A List of Things I Hate (in no particular order)

• Badly made tea

• Enemies of the state

• Violence against women

• Choux pastry (unfilled)

• Sprouts

• Men who call me ‘old boy’ - and to whom I would like to say (but can’t), I have killed men for less

• Cruelty to animals or children

• Soggy chewed slippers (Jack!)

• Alice beating me at chess (which I also admire, but pride is bruised)

• Alice’s cooking (she is improving but, ye gods, her gravy could be weaponised, and don’t get me started on her dumplings, I swear, one of them damn near broke a tooth)

• Bertram’s last will and testament

• Predatory women

• My relatives (apart from my late beloved mother)

• Most other men (terrible bores and insufferable war mongers)

• Large Asian spiders

• Cheese rind (accidentally added to a sandwich)

• Cheap wine (overly acidic and leaves fur on the teeth)

• An awful lot of other things I simply can’t be bothered to write down

• Lists

I have always told Alice that my morals are none of her concern. However, having been brought up in a vicarage, she never seemed able to let this entirely go. I suppose I shouldn’t have hoped otherwise, but I did.

I have a strong dislike for the taking of life, be it man or beast. In my career, to my sorrow, I have more than once been called upon to what I jokingly refer to as accelerating another’s morality. I make the joke to disguise my distaste for it. Someone in my profession is not meant to be bothered by such things. A traitor, a serious criminal or even a spy from another realm are meant to be no bother for me to dispatch. But they are.

I believe the service wants us all to be more like one particular man I trained, codenamed Cole. He was cold enough when he killed to be borderline psychopathic. I seem to recall that I even had doubts about unleashing him upon the world. He did extremely well as a sniper during the Great War. He could watch a man, either desperate or hopeful, on the front line for as long as it took to get a decent shot. I am still unsure if his level of empathy was low, or simply absent.

At least I have been trained to kill cleanly and quickly. But this is the thing that Alice never, not once during our time together, commented on - my executing someone, even if she was present at the time. She had no doubts morally about my actions, and once even acknowledged she knew I did my utmost not to kill, and so that when I did, she knew it was a last resort, and that it affected me deeply.

I cannot say the few times she was forced to defend herself, or the realm, in the same way it seemed to affect her at all. For a long time that worried me - and to some degree still does.

No, the thing Alice continually berated me about is my love life, which is frankly none of her concern. She made such a nuisance of herself over my affairs, which I always did my best to conceal. I mean, I took considerable pains to conceal my private affairs. If I was seducing someone in the line of duty, that was more difficult to conceal. I’m not even sure which she took harder. But neither was any of her business. Although on an operation together, I would have preferred to discuss the second action as an option with a partner who didn’t snort disparagingly so much at me.

After her first lecture on my morals I sternly told her to stand down. She didn’t repeat her mistake but grew sullen and moody whenever any of my shenanigans came to light. I suppose I should confess that I was mildly impressed that she managed to figure out events in my private life. Mildly impressed, and rather disconcerted. I am used to being able to hide things fairly easily from others. Alice proved the exception.

Eventually, my discomfort began to affect my performance, so I sat Alice down to talk seriously. I didn’t even bother repeating this was none of her business. That statement she had clearly only paid lip service towards. Instead, I explained in embarrassing detail - embarrassing detail to me - my personal code for relating to members of the fairer sex.

She listened with apparent interest, and remarked, ‘that it seemed I did have my own code.’ At which point I roared like a lion having been driven to distraction by my so-called partner. Raising my voice, I stressed that I live by code of honour and consider myself an honourable man. Anyone else would have run from me. Alice sat, totally composed, and when I paused for breath, asked me if I would like to rant at her a little longer, because she had been hoping to make bread that afternoon. Something of an experiment for her, for she was not more than an average cook. It quite took the wind from sales, as she had intended. I sat down deflated. At this point, the outrageous woman patted me on the knee, and told me not to worry about it. She further said, that my love affairs were none of her business. Then she got up and left.

If any man had come past me at that moment, I believe I would have punched him in the face, I was so enraged. However, no one did, and I took myself off to the local public house to flirt with the rather pretty new barmaid and discover if she offered an out-of-hours service.

From this point on Alice contented herself with small snorts, and disapproving looks whenever my love life intruded between us and I, well, I simply grew a thicker hide.

To my utter joy, Celeste has lost her husband. She’d only had him a year and a half, so I suppose one could accuse her of carelessness. She is not, to be clear, once more a widow, but has mislaid her husband somewhere in China, where they were on some kind of diplomatic mission.

 I found her a little down in spirits. Her husband is a reasonably intelligent diplomat of significant status, if dreadfully, dreadfully dull. She has become accustomed to playing host for him and had hoped they would shortly settle in an embassy for a few years. I think she wanted something in the antipodes. Personally, I never found it an especially interesting area of the world, very hot and full of abnormally large, and frequently venomous, creatures. Like most men, I can deal with a good old British spider, but those enormous bird eating ones down there are simply freakish.

Now, in Asia you have such wonders as the Shoebill Stork, an utterly preposterous looking creature, but completely harmless. Still, to return to the subject of Celeste’s reasonably new husband (Cecil? Cedric?), it appears he may have either been taken hostage, a terribly serious situation for the Crown, or simply gone off into some remote area, only for the roads to wash out. The latter is unfortunate, but not a crisis. As I said to Celeste, there is absolutely no reason to think him dead. Her sorrow has begun to ease under my reassurances and gentle support.

 I suppose if the wretch doesn’t turn up soon, they will have to send a delegation over to find him. The local chaps on the ground don’t seem much up to the task. Language is apparently a problem. So far, I have managed to keep from Celeste the fact that I speak the necessary tongues required. The last thing I want is to be seconded away from the department, and my current projects, to have to journey half-way round the world. It takes a devil of a time to get there. Besides, while I wish the man no actual harm, I have a certain vested interest in keeping him away a little longer. Celeste has finally agreed to allow me to take her out to dine and I know all too well what a good dinner, and a good bottle of wine, puts her in the mood for. Of course, I shall be only too happy to oblige.

My darling sculptress is proving to be satisfyingly creative away from her normal sphere of operations. I’ve observed this phenomenon before, that those employed in the arts carry their creativity through to whatever it is they are doing, and I was not disappointed. In intimate moments that braying harsh laugh of hers becomes seductively soft and breathy. She has also been remarkably good natured about Jack digging up her flowerbeds while we disport ourselves. I have promised to send her a gardener (I will assure myself that he is good, but neither young nor handsome - there is no point in offering her temptation).

However, Celeste has avowed her decision to marry again, and will not be talked from it. I have pointed out the many freedoms she has, but the good lady wishes to travel. I mentioned there have been several remarkable British women who have travelled alone all over the global. Celeste replied, more accurately, that these women were remarkable because they were odd and thought, at best, eccentric. She wishes to pass her days without any such strictures being applied to her. For a liberated widow and lover, she is, in some ways, rather strait-laced.

