the desks of her superiors, it was unquestionably a female spy had done them proud. I did briefly consider using her brother’s nickname for her, ‘Effie’, but not only is it used in real life (which makes it more likely for true exposure to occur), I had the feeling she would take it amiss. Alice and I have often infuriated one another, but while she may not believe it so, I do generally try not to annoy her.

Anyway, I had, at the time of her becoming an agent, been reading Alice in Wonderland. It’s a well written bit of tosh that makes even my line of work seem sane. A good read of it is most useful in regaining one’s perspective and when one fears the world has slid into total insanity. Until I meet that caterpillar and exchange pipes, I hold that there is hope for the world yet.

Above all, Alice is of a singular syllable and I could shout it out quickly and easily. It also suits her, much better than that monstrosity of a dead great-aunt’s name her mother gave her at birth.

Of course, by the time Hope joined the family business, the value of names had changed yet again. In my younger days you could keep your name from circulating with a little care, now the press is everywhere, and people are far too easily identified. Not only are names bandied about more readily in print than ever before, but they often come with pictures! Secrecy is almost dead. This being the case, one has changed from hiding behind a name, to having one’s name on display, but still hiding one’s occupation behind it.

As a last, frivolous, note. Bertram once asked me if my dog is called Jack after the Union Jack. I told him, in no uncertain terms, he isn’t. I am an army man, not a sailor, and the Union Flag should only ever be referred to as the Union Jack when it is flown on a ship (a fact that most people get wrong).

Jack is called Jack because it is an excellent name for a dog, and it suits his personality well.

I have never been one to leave a trail behind me, but there are times when it is necessary to give gifts. For a host, the most suitable recompense, I find, is to send a case of wine, slightly better than the ones served the event, after departure. Said case should come from a wine merchant of good repute. I keep accounts at several, which all link back to various identities I use. All nice and tidy, and easily attributed to agency expenses.

Very occasionally, one must give more personal gifts. Possibly a gentleman who is marrying, or who has a new-born or some other mark on the social calendar of life. In this instance, I prefer to give pens, or possibly a boxed special edition wine, if I doubt the literacy of the recipient. I do like to give something that will be valued and used. This is why I so rarely give books. Bertram Stapleford is the only man of my acquaintance to whom I might gift a first edition and know it would be appreciated. Although, if I wanted to give him a gift of real use, I should give a tome on how to better his chess game.

Now, ladies are a slightly different matter. If a lady has been a host, a rare occurrence, or in being co-host with her husband during a house party - and has obviously gone to some pains to ensure the well-being of her guests - then I tend to send flowers. They are showy, delightful, and there is always somewhere to put them in a grand house. But they also fade and are likewise forgotten. In the general way of things, I do not want to be remembered to a significant degree by anyone. Which is, of course, also the reason why I give gifts. Being ungrateful in a brash and vulgar manner is only acceptable from foreign royalty. Anyone else would be immortalised in gossip. Being politely unmemorable is a difficult line to walk.

Then there are the ladies with whom one has been more intimate, for professional reasons (what I do on my own time and with whom is no one’s business but my own). These women I will have known to varying degrees, and they will have presumed to know me. Naturally, they will only have known my alter egos, but even these prefer to operate in a chivalrous manner. A final gift, especially on a parting that I designed to seem necessary and no more wanted by myself than her, helps ease the surrendering of the relationship. In fact, if that parting gift shines and sparkles, I find it helps very much indeed to quell any tears. I am not a rogue, set on stealing hearts of virtuous gentlewomen. These ladies have either nothing but their desires to reproach themselves for or have always understood that whatever passed between us could not be of a permanent nature. In such circumstances I advise the purchase of antique jewellery, or at least jewellery that is several decades old. Not only does the treasury prefer these cheaper gifts - always charge everything to accounts or one might be seen as too personally involved in the intrigue - but one can pass them off as something from one’s late mother, or even grandmother, if absolutely necessary. Passing on what may be perceived as a family heirloom, providing (and I cannot overstate this necessity) it sparkles enough, only adds to the tenderness of the parting.

Also, the lady, if she has any sense, can avoid suspicion by claiming it to be an inherited heirloom of her own, from her deceased aunt or cousin.

Of course, when one is actually entangled with individuals, as I have come to be with the Stapleford’s, one may not charge any gifts to the agency’s accounts. This is of little issue for me as, apart from Griffin and Jack, I support no one but myself, and I have always been of sound financial situation. However, it does mean that one has to approach such gifts with genuine care and thought, which is really rather bothersome.

The art of assuming another persona is a complex and intensive study. However, when one is required to go undercover for a one-off event, such as a dinner party or a ball, rather than building an identity designed for use in the long term, it is surprising how utilising the most basic of tropes can allow one to blend into the background. The key to inveigling oneself into any group is not to stand out in any way. One must be the epitome of dull, ordinary and reliable. Indeed, one must become so typical of the type of man one is portraying that, afterwards, one will have left no real impression on any other person there. The aim is to be easily forgotten. Below are my basic tips for playing such a character for an evening.

