There are times when I am required to do things for my country that are not as moral as my mother would have liked. In my defence, I repeat that I am doing such things because it is my duty. Whether I like the situations or not, I have to face them. In my work, violence is always a last resort and I am averse to the taking of life.

I cannot say that I am averse to punching the occasional enemy in the face. In fact, a good punch sets one up for the day rather nicely if the rotter deserves it. Fortunately, rotters are plenty on both our sides and theirs - theirs being anyone who acts against Crown and country. For an ill-tempered man such as myself, this job can be a godsend.

However, more often than not, I am called upon to winkle out information. There are times when I am asked to befriend a gentleman, gradually win his confidence and extract information from him. I am more than able to do this. I know London, and indeed many foreign cities, well. I can take a man to all the right clubs, show him the best dining, the best shows and generally lead him into what hedonistic delights he seeks, all the while appearing to be a good fine fellow who is on his side. It is often somewhat of a bore as I find the types I am required to befriend are generally of the set I would rather punch. However, uncovering their secrets and ruining their careers in the process is some consolation.

For reasons only the department knows, I am more likely to be sent on a mission to befriend their wives, daughters, lovers and mistresses. Generally, these creatures are pleasant and in no way to blame for the dastardly actions of their other halves. Although I am not required to, I do try to ensure that when information is passed back down the line, it is cleaned of any incriminating associations connecting the women involved. Of course, the department knows who they are, but I feel it’s my moral duty to ensure their lovers, spouses and fathers never discover who unwittingly betrayed them. As far as my superiors are concerned, this allows me to continue to milk the sources for further information. While this is true, and professionally astute, I would take no pleasure in condemning female connections of mine. After all, it’s not their fault my charms are so hard to resist.

Indeed, I have made an intensive study of how to enrapture a target. I start with as much information as the department has on file, I then go into the field to ascertain its veracity. I conduct a length campaign of acute observation. I play attention to everything, from her favourite foods to whether or not she is ticklish and what entertainment she prefers. Top of my list of enquiries is always to discover how the significant man in her life disappoints or distresses her. I am sad to say there is often a long series of points to be listed. Such bad treatment by family or lovers is all grist to my mill, as I can appear to fill these voids. However, I find it rather sad that so many women, some of them both lovely and kind, are taken for granted. In my adventures, I always do my best to ensure that my time with them becomes fond and cherished memories. It is the very least I can do as I cheat them into betrayal. Quite often the men more than deserve such betrayal by virtue of their treatment of their women alone. Sadly, when one topples a gentleman for his misdeeds, those around him also fall. There is little I can do to prevent this, except offer the ladies in question a period of romance that, in reality, exists only between the covers of novel.

I might be excellent in bed, but as a long-term lover, or - heaven forbid- a husband, I would be fearsomely difficult and tiresome. But, for short periods of time. I can become the very embodiment of Eros. It is one of my talents. I say this in all modesty, for it is true.

Griffin asked me this morning if I would consider changing Jack’s pet food. I wasn’t even aware that Jack ate ‘pet food’. I thought he ate the same as us. I suppose if I had stopped to think about it, I would have reasoned out that he had particular food stuffs, though the way he begs for titbits anyone would assume that Griffin never feeds him. Strange that those two have never taken to each other. I find Jack a most affectionate and obedient companion. Griffin claims Jack is forever nipping and biting at him, but I dare say he exaggerates. I have noticed that medical professionals are, in general, most adverse to the slightest of injuries. They fuss over the merest flesh wound. Fortunately, Euphemia has not followed in their footsteps, and is more likely to sigh loudly as she wraps a bandage around whatever appendage I have recently injured, telling me to not do it again, as if it were entirely my fault. I do not think that bedside manners featured heavily, if at all, in her nursing training.

But the thought of Jack needing dog food was a stark reminder than I am no longer lord and master of my own fate. When I started in this line of work, what seems a ridiculous number of years ago now, I was barely a man - more of a callow youth. Despite this, whatever I was thrown, I dealt with it alone. I struggle to think of another gentleman who knows how to make his own bed or boil an egg. However, as my responsibilities have grown, I have been forced to delegate more and more. I admit, I have enjoyed building up my own team. I have strived not to lose my autonomy, but to keep my section as separate as possible from the others, thereby shaping people as I see fit and choosing our direction. Of course, I do have a boss. Somewhere. In a basement I expect, covered in cobwebs, or wedged in a club chair drinking brandy and muttering into his moustache. Either way, I try very hard not to disturb his peace.