Still, a husband will be an inconvenience to our affair, but not, I consider, an unsurmountable obstacle. She is clear sighted enough not to consider me a suitor. Although I travel widely, I could rarely take her with me, besides, she tells me she enjoys the best of me when I am returned from work abroad. She went as far as to say she suspects that, in-between my work sorties, I am probably a rather grumpy sort. She bases this opinion, it transpired, on her professional opinion of my face - on which she traced, with tender gentleness, the lines I had formed around my eyes, mouth and, especially, across my forehead when I frown or growl (growl is her word, not mine - as far as I am aware, I speak the King’s English and do not indulge in bestial intonation).

She backed up this opinion with a description of my taciturn nature when I first posed nude for her. But I jolly well think any gentleman standing starkers in front of a lady, when bedroom-related activity is not on the cards, is bound to be at a loss for words.

The best that can be said of the new CINC is that he isn’t a Navy man, and I’m scraping the bottom of the barrel for compliments here. He’s ex-regular army, if you can believe it. Probably thinks a secret message is something you write in soap on a mirror. He knows about military tactics and strategy, at least when it comes to moving around lots of men, but when it’s a solo operative, or a team of two, the fellow doesn’t have a clue. It’s been suggested by a couple of the other old hands that I need to take him aside and have a word about some of our less-honourable ways of working. I have no intention of doing so. Either he knows exactly what kind of demon he’s leading by the nose and is being wilfully ignorant of our more outlandish ops, or he’s a fool. In none of these instances do I wish to trouble him with the realities of our work.

For once I’m keeping my head down and carrying on with the job. My reports will be masterpieces of brevity, focusing almost entirely on the successful outcome and not on the manner in which it was achieved. If a mission goes awry, then as far as I am concerned, I wasn’t there, and I didn’t do it. I shall have to convince Alice to do the same, for now. She’s much more honourable than me, generally, but her sense of duty is weaker. More than once she’s risked her neck, and the mission, to rescue me, which is quite sweet and naïve of her, but which must never, never go in a report (of course, if I rescue her, then I’m merely performing my duty as her superior officer as I’m meant to look after those underneath me).

She quite likes the new CINC and thinks I should give him a chance. Again, delightfully naïve of her, but I have no intention of giving him anything - least of all my trust.

Damn Sam Browne and his one-armed ingenuity. I don’t carry a sword, and I have two perfectly good arms, so why I have to wear this ruddy rig over my army uniform is more than I can fathom. It makes me feel like a horse in harness. Perhaps that’s the idea.

I can’t remember the last time I wore a uniform. Generally, in my line of work, a uniform is the last thing you want to be wearing. Unless, of course, its some other country’s uniform and you’re sneaking through a guard post. Or strutting through, which I find works much better. Look as if you belong, act like you're entitled to be there, and it’s surprising how few people will ever stop and question you.

However, the new head of the department has demanded we all be fitted for regular uniforms. Now, if he’d said dress uniforms, I would have been slightly mollified. Dress uniforms tend to indicate the approach of banquets and dinners, and while I am more than happy to avoid my fellow compatriots in the line of work, a jolly good nosh-up is another matter.

As a spy I’m happiest while skulking, deceiving, lying, and scheming. On a good night I might even be seducing. On a bad night you can add in throttling and garrotting. You’d think they wouldn't want me to wear the King’s uniform, all things considered. But, no, the new CINC wants us all to have uniforms in order for us to remember exactly who we are.

I left the upper strap lying around the apartment, but it’s not true leather so Jack turned his nose up at it, and Griffin found it when he was cleaning. The d-rings are now extra shiny with the aid of Brasso. I’m never going to be rid of the dammed thing.

To be fair, I don’t mind the hat, or even the swagger stick. I’ve always liked carrying a stick. Although the sole purpose of a swagger stick is to prevent an officer carrying things. Officers aren’t allowed to do that in uniform. Killing someone would be fine, but carrying something, oh no. The whole thing is preposterous.

The next thing I know, they’ll be issuing me with a cloak and dagger.

Well, that was bloody. As soon as I got back, I found a telephone and rang up Alice to let her know I was safe. I did this as her partner, and because she’d gathered the intelligence for the op, but also because she was the only one who knew where I was and what I was doing. There is something about being in contact with someone who knows the vile things you have to do, and yet still holds you in…what? Regard? Affection? We don’t tend to talk about such feelings. That’s far too close to us having an altogether different kind of relationship. But I knew she would worry about me.

Still, she offered to do the debrief report, and I agreed. Not least because she lets me cheat and compare her report to mine. We work for the same department, but in our own way we’re very much a unit, not quite an ‘us against them’, but it feels like it sometimes. The damn department keeps fragmenting and splitting off, with various commanders competing for limited funds and resources. I’ve always had a disregard for rank that verges on the subordinate, but I fear I shall have to enter that game, to ensure that I - and Alice - get what we need to do the job properly. There’s no way anyone will even consider giving her a half decent rank due to her gender. Women, until Alice, have always been assets to the department, never real agents. I intend to be one of the instigators of change in that respect. Not that Alice can’t be her own formidable champion.

After a mission like this, I always want to stir things up and change the department. Within a week or two I usually succumb to my insouciant regard for it. I don’t think this will happen now. I hated what I had to do this time. I want more more direction over how the department works. Personal autonomy is all very well, but you are limited by the parameters set by your so-called superiors. I’m going to have to give up being the clever outsider and start advancing up the ranks. I see two positives on the horizon as I engage in Operation Self-Advancement. First, I have Alice at my back, and I couldn’t ask for better support. Second, the bastards have never seen this side of me and won’t know what’s hit them.

Fortunately, I have never been asked what I would like for my last meal. But then, in my line of work, one is more likely to simply be shot in the head. The so-called civilities of a priest and a last supper are not commonly administered in the espionage world when one is caught by the enemy.

Like everyone else, I have read in the papers of what criminals have asked to be given before they take the last drop. Having given this some thought of late, I have to say, I think they have it all wrong. It is not so much about what is given, but rather by whom it is cooked, and where the produce has been sourced. I am confident that any prison cook could, without turning a hair, transform a fillet mignon into a piece of shoe leather.

It is one of the hazards of my profession that one’s final exit is liable to be without farewells and to be somewhat sudden. Before my involvement with Alice and her family, my affairs were neatly trussed up. My father, I am convinced, will take little interest in my demise. However, as a point of pride, I had specified that any posthumous awards should be sent to him, so he knows that I wasn’t the wastrel he feared. I am older now, and I am debating whether such merits should be sent to Alice. They would mean more to her, and she could give them to Hope who, by the time she is grown, may barely even remember me.

I hate the idea that those I care about, and in turn care about me, may never know what has happened to me. There are four people in this world, plus Jack, of course, who are currently dear to me. They either know my line of work or suspect it.  This makes no difference to the fact that I will be leaving England on the first tide tomorrow, and with less than my usual certainty that I shall return to these shores.

I have come to the conclusion that to be involved with a spy means you must face the possibility you will never know if they abandoned you or if they are dead. I have some people in my life who I fear would hope for far too long that I might miraculously reappear. It’s true, I have pulled off more than one remarkable return from what appeared to be certain death. But not this time. Failure this time will be fatal.

I have always hated saying goodbye, but this is the one time I wish I could.