1) A Gentleman

Regardless of birth, the right accent and air of confidence, or, dare I say, arrogance, can convince most gatherings that one is, in fact, a gentleman. It is also useful to be able to dance, talk knowledgeably about various forms of hunting (which I personally abhor), understand table etiquette (though only ladies properly observe good table manners) and be dismissive of the presence of servants (acting like they are part of the furniture rather than fellow human beings).

It is also useful to conjure up a cover story as to why no-one recalls you from school, or from when you were at Oxford (after all, a gentleman of the truly upper classes would never go to Cambridge), to be aware of who the local Unionist candidate is, and support him as being a jolly fine fellow, although be unable to quote any of his policies, and to talk about one’s club (that one seldom attends as one rarely ventures into town from one’s country estate).

Last, but by no means least, flirt outrageously, but with limited competency (regardless of whether your character is married or not).

2) A Self-Made Man

Accent is much less important. In fact, having a slightly rougher edge to one’s tone is better. Bring into the majority of conversations whatever it was that made you rich - be it coal, steel or even selling boots to the military. Be a little clumsy at the table - use the wrong item of cutlery but carry it off with a devil-may-care attitude. Smoke a large number of cigars and carry a supply to offer to others. Enquire about the vintage of any wine your host offers you, brag of the superior ones in your own cellar, but don’t give the impression that you are knowledge about wines. Those who come from new money are inclined to buy the most expensive options without any understanding of quality.

If posing as married, ignore other women. If posing as single, pay attention only to the heiresses or the eligible ladies of the highest rank (self-made men tend to have a tiresomely bourgeoisie outlook on life).

3) A Man of the Cloth

Speak in a slow and slightly ponderous manner. Be prepared to quote scripture but do so in a very limited manner. Most clergy invited to an elegant dinner tend to be more interested in the food than converting souls. The higher one is in the church; the less interest one generally shows about religion. Only a simple vicar ever mentions mundane things such as church roof repairs.

4) A Servant

This is the most useful of roles, and the most difficult to do successfully. If an event is of any significance, outside staff may be used, but these are generally looked down on by the household staff, who frequently exhibit a strange mix of jealousy and suspicion. This can be such that they will not be eager to help you navigate your way around. Therefore, in your pre-planning stage, you must have already mapped out the servant passages and state rooms in your mind and show yourself to be a quick learner when asked to do any task. Never do anyone else’s job for them but be so efficient that you are able to offer your help to any servant who is either struggling, or eager to have an easier time of it. Do not be subservient to other servants but show them respect. Hold your own and prove your worth. Only by doing this will you be allowed into earshot of your quarry.

Sometimes a household will refuse to allow a temporary servant to gain access to the inner workings of an event. In this instance you must be prepared to target the household servant who is weakest at their job and, by use of diversionary tactics, including sleight of hand, arrange for to this servant to be seen as incompetent, allowing one to step in to replace them. It is imperative in taking such action that you have ensured it cannot be traced back to you. It is not for the novice to attempt.

Whatever role one is portraying, one must have a number of exit strategies, firstly to explain why one is leaving, if questioned, and secondly to know which doors or windows it may be most efficacious to use if one is rumbled. Even a master at creating personas may be caught out by the vagaries of fate. However, it is never acceptable if one is caught-out to actually be caught. Come what may, any agent captured in the field will always be disavowed by the service - and it serves them right for having done such a shoddy job.

There is a saying among the more entrepreneurial of London’s stall holders that one cannot ‘con’ an honest man. The idea, I believe, is that only the greedy and the corrupt are easily parted from their money. I have never heard such utter poppycock in life.

I spend my professional life deceiving enemies of the crown. I have multiple names, and a wide range of personalities I can convincingly assume. I once tested this out by calling on my father, appearing as an overeager oenophile, determined to buy part of his cellar, and he entirely failed to see through my disguise. Manipulation is second nature to me. I consider myself to be at the height of my proficiencies, but such achievements are frequently undermined by the blatant stupidity of people.

Last night I attended a dinner party and was regaled by a lady of middling years, sitting to my left, on the wonders of Madame Viviani, who has recently infested London with her black-veiled presence. Viviani is a con artist of the first order. She relieves the gullible of their money in return for reuniting them with dead relatives via her spiritual guide, a small, squeaky-voiced child, called Mary, who sounds remarkably like Madame Viviani speaking through her nose. Fear and loss are the linchpins of the vilest predators.

Although it was proving detrimental to my appetite, I asked my dinner companion what words of wisdom her deceased one had had for her (she was going to tell me anyway, and it seemed better to move the story along apace and get it over with). She told me, having removed a handkerchief from somewhere about her person with which to dab her eyes, that her dead husband had told her to stop grieving and get on with her life. I muttered something about how generous that was of him, and received a lecture on how, in life, he had been a stickler for protocol, such as observing a full year’s mourning, but that death had enlightened him. Moreover, it seemed that every time she visited the medium, she learned more and more about her dear departed Edward, and how she was quite on her way to being more in love with him in death than she had ever been in life.