But this has come at the cost of releasing my control over the little things in life. I no longer clean my apartment or buy food for my own dog. My washing is done for me, and many of my meals are cooked for me. This, one might think, is a good thing, but the truth is that all these tasks are rarely done to the standard I myself would achieve. I have to literally throw Griffin out of the kitchen on the rare occasions I have time to cook for myself. He is a tolerable cook, but I am very much better.

I am forced to keep records and write reports. Fortunately, I am expert at keeping these brief and enigmatic. I prefer my reports to remain open to my interpretation or my reinterpretation as events require.

I do still get to drive myself, but I am aware that I am going less and less into the field. More and more I am training and planning. Planning and training. This is, of course, a reflection that the more an agent knows, the less willing the department is to lose them in the field. It is also a nod to ageing and the potential loss of physical skills. This does not include me. If anything, I am fitter now than I was when I entered the service. I have kept active and am at my prime in the field. I suppose I have become rather expert at planning, but I am not yet ready to shift my life to sitting behind a desk and growing my moustache to ridiculous lengths, so I can huff through it at my subordinates.

Damn it! I’m going to take Jack out and find the bloody dog food myself. I am not that out of touch with the little things of life. We shall go to Harrods. I presume they will have some kind of sampling menu for him to try.

I am being troubled by nightmares. This isn’t the first time. However, in the normal way of things, they pass in under a week. I have now regularly awoken covered in sweat, with a rapidly beating heart and ready to punch someone in the face. The latter being my usual, and quite natural, reaction to being threatened. Poor Jack, who nearly always manages to escape from his quarters in the kitchen to come and sleep at the foot of my bed, has been most alarmed.

It transpires that his reaction to my waking with a start is to leap off the bed, barking madly and running rapidly around the room, seeking an enemy, only to finally collapse in exhaustion and confusion. Where upon he gives me, what is for a dog, a very speaking look, and it is not his normal worshipful demeanour.

The real problem is that I have yet to remember a single thing from the nightmare. It’s as if it is so horrible, my waking brain simply won’t let me. This is quite a surprise as I have, over time, had some perfectly hideous nightmares inspired by my various activities in the shady world of espionage. The first time I killed a man, the nightmares came every night for a week, and were quite distasteful. But they passed, as have the ones brought on by being under fire, defending myself, and also, more rarely, losing a colleague or friend. I always recall those, and accept they are my internal self trying to make sense of events.

During the incident itself, whether my blood is up (as it might be under fire) or not, I am able to retain a cool, clarity of thought, and to make calculated decisions in a fraction of a moment. I have always thought that my nightmares are somehow, in the scale of things, payment for my ability to keep calm in a crisis. It’s a bargain I have been only too happy to make. But these invisible, hateful dreams are something else.

They have appeared on the back of a recent mission, but I was never in abnormal danger, and I sustained no injury. Things didn’t go so well for Alice, and I might have expected a series of nightmares in which I berated myself for not - what? If I am honest, for not protected her better. I know she is more than able to look after herself, but when anything happens to her, I always feel horribly responsible. I have got adapt at hiding this as it annoys her immensely.

But why cannot I not remember the dream? What do I dream of that is so mind numbingly terrible to me that I cannot remember it when I awaken?

Hope’s question as to whether I am lonely on my own has been bothering me. She asked this over a year ago, and I dismissed it with a laugh. Yet the question comes back and haunts me in the quiet times of my day - when I have them. I do not like this.

Of course, I am rarely ever actually alone. Jack, and often Griffin, are usually around. I enjoy Jack’s presence, for the most part, but he is not without his faults. He will have these odd fits when he dashes around, chasing something only he can see. This sudden mania seems unrelated to whether or not he has recently enjoyed some exercise. I have attributed this behaviour, in jest, to being akin to my own internal fits of rage at the many injustices in the world. People laugh when I say this. The majority never see me angry, and only those closest to me know how much I wrestle with my internal ire.

Perhaps, this is why I do not experience loneliness. The world is a constant irritant to me. On missions I am frequently in close proximity with others, and this can grate on me. Whether I be spying on them, seducing them or even extinguishing them, there seems to be a surfeit of people. Only when the mission is completed can I retire to my own world once more to lick my wounds - sometimes literally. Of late, I have been more unfortunate than usual in the acquiring of scars. Still, it allows me to conjure up interesting tales to amuse my lovers as they investigate my form.

But, even with those with whom I am intimate, the connection only