I sometimes wonder if I did right by Hope. As a very young girl she attended the local village school that the Stapleford’s had thoroughly refurbished. To be fair to them, they would have updated the school anyway. Their idea, I believe, was for Hope to get to know the people who would one day be her tenants. Both of her parents could be accused of harbouring vaguely socialist principles, given that they see others, regardless of their status or class, as fellow human beings. It’s most unfashionable, and one of the few things on which I agree with Bertram. But then, as ever, I am far beyond the dictates of fashion or, as it should be known, the general consensus of the ill-informed and easily led.

I fear I digress from my point. I don’t want to confront my suspicions that I have treated my goddaughter badly. It was certainly never my intent. Still, at the village school, she was gay and lively, a bright spark of a girl, whose presence was in equal parts enchanting and exhausting.

Euphemia decided to home school her after she finished at the village school rather than send her away. She must have been around eleven at the time, and both her mother and I were up to our necks in the espionage business. It occurred to both of us that Hope could be used as leverage by a foreign power, so we decided to keep her close.

I declined to send Euphemia abroad while her daughter was young, but around this time there was more than enough business that needed to be conducted in Britain. I needed Euphemia, and I used her. Hope spent days on end at home, alone with her father, who schooled her in literature, philosophy and politics. She appeared quite content. She was always closer to her father than her mother. If she ever had thoughts or opinions about her mother constantly going off with another man, she never commented on them. In fact, while her understanding was still rather innocent, I rather think she believed the three of us were all somehow her parents. We were her world, and that was the beginning of the trouble.

Her peers from the village were now apprenticed or working for their families. Certainly, none of them looked to be friends with her. Merry’s son, Michael, sometimes joined her for a lesson, but the Stapleford’s paid for him to go to a good boy’s prep school and then onto a boarding school. It was very much Merry’s wish that he be raised above his current status, and Euphemia was only too delighted to help her dear friend.

Hope never asked to go to boarding school or appeared discontent at home. I remember the day when I realised we might have been wrong in how we raised her. I came into the house, hatted, booted and somewhat muddied after an annoying task that had needed done. As ever, Giles let Jack and I in with a sneer and we went straight up to the room reserved for us. I ordered a bath and I sent Jack off to the kitchen to have his. Once suitably refreshed, I made my way down to the library to help myself to the rather fine brandy I had bought Bertram and to wait for the family to return from wherever they were. Since Hope’s birth I have made, and been encouraged, by Euphemia at least, to make myself very much at home at White Orchards. I found a book to read and sat and sipped my brandy. Bertram came in from being driven around the lower fields. At this point, Hope popped up from behind me, rushing to hug her father. It turned out she had been there all along but thought my reading may have been connected to my work and did not wish to disturb me.

Her father called her a good and thoughtful girl, but I thought back to that lively sprite of a child she had been. Now, at the tender age of twelve, she had become a quiet, reserved, highly observant girl, who opted for lurking in the shadows over playing in the light.

I admit, schooling a child in spycraft was a fascinating experience, but perhaps I should have paid more attention to what the young Hope wanted. All three of us were, in our own ways, large personalities, often busy about our work, be that spying, overseeing the land, or writing political treaties. If Hope needed us, or even asked for us, we always made time for her, but she did so less and less.

At twelve she was still trailing around her stuffed bear, and I fear now it was because we had deprived her of the company of her peers. I think she was lonely and the three of us, so caught up in our own worlds, never noticed. We loved her, we cherished her, but we did not allow young Hope to flourish. In her place we created a young woman who is unnecessarily unsure of herself and reserved. Perhaps we were such bright, shining stars in her childhood that her own radiance diminished in our presence. I fear also that her mother, resuming her work with me, was taken as Euphemia preferring my company over hers. She never blamed me for this. I was the one who revealed all kinds of secrets to her and answered any questions she asked. Euphemia, as she perhaps saw it, was always the one who left her - and even took me away in the process. Of course, for her mother, Hope was the reason her fieldwork was curtailed. Work that she lived to do.

In retrospect, it’s all a bit of a mess, and now I must assign Hope a place in this new war. I find I would spare her everything I might, but I question whether this is the right thing for me to do. Even so, how could I bear to let my Hope come to harm? Surely, it is my duty to keep her safe.

One of my best lines continues to be ‘You can tell me anything.’ Sometimes I whisper it gently into the ear of a trembling lady. Other times I say it, sitting by an open fire, to one of the patrons of my clubs. Or, I may say it to little Hope, who is always and endlessly asking me questions that, if her parents ever found out, would turn their hair white.

Before the war, and I expect afterwards, much of my stock-in-trade comes from after dinner conversations and the gossip circulating at dances. ‘You can tell me anything,’ is a powerful spell to conjure up information. There is something in those words, or at least the way I say them, that seems to lead people to believe that they are speaking to me in confidence. Although, in fact, I have never promised anything of the sort.

The astounding thing is that there is a never-ending stream of ladies and gentlemen who, if approached at the right time, or given the right trigger, will open up their hearts in an instant. Sometimes this is to the dashing Lord Milton but, more often than not, it is simply to me, a man they barely know and have no reason to trust. Never underestimate the weight that some secrets place on the human heart and soul.

Of course, there are occasions when one doesn’t exactly get what one hoped for. A man, who I barely knew, but who knew the private secretary of a minister that we were watching carefully, came up to me and told me that one of his toenails had turned a lurid green colour. He was a wheedling, avaricious little man, who feared a doctor’s bills might bankrupt him, and also feared being thought a coward over a trifling affliction. I had noted his limp, and wondered if it might be gangrene, so I asked him if any of the toes themselves displayed an ugly discolouration. At that point he confessed that four of them had, so I put him into a taxi to a reputable doctor at once. He now attributes me as being the reason they were able to save most of his foot. He lost three of his toes, but remained grateful to me, and became one of my slyest informants. I do remember though that I had booked an excellent dinner for myself that night at a Beefsteak House, and I had to cancel as I could not rid myself of the mental image of his rotting foot. What a fool!

Another time, a married lady, who I fear had mistaken me for a doctor, asked me a question about a sensitive part of the female anatomy. Fortunately, I was knowledgable enough about the area in question that I could answer her query, putting her at ease. She too remained most grateful to me and proved to be of use in a number of ways.

There are many other stories of this ilk I could recall, but what I am left with is the troubling notion that individuals in today’s society rarely talk to one another in anything more than the most superficial of ways. In fact, so insecure are they about their perceived status, they would rather entrust their troubles to a stranger than allow a close friend of many years to know that anything in their world is amiss. Still, all their insecurities are all grist to my mill.

I, myself, have no need of a confidante. I am entirely self-sufficient in such matters. Although, I admit, I do occasionally talk to Jack. For a dog, he is an excellent listener. Especially when he knows I have a treat hidden behind my back.

It must have been in the middle of the Great War that I had managed to snatch a little peace and quiet for myself in what was then my favourite club. I was enjoying a fine brandy and resting in a comfortable chair by the fire. All I wanted, after several hard weeks in the field, was a little rest and relaxation before I set off once more into the fray (the very next day, as it turned out). Then, this blighter of a cad has the audacity to drag his chair across the room, positioning it to sit opposite me. I closed my eyes in the vain hope he might think I hadn’t seen him and would promptly go away. I recognised him as a fellow member of the service, whom I didn’t particularly like. I had nothing against him, he was most acute at performing his duties, but he was ever such a wretched bore.

He had the damnable nerve to actually poke my knee. My eyes flew open, and for a moment I wondered if expulsion from the club was worth throwing him into the open fire. However, the chair I was in was ever so comfortable, and I was extremely tired. I asked him what he wanted, in as civil a tone as I could muster, and imagine my surprise when he said he wanted to know how I found working with women. I asked him to clarify slightly. After all, women often assist me with information, and such things, while being completely unaware that they are doing so. I have also used women as assets, where they fully understand that they are acting for King and Country, and then there are, admittedly more rarely, female agents.

The chap scratched his head and said he hadn’t thought about it like that. He opined that it was always easier to deal with other gentlemen, who knew how the game should be played. At this point I mentally labelled him as an idiot, who obviously did ‘fieldwork’ in clubs and aristocratic parties. He’d probably never got his hands dirty in his life - except for when he ate lobster.

I explained, baldly, that it was my preference to make love to the wives and daughters of ambassadors and foreign dignitaries, in order to extract information, rather than than their respective husbands and fathers. I noted that while, among the aristocracy, and the civil service, there was a certain degree of same sex relationships, it was not a club I desired to enter. I, personally, had no problem with any man who preferred his own sex, but I preferred the softness of a female bosom upon which to lay my head.

He stammered and went bright red, and enjoying his unease, I continued. I explained that female assets were loyal - at least utterly loyal to me - incisive, quick witted and far less likely to be thought of as informants, as a great many men were under the erroneous impression that females were good for little more than being fashionable and serving tea. While they couldn’t gain access to certain corridors of power, or establishments like the one we were sitting in, men generally had no idea about the amount of gossip their wives, lovers, and daughters shared about them over seemingly innocent tea parties. There is no other place where a man’s dignity, character and ambition can be so finely, and disparagingly, dissected than among a gathering of women. In groups, I stressed, the so-called weaker sex can be quite terrifying, or should be, to the adult male. A combination of sisterly feelings, and the shared woes of marriage, lead to a sharing of intimate confidences. Among married women, scandalous gossip about affairs and bedchamber reputations are fair game. I have even come to learn of the affliction of various sexually transmitted diseases on some important, and married, people, and I have been able to use such knowledge to great effect.

Gentleman who have secrets, I am sorry to say, are far less likely to be careful with their speech and actions in the company of women. Generally, they assume the poor things will be quite unable to understand what’s going on, when, in actual fact, a woman’s intellect is often far sharper than is ever given credit. Women, I told him, have learned to mask their intelligence in order to protect themselves. Of the two sexes, women are by far the most natural operatives when it comes to the art of espionage.

I strongly suspected he wanted to know about Alice, and so I was determined to tell him as little as I possibly could. Female agents, I continued, of which I have worked alongside several (a revelation which made him start, despite me omitting to mention that a great many of them were not British Intelligence operatives) rely much more on subtlety and stamina than brute strength, which men frequently do. They are also less swayed by ego, avoiding the male trap of needing to establish dominance, being far more inclined to focus on their duty.

Furthermore, I said, I found that women I have worked with tend to smell nicer, swear far less, be far more amiable companions, and feel their work is both a point of pride and a privilege. They are more compassionate, empathic and just as able to defend themselves as well as any man, if taught correctly. At this point he made a suggestion that the biggest advantage of working with a female agent would be having sex with her, to keep her in line of course.

Whereupon I finally rose from my seat, grabbed him by his lapels, and hurled him into the open fire, thus bringing about the termination of my membership of the club. Sadly, several other fellows pulled him out very quickly, and as the only lasting damage he sustained was to his dignity and his clothing, I had to content myself with the fact he had been wearing a very expensive suit.

Now, I am not a man to denigrate the grand tradition of Sunday lunch, with rare roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, roast potatoes and lashings of horseradish. Of course, you require a chef who understands gravy, or the whole thing is ruined. I also have a soft spot for an English crumpet, and an appreciation of dense fruit cake, particularly when one is feeling low on energy. But, to be honest, the rest of so-called English cuisine can go hang!

I know I am more travelled than the average British citizen, but English cooking is bland beyond redemption.  There are days when I am in London city and served, yet again, grey mutton chops in a thin, oily slime, when I would kill my own grandmother for a decent curry. Fortunately, she is no longer among us. I want something with taste, and if the warmth of ginger, curry leaves, crushed black pepper, turmeric - ah, earthy turmeric - and paprika are not available to me, I’d sooner munch on raw chilli than eat another soulless shepherd's pie.

India is the Jewel in the Empire’s Crown, and I have found that English people living in India are quite prepared to eat Indian food, and they appear to enjoy it. However, it is not something they bring back to their English estates and, accordingly, their dinner menus at home. I can only think that the trouble of getting the various spices is too much effort, or they believe an English or French cook will make a terrible hash of it. It’s true, although a man of considerable intelligence, it has taken Griffin a long time to manage the art of the Korma or the Biryani. The idea of putting dried fruit in savoury meals appalled him, which is odd as it was terribly popular here in the Middle Ages. However, one night we sat together and broke down the components of Indian cuisine (such as I have managed to learn) and agreed the constituents made much healthier meals than the ones frequently served here.

I do recall Euphemia bringing dried chilis home with her, after one of our foreign missions, despite my imploring her not to. She gave them to the cook at home, instructing only one was to be chopped and liberally sprinkled in that night’s stew. The cook, thinking them rather small - and as the initiated know, the smaller the chilli, the hotter it is - added the lot. Bertram turned scarlet at the first bite and spent the rest of the evening in the cloakroom. Euphemia ate her plateful and had seconds, with no ill effects. I suspect she has a stomach of cast iron.  Fortunately, Hope was not dining with them.

A friend I met during the short time I was at college introduced me to some of the principles of Mexican cooking. Now, that is one place I have never been, but if his culinary approximations are even half right, I would doubtless put on a stone in weight if I did. Tortillas and tacos are so flexible compared to a slice of British bread. I have eaten avocado and have once convinced a foreign hotel chef to make me up a mess of avocado, chili, lemon juice and salt, which was divine, and well worth the large tip I had to give the man. Sadly, avocados do not travel well, so it will be a long time before I introduce Griffin to the art of making such a tasty mixture. He still worries when he knows I am in a new country without him. I believe one Korean recipe I brought back (for Gamja-tang) gave him nightmares for a week. I always point out that none of the dishes I have either cooked, or suggested, have ever made us ill. This is far more than one can say of your average hotel restaurant and far, far more than you can say of the chefs who lurk at various country estates. I am half convinced the lot of them are convicts on the run, hiding out at noble estates where they believe no one will look, and out to murder the entire British aristocracy with terminally bland dinners. Said aristocracy’s cold insistence on never understanding more than the name of a dish on the menu means that they would accept anything up to, and including, pigswill, if it sounded posh enough, because they simply could not do any better themselves.

I am happy to say that Euphemia, and now her young daughter, have a much more focussed interest in food. I taught Euphemia to cook, and happily she has both enjoyed this and taken it on as an adventure. As I have recorded, she prefers her food to be far spicier than I. I want subtle, glowing, layered flavours, and most of the time Euphemia agrees with me, but let her get her slender fingers on some chilli’s and everyone at dinner is in big trouble! Hope, on the other hand, is on the verge of being addicted to ginger, and wants to put it into everything. I was told the other day that she asked the cook to put in it into a Shepherd's Pie. When told that would ruin the flavour, the little minx said she quite disagreed and that nothing, in her opinion, could make it any worse than it already is. I confess, I roared with laughter when her mother told me. Although, next time I saw Hope, we had a chat about treating those who serve us with some respect.

At the beginning of my career, in particular, I was frequently called upon to adopt one persona or another and attend country house gatherings to root out critical information. Such gatherings can be very pleasant. There can be a lovely house in the country, with lovely women in lovely dresses dancing into the starlit night, lovely meals and lovely wines. Or, it can be a complete nightmare. I’m quite capable of camping out under the stars, catching and cooking my own breakfast, and using nature to accommodate my basic human needs. It is surprising how often this experience appeals over an ill regulated stay at the house of a bad host and hostess.

It is normal for a couple to host an event. Indeed, sometimes the hosting of a gathering serves the surprising purpose of separating host from hostess. There is little more uncomfortable than a couple who are at odds with one another. The more eagle-eyed, such as myself, will notice their attempts at flirtation and the pursuit of secondary parties, merely to spite their spouse. The success or failure of such trysts becomes the hub of whether or not the time will pass pleasantly, or whether there is a constant atmosphere of sniping and malice.

However, even the most genial of hosts can become undone by their plumbing. A scarcity of water closets, the rumbling of old pipes that prevents sleep, or the absence of hot water required for shaving can quite ruin a party (note: the state of the heating in the house is of little issue, as one can generally find some means by which to keep oneself warm at night).

Bad food, as long as it does not make one ill, need not ruin a house party, as long as the wine is good. And by good, I mean truly excellent. Of course, some houses have been built and rebuilt, having been extended and generally mucked about with, so that their original layout has been compromised, and dinner always arrives stone cold as the kitchen is a ridiculous distance away.

Servants do not make as much of a difference as one might imagine, to a gentleman. Unlike the ladies, we can generally do things for ourselves. This is especially true of men like me, with an army background. It is generally appreciated if one brings one’s own valet, which is a blessing in my profession as it allows one to introduce another pair of eyes to the household, ones  that can also roam areas of the building where guests are not expected to be found.

I don’t mind if a host wants to show me his collection, be it china, dogs or mistresses. All have entertainment value. I do mind the long and dreary gentlemen-only sessions after dinner where, as the port lowers in the decanter, the stories become longer and longer and more and more incoherent.

I hate being organised into picnics and games of charades and the like. But then, neither am I keen on hosts who proffer a gun and suggest that one goes out and shoots things (they generally mean pigeons, or some other poor member of the local wildlife, but their love of such blood sports tends to make me want to turn the weapon on the hosts - which is, of course, simply not done).

I always enjoy my stays at White Orchards. It’s in the middle of nowhere and I am unlikely to be summoned by the department. I can relax knowing the food will be excellent and the service near perfect. The wine is always superb, as I generally bring it with me. Alice will have organised the days in line with the guests’ desires and there is an excellent library. As long as Bertram hasn’t organised one of his infamous and awful duck hunts, outdoor activities are confined to riding and gentle walks. The one drawback is Alice tends to sour towards me if I flirt with any of the other females on the premise. At least she always allows me to bring Jack.

It sometimes strikes me that a great many of the men who join the services, particular Navy men, must have been denied dress-up boxes as children. The importance placed on uniforms and dress uniforms, with their braiding, fringing, feathers, and golden details, are beyond the dreams of most young debutantes. And don’t get me started on medals. I’m as keen as any officer on rewarding bravery and, even more, rewarding intelligent behaviour under difficult circumstances. It’s heartwarming for any loyal member of His Majesty’s Services to receive acknowledgement of his (or her) excellent work. However, a small ribbon on a uniform, rather than some hulking great piece of metal, is more than enough to remind everyone of that special distinction. Anything more is a vulgar display of soldiering.

We all know that some medals are awarded for surviving a conflict and are as much in honour of the fallen as they are of the recipient. Bravery medals are well earned and deserved, but a man who has acted selflessly, above and beyond his duty, in the service of his country and colleagues, is a man who, if he has any sense, will find a different way to pass the next major conflict. There is putting trust in luck and there is abusing it.

A man who wears every available gong is not a man I am inclined to trust. He is either of an unnaturally fortunate disposition, which may not bode well for those around him - bullets have to hit someone after all, or, secondly, he is a vain man, who often boasts of his personal efforts yet is frequently carried by his comrades. Neither is someone I would choose to have at my back.

The few men I have met who have shown extraordinary bravery, have also shown a humble modesty and a hope to never be in such a situation again. In other words, be they brave, lucky or more selfless than most, they know that war is a terrible event, and wish to be out of it as soon as possible. They will always do their duty, but they know survival is most often in the hands of the fates (or their superior officers) than it is in their own efforts.

Personally, I value the man inside the uniform rather than the uniform itself. I know that for every man whose bravery has been rewarded, another hundred’s bravery goes unnoticed. I will test a man (or woman) to their limits if need be. Usually I only recommend any of my people for a medal posthumously. I don’t want to work with people who count their merits like overeager Boy Scouts. My people are not in competition, they have to work together. They are here to serve King and Country until their demise, silently and discreetly.

I am aware I have always made my role not only look easy, but elegant and effortless. In truth, it’s often a lot more sordid than those back in the office are comfortable knowing about. More than one of my field reports has been filed under terms such as ‘Highly Classified’, or ‘Top Secret’, and buried away in an underground storeroom in a secure facility.

I’ve been drinking and remembering. Remembering can make you drink more. Alice understands. She discourages or distracts me from reaching for the brandy bottles when she thinks I’m in too much of a reminiscent mood. There are times, however, when I’ve returned from the field after witnessing something awful (and some of the things I’ve seen have been truly terrible), events that no ordinary man or woman should be able to imagine.

When missions like that happen, Alice, if she’s there, has always given me a glass of brandy, and sat with me until the sun rises. She doesn’t say a word because she knows there are no words that can help.

Instead she stays by my side and lets me weep.

There is little quite as satisfying as landing a cad a facer. A punch in the face is a manly response. Pride may be harmed, as may lips and noses, but with the correct degree of restraint, no lasting injury occurs. Instead one is filled with a warm glow that only comes from seeing one’s antagonist landing on his arse with blood streaming from his nose. An unfortunately side effect is the damage said adversary may do to one’s fist with his face. Highly inconsiderate and all of a piece with their general behaviour. Undercover in upper society circles, one does not display bruised or bloodied knuckles. Hence it may occasion one wearing gloves, or keeping ones hands out of sight for a few days. Of course, some ladies prefer it if men display evidence that they have a wilder, more feral side, but most people consider themselves operating at a higher level and pretend to be appalled at the signs of conflict. These, ironically, are often the ones who make a great deal of money on the sales of arms.

But, sadly, it is rarely appropriate for me to punch someone in the face. Alice, as she grew to know me better, once asked me if there was ever day that went by when I did not want to punch some individual or other in the face. I remember protesting strongly. She then obliterated my contention by reminding me that I admitted to having a lousy temper and listing the people we had met over the past couple of days she was sure I wanted to punch out. She offered to go further back in the mission to list others. I’m fairly sure I made the sort of gruffling, snorting noise that men do when they are caught out. But then she said something that hit me hard. She said that, surely, I was putting myself under unnecessary stress in our encounters and that one day I would meet someone who could read me as well as she does.  Naturally, she had the right of it. And even more naturally, it was to be some weeks before I admitted it to myself.

However, if it were possible, and I believed it so, that my moods could affect our missions, I needed to counter this. Travelling in India years before this, I had learnt the art of meditation. I doubted that Alice was aware that without my regular use of this ancient technique, I would be even more difficult to deal with. I decided to see if I could modify my meditations to better suit my needs. I had been taught by a gentle scholar, who had impressed on me the importance of breathing correctly, centring myself, and setting myself at peace with the universe.  The latter being something that eludes me even to this day.

Instead I put myself into a meditative state, focussed my mind on the face of an antagonist, and then imagined myself soundly punching him. It was far more satisfying than I could have possibly imagined. With practice, I was able to bring more and more of the physical sensations into my meditation. My guru would have strongly disapproved, but within a couple of weeks I was able to punch out around five adversaries before breakfast. It made me much calmer. An unlooked for benefit was when I encountered someone who had featured in my morning meditation and instead of being annoyed, I felt the calm satisfaction of knowing exactly how they would look, and I how I would feel, when I really did punch them in the face.

I recommend this form of mediation to all. Especially those who, like myself, are of a choleric disposition.

I have been reflecting of late on my decision to recruit and train women as agents of the Crown. The secret services have long employed women, but not as the equal to male agents. Rather, they have been recruited as assets, listening to gossip among upper class ladies of various nationalities whose husbands are crucial to government work. Then there are the females who are prepared to seduce others for their country. These women cannot be considered prostitutes as they are not paid for their work. Instead, they feign love and desire with all kinds of belligerent authorities we wish to see undermined (I appreciate I am a fine one to talk here, but my seductions are rare, and the women have all been connected to vile individuals).

When I first met Euphemia, I thought her beautiful, bright and bold. As such, she held an allure for me, but as maid in the house where I was a guest, I would have considered it wrong to pursue her. Not because of her station, but rather because servants often feel that, when advances are made by the upper classes, they have no choice but to accede. Indeed, some hosts are clear that they have no issue with guests taking liberties with their servants. A distinctly primitive and foul attitude.

So, while I was attracted to her, Euphemia was not a woman I would have ever approached. But then I noticed that, although she tried to hide it, her naïve accent was extremely well spoken. She also had little idea of domesticity. She stayed close to the side of another maid, Merry, and aside from a little sweeping, I never saw her to anything especially menial. She was nominally the housekeeper, and extremely young for the position. At first, I did her the disservice of believing she must be Richard’s or Bertram’s mistress. Bertram clearly admired her, but as I came to know him, I understood he was also a man who would never trifle with the affections of servants. But he was badly smitten. It was just as well for him she turned out to be his social superior, and that they could eventually marry. I do believe he would have pined himself into decline over her. I’ve never been entirely sure what Euphemia saw, and still sees, in him. I rather suspect that love was ignited by a combination of his kindness and his sharp intelligence. When it came to the men on offer at the time, the bar was set extremely low.

My attitude towards Euphemia changed when I discovered how intelligent she was. At that point I was in serious danger of falling for her myself. She was unlike any woman I had know. Not only had she struck out for herself in the world which, rather sadly, many women must, but she was especially resilient, a fervent believer in justice, an excellent student of human nature, a puzzle solver (of all kinds) and not in the least bit afraid of the presence of death or, as far as I could tell, anything. In short, she had the most tremendous potential as an agent of the crown - except for the fact that she was female. Bertram, in comparison, was smart enough, but lacking the health and moral flexibility required. I never had any doubt that Euphemia would kill, if she had to. It seemed a crime to let all that talent go to waste. Besides, she was employed in an awful household, and it was all due to her father’s death - something for which I still carry the blame.

I admit only to these pages that I had to suppress a strong impulse to ask her to be my bride. It was my unsuitability, not hers, that prevented me. The lifespan of an agent is often short, given the nature of their work, and frequently away and out of contact. An agent’s thoughts generally revolve around their missions, and they would be unable to discuss such preoccupations with their wife. But, worst of all, any wife or child of an agent could, and in all likelihood, would at some point be held hostage by a foreign agency. I had sworn never to marry when I entered the service, and I was content with this. Then along came Euphemia overturning all my carefully thought out resolves.

So, I did what I thought was right. I utilised her as an asset, and I cast around for a husband that I thought her father would have approved of. That Euphemia had already determined on Bertram, I had initially missed, not least because of her naturally flirtatious nature, which drew men to her like moths to a flame, and her temporary engagement to that butler! However, all these distractions were easily enough dealt with. Euphemia, naturally, had no idea how much I interfered in her life.

Nothing worked out as I expected. This is rare for me. I am far from infallible, but I generally spot the way things are going, even if that runs counter to my initial plans. Not so with Euphemia. Often Bertram, Euphemia and that butler would work together, but it quickly became clear that among them, Euphemia was a natural leader. I imagined, at first, they were simply allowing Euphemia her head, as they were both vying for her attention, but as I taught her to write mission reports, I realised she genuinely led that little group. She never saw herself as the leader, but it was easy to see as an observer.

She only ever once asked for my help at that time. She needed to escape from household where we were both guests. She had been attacked by an unknown guest, but to my shame, I did not realise how serious it was at the time. She related it as if it had been nothing more than a minor scuffle. But, on the whole, she never sought my aid. I showed her more and more spycraft, and she absorbed it easily, more than any full recruit I had ever taught. She also put it into practice, and while she didn’t seek my help, I frequently found myself running after her and her merry group as they got deeper and deeper into hot water. I learned that, should I send them to observe the comings and goings of a house, then they would inevitably inveigle their way into the building as guests, servants or tradesmen. The group constantly strained at my metaphorical leash, and frequently broke loose. Eventually, I had to admit to myself the cause was Euphemia. Either I would have to induct her properly into the service, or I would have to let her go.

Naturally my feelings toward her had changed. I remained deeply fond of her, although I did my very best to hide it, but I looked at her as an espionage prodigy, rather than a potential bride. Somewhere along the way, a friendship, of sorts, formed between us. Neither of us, I believe, understood it, but Euphemia came to see in me, as I had seen in her, as kindred souls. She, however, remained resolutely in love with Bertram. In fact, it was in order to be able to marry him that she agreed to become a full agent of the crown.

By the time she did, I was of sufficient rank, and had enough successful missions behind me, to pull it off. However, I was told, in no uncertain terms, that she was my project and my responsibility. Her naturally headstrong nature made the latter particularly trying. We became colleagues. I remained her superior, but I taught her almost everything I knew (some things were, naturally, unsuitable). I had honestly never dreamed that I would ever find a partner I could work with long term.

With Bertram’s failing health, Euphemia and I worked more and more alone. This was only possible because of the strength of affection between them and their mutual respect. Bertram loathed me for most of his life, but he knew I would do anything and everything to protect his wife. He suspected I had feelings for her, but I saw her as a partner and respected her as such. Some of the moments and conversations we shared, we knew we could have never had with another living soul.

Then she became pregnant. Of course, it was always a possibility, but I suppose I had convinced myself that Bertram’s ill health would render the issue moot. But it didn’t. I was horrified. I saw all her talent, her potential, all the work that lay ahead of her, vanishing into a world of nurseries and school visits. My own mother had died when I was young. The impact on me was profound, and negative. I would never have countenanced Euphemia doing field work while her child was young. I think she knew this. She asked me to be a godfather to the growing malignancy in her belly. I see now that she was trying to strengthen the bonds between us. She knew that alone I would wander into moral ambiguity. I would never betray my country, but the ways in which I could serve it would have become more and more cold hearted.

I agreed, because I did not wish to distress her. Then she asked me, towards the middle of her pregnancy, to train her in analysis. I was delighted to find she had a talent for it. She broke the news to me that she had a plan of working on analysis while the child was young, and as it grew older, she hoped to undertake short missions with me that would not require a lengthy absence from home. Eventually, when the child was old enough, she could return to full time field work. She was very young when she had her child, and I only gave her a plan a fifty-fifty chance of success but, because I did not want to lose her, and I did not want the service to lose her, I agreed to her conditions. Then Hope was born. At her Christening she behaved perfectly until she was handed to the Vicar, whom she smiled at angelically, then copiously wet herself. As I struggled to keep a straight face, I felt I might, just might, not actually hate this child after all.

Then, bearing her work in mind, Euphemia asked me to train young Hope in evasion and observation. She had the sense not to wish that her child would follow her into our world, but we both knew that our enemies might well seek out Hope. She agreed to continue living in the fens, which she hated. Bertram thought she did it for him, but it was for Hope’s safety that she agreed to spend many of her prime years in that forsaken backwater. I also ended up there a fair amount and even Bertram accepted me as family, in time. I became, for him, the kind of relative that many families have, who turns up on high days and holidays, invited because he has nowhere else to go, or who trots up for the weekend when you least expect him, and least want him.

Euphemia was glad to see me, and Hope grew to love me. Although I have neither told either of them that I have come to love Hope as if she was my own. I had no right to do so. Bertram would feel insufferably hurt if I expressed this, but I am allowed to love Hope as a disreputable uncle might do.

Hope proved to be sweet natured, introspective, highly intelligent and naturally observant. Living with parents whose marriage was verbally volatile, both being unhappy in one way or another, although utterly devoted to one another other, Hope often crept away to find peace. When we began to use White Orchards as a discreet meeting place for officials at weekends, instead of taking advantage of meeting some of the most significant minds in the country, Hope was more likely to hide. Her mother had taught her how to behave in public but Hope infinitely preferred a book. She loved our days in the forests where I taught her spycraft. Having to interact with a host of strangers was her idea of a nightmare.

Euphemia has always been able to play the noble lady, but she is also vivacious, flirtatious and witty. She can command a room. Hope was not even prepared to try. I knew she had interesting things to say, that she thought deeply and innovatively on current issues, but while she talked to me freely on just about any topic, she was uninterested in talking to others. Hope is entirely self-contained - a little too much like me in that respect. I worry that, during her formative years, I taught her far too much about making yourself unnoticeable. I wanted her to learn the skill, but I never wanted her to apply it as a lifestyle. Her father thinks she is shy. She isn’t. She’s quietly confident and believes most people to be hideous bores (I cannot contradict her on that). But how much of this is down to how I moulded her young mind? There is no sign of the passion and impulsiveness that both equally endangered the missions of her mother and I, but also gave us the most incredible successes. She does not appear to have her mother’s fire and I would hate to think that was down to me.

Of course, I love them both. Not amorously, but as family. Bertram, I tolerate, as he has come to tolerate me. We share a love of good brandy and a desire to protect the women who are important to us. Euphemia and Hope are alike in rejecting our protection. If nothing else, from my experiment of training the first full agent who is female, have come two extraordinary, indomitable and utterly admirable women. Each of whom are worth a thousand of me.

It is not uncommon for a trainee to ask my opinion of weaponry, and even my favourite methods of defending myself. Nowadays, many people carry a gun. I do so myself, but due to a pre-Great War injury, I rarely use it. Once a crack shot, on a good day I might hit a barn, never mind the barn door. I know some like to use a gun as a threat, but I personally feel a gun should never be drawn unless you’re prepared to use it. Thus, given my lack of ability to shoot straight, I have to be desperate indeed to draw such a weapon. But, for those with a better aim, I suggest the Webley .455 VI (I always prefer a revolver over a magazine loader, which are more prone to jamming). Webley have done well for me through my career and I heartily recommend them.

A cane has been a favourite weapon of mine for most of my life. I suppose, eventually, most gentlemen will no longer carry canes or walking sticks. However, for those of us who indulge in such fripperies, the art of Bartitsu it perfect. One appears unarmed, but in the blink of an eye, one has the other fellow on the floor, pinned to the wall, or locked in some extremely painful position. In cases of dire necessity, one can even shatter the opponent’s cranium, with lethal effect. Although, it should be noted, that this is not only hard work, but risks the danger of splatter that can ruin one’s apparel.

Of course, there is little that is more enjoyable than delivering a well-deserved punch to the face. However, one has to be something of pugilist, as I am, to deliver a significant blow without severely damaging one’s hand or, at least, hopping around shouting, ‘Ouch! Ouch! Ouch!’ This can somewhat damage masculine pride.

I continue to practice Jujitsu. Having observed both men and women using this style, I have come to believe that, at present, there is no superior form of unarmed combat available to learn when it comes to the actual practice of street, or rather gutter, fighting. It’s all very well for people to showcase flashy moves, but a serious fight should be swift, nasty and without rules. 

But, lastly, we come to my favourite weapon. My choice generally surprises people. It is my tongue. To be clearer, that is my tongue in conjunction with my brain. The art of persuasion, and the avoidance of violence, will always produce the superior outcome in any encounter.

Personally, rank has never much concerned me. As long as I am of sufficient rank to get what I need done then I’m happy. Although, naturally, I have always insisted on being officer class. I would make a terrible member of the rank and file. I am not, and will never be, part of the general herd. This is not simple arrogance, but simple fact. I can talk cricket, even rugby if I must (though I draw the line at football), but the difference between the general populous and myself is that I can do it in more languages than they have digits. I have been gifted with an extra-ordinary brain, for which I thank my mother. From my father I inherited only my name, and I have taken pride in never using it during my career. All deference that is due to me has come by my own merit. I have been acknowledged by my peers and seniors because of my remarkable record of achievements.

Admittedly, I have also once promoted myself in the field, but it is testament to how I am viewed by the department that I was allowed to keep that rank on my return. Needless to say, I had assumed the rank not out of pride, but because I had a most insubordinate fellow with me who believed that he should be in charge. However, when I had finished beating him (in a fair fight) in front of the troops, he ever afterwards viewed me as an enemy, but obeyed my command. The latter being the important part. I left him with no more than bruises and a damaged dignity which, considering he pulled his insubordination in the field, and close to enemy lines, I considered generous on my part. I know several commanders who would have shot him there and then. However, I have always felt the taking of life to be a final resort. Besides, it would have been noisy, left us with a body, and in all likelihood have dampened moral, even if the other fellows didn’t like him very much. It’s strange how in a small group, even the most despised member becomes ‘one of us’. He may be a wilful, ignorant prig, but he’s our wilful, ignorant prig is generally the troop feeling.

As I said, I don’t much like working with groups. Far too many dynamics to take into account. I much prefer one-on-one tuition. This is where rank raises its ugly head again. If you’re such-and-such a rank, then surely you should be leading such-and-such a number of people, is what the higher-ups think. Yes, I usually retort, because leading a whole battalion of spies across enemy territory is the subtlest way to get things done.

Fortunately, I believe I am now classed as one of the higher-ups (although I have certainly considered myself to be so for some time). The privilege of rank seems to me to be primarily the privilege of not having to suffer fools - or if the fools are too foolish, being able to have them shot.

Of course, there is an army pension based on rank, but it’s not of much significance. It’s almost as if the army expects a decent soldier to die in harness - which I probably shall.

I first met Celeste at a diplomatic dinner. At the time she was widowed, the relict of a senior ambassador taken before his time. I never understood why she was there. However, it seems those in diplomatic channels held her in high esteem. Whether that was due to her ability to host, or her place in the art world, I really don’t know.

The first thing she ever said to me was ‘I want to see you naked.’ Now, I have never been without my admirers, but this blatant accosting caused my monocle to drop from my eye. I managed to keep a straight face, but the wretched eye glass gave away my reaction. Never wore one again. Anyway, she laughed uproariously and explained she was a sculptress looking for a well-defined male model.  I thanked her for the compliment, but explained I was already fully employed.

I thought that was the end of the matter and having several people I needed to have quiet words with, quite forgot about her. At the end of the evening, as I was brought my hat and coat, she appeared again, and asked me if I had thought further on her suggestion. I brushed her off with the minimum of politeness and left.

She was not an unattractive woman. I imagined around thirty, and she had that harsh brazenness that some women develop when they have to frequently stand their ground in male domains. Usually I am full of admiration of this type, but she had caught me off guard, and her laugh was too loud. Once more I forgot about her.

The next week I received at my public address, my city flat, a large bunch of Morning Glories, Sweet Peas and Peace Lilies. With it came a card that asked if I had reconsidered, and was merely signed with a C. I couldn’t quite bring myself to toss the flowers, so I asked Griffin to reassemble them into three bouquets and regifted them to several ladies of my acquaintance, including relative of an older generation who had recently been hospitalised. I later received a letter from her daughter, who I despised, thanking me, as it had cheered the old woman up immensely. Worse still, having misguidedly sent this gift, she began to update me with regular letters and even suggested we had luncheon together in town. Sadly, I found my work schedule could not allow such frivolity. I lived in fear of what would happen at Christmas, the invites, the cards, all the familial obligations I had so painstakingly divested myself of. I blamed such re-entanglement on the wretched Celeste and called down curses on her head nightly.

I continued on my path of ignoring the pest, much as I would have done with a small sticky child. But the gifts kept coming. Never anything extravagant. A bottle of port. A truckle of Stilton. A side of smoked salmon. And all with the same message. I explained to Griffin, in a fit of anger, that this damned woman was after my body. I could have elaborated further, but he can be very prudish and immediately left the room. He avoided having more than the briefest of conversations with me for several days.

By now this whole ridiculous charade was bothering me far more than it should and distracting me from work. I had failed to discuss the matter with Griffin, and I didn’t think Alice would react sensibly to my problem. She would either laugh or go into one of her absurd fits of jealousy (she has a husband and I am not him).

Eventually, I wrote a note to the blasted woman. I told her that if she produced a bust of my mother to my satisfaction, I would also pose for her. I enclosed a photographic likeness of the painting of my mother.

As she was supposedly one of the foremost sculptors in the land, according to her admirers, I thought it unlikely she would agree to my demands. I had done my research and I knew that such a commission would normally cost hundreds of pounds. Also, I very much doubted that a woman of such limited empathy would be able to catch either the beauty or the sensitive intelligence of my mother’s face.

The gifts stopped coming. Alice and I went on with our missions. We navigated the pathways between friendship and colleagues, and I still had to iron out Alice’s feelings of possessiveness towards me. She appeared perfectly content in her own marriage and had never suggested we should be more than friends, but she disliked it immensely when I flirted with other women for the sake of the mission. It was all very annoying, and so I forgot completely about Celeste.

Then, four months after I sent the letter, I received a heavy and carefully wrapped parcel. When opened it revealed a bust of my mother so perfect, I confess I had to blink back a tear.

There was nothing for it, I should have to honour our deal. Then I noticed at the bottom of the box a small card bearing a date, time and rural location. It crossed my mind there and then that it might be a trap, but I could not back out of the agreement. So, on the stated date, I drove to the location, where I found Celeste’s airy studio.

She came out to greet me and complimented me on being a man of my word. I bristled slightly and said I could be nothing else. We went inside. To my relief no one else was present, but I began to feel rather uncomfortable. I asked what would happen to the statue and was told it would be displayed at an exhibition in London early the next year, along with some other pieces she had been working on. She said she would send me tickets.

I must have paled because she told me that she only wanted my body (this made me feel even more uncomfortable). Then she explained she had a rough idea of what I might do for a living, and so had decided that she would put another head on my shoulders. Her problem, she told me was finding physically fit, wiry men, who were prepared to stand naked in front of her for several hours at a time.

At this point I sat down in a chair as I had come over unexpectedly faint. However, for all her brashness earlier, she became a consummate professional as she explained what he needed from me. She also said that she thought I would gain from the experience.

I gritted my teeth and went behind the screen to undress. I have never been ashamed of my body, but I had never posed naked on a podium while a dressed woman circled me, eyeing me from all angles. I went through a cascade of emotions as she studied me, none of them pleasant.

My only relief was there was no tape measure in sight. I had wondered if, like a tailor, she would take measurements. Fortunately, not.

It is surprisingly tiring to stand perfectly motionless for any length of time, but my training helped. On subsequent sessions I found I could move into a meditative state and consider matters I had yet to resolve with remarkable clarity.

There were seven sessions in total. Over this time, I became more and more comfortable in my own skin. But when Celeste asked me what I had learnt during the experience, I decided to tell her of my strongest revelation. I said I now had some inkling of how women felt when they were watched by predatory men, who concentrated on their form rather than their brains. Celeste laughed at that and said that all men did it to attractive women all the time. Almost all, I answered.

The insight I had from this experience helped me understand more than ever the opposite sex, and this has aided in all aspects of my life, both personal and work. Celeste and I remained friends for a while - indeed it was when visiting her, looking for fresh milk at a nearby farm, that I found Jack (Celeste kept the most disgusting of kitchens at the back of her studio). When she felt she didn’t need to be bold, she transpired to be an excellent conversationalist, who thought deeply about the world and the people in it. Our friendship only cooled when she married a very senior political figure, and the nature of my work meant I had to distance myself from her.

I still have the bust sitting in my lounge, and my stone doppelgänger, with a far less handsome visage than my own, stands in a London gallery, for all to see and admire.