It was only my steely constitution that prevented me from losing either my supper or my temper. Such wilful and determined inanity on her part. I wondered how long it would be before Viviani suggested that her husband wanted her to bestow greater gifts upon the medium for her invaluable services. Doubtless this would occur after a few more cloying and sentimental visits during which the so-called medium, in urging her client to move on, bound her ever more tightly to her visitations. I could almost admire the cunning of it, if her ‘mark’ had not been so complicit in her own downfall. I felt no inclination to explain the deception to her. She had ruined my supper and deserved far worse.

Then, after dinner, while smoking cigars and drinking port, a member of Parliament who, rather unusually, is known for his wit and intelligence, began to praise hydro-electric therapy, which he said had quite made a new man of him. I listened to the descriptions of what he had endured and could only conclude it had been sheer luck that it had not made a corpse of him.

Not wanting to draw attention to myself, I kept my incredulousness behind my teeth. Then, the topic of the supernatural was taken up by a portly gentleman of an ever so dull disposition. Listening to him speak, ranging from gypsy curses bought by his mother to the planned exorcism of his cricket pavilion, I began to seriously consider that his soup had been laced with some kind of mind-addling drug. Another gentleman, with a caveat that none of these stores should ever leave the table, spoke of his encounter with a ghost. I waited in vain for a punchline that demonstrated this was no more than a long-winded joke, but it never came. Instead the gentlemen moved on to odder and odder experiences he had encountered, all of which I felt could simply be put down to intoxication. My night now being quite spoilt, I left early, excusing myself on grounds of a headache, which had become all too real.

The world presents enough real challenges without these foolish people concerning themselves with fictitious preternatural incidents. The service does occasionally, I admit, use a medium for the passing on of information, but she is not as predatory as the rest of her kind. She may even believe the nonsense she peddles.

If ghosts existed, as I have told my assets more than once, I would be haunted a dozen times over. There is no revenge from beyond the grave. No last messages from a loved one. Heaven has no revolving door for spirits to visit between this world and the next. When you are gone, you are gone. Life is a one-time opportunity, and people would be far better off taking full advantage of what this world has to offer than bothering themselves about what the dead might be doing in the next.

I have come to that time in my life when I need to reconsider my living arrangements. Things are not drastic enough that I need to live with family - God forbid. I currently have a mews cottage that I am happy to use on Crown business, and an apartment to which I never take anyone else. It is my haven and the place that houses my favourite books, finest brandies and objets d’art.

On my mantle stands a bust of my mother, made by a wild and bohemian female sculptress of my acquaintance. Most definitely not a lady, but someone that I have spent many an enjoyable hour with. Despite this, I do not believe I am biased when I say she has considerable talent.

The bookcases on either side of the large fireplace house my collection of first editions, books by my favourite authors and a wide variety of material I have gathered as research for various missions. I admit, some of the latter has spilled over from my study. I try to avoid this. When I am relaxing by the fire, I do not wish to be reminded of the duller parts of my work - mission de-briefs and reports. I detest administration. I infinitely prefer to just get the job done.

Then there are my unusual clocks and pocket watches that I have inherited and a small collection of snuff boxes I rather pretentiously collected during my first year at Oxford. I also have a large collection of photographs. Some of these are personal reminders of people, mostly ladies, I have known. Others are kept in case of a need to assert some leverage, a distasteful but sometimes necessary choice, while others are merely of interest to any collector of pictorial curiosities.

Thus, my apartment reflects and reveals the inner workings of my mind, my personal history and even catalogues a lot of my life that I generally take great care to keep private. Now, I am considering opening this place to others.

Jack, of course, has been the first visitor. He sniffed around in a polite manner, established where I would place his food bowl, and retired to lie on the rug in front of the fire. Would that any other house guest could be trusted to behave in the same easy going and unobtrusive way.

I would not give up Jack for the world, but despite what he thinks, he cannot accompany me everywhere. Therefore, I must arrange for someone else to access my sanctum. There is, attached to the main apartment, a smaller service apartment, intended for staff.  I suppose that my rooms are large, and greater in number than one would expect a bachelor to keep, but then I grew up in a household that makes my home seem positively humble in comparison. I am more than able to cook and clean for myself - as befits anyone of an active military background - but I suspect most people would find it a chore. I don’t. I like my space. I like it to be exactly as I wish and hidden from the prying eyes of the world.

However, I need someone to look after Jack when I am away. Therefore, I have decided to talk to Griffin about moving into the service apartment. I have no qualms about him overstepping our bounds of familiarity or even anything as pedestrian as thievery. The man is utterly beholden to me and he knows this beyond any doubt.

But, can he refrain from invading my personal space? The essential nature of most men, excluding myself, is to be sociable. I may have got used to the dog snoring, but I don’t like the idea of hearing anyone else’s footsteps around my apartment. It puts me on edge. I can only ever relax when I know I am alone - this is a natural side effect of my job. Griffin will need to learn my ways, how I like things, and how to be damn near invisible. I do not think any of these skills are beyond him. The real questions are, will he as easy to train as Jack, and what am I going to use as a form of encouragement? I highly doubt dog biscuits will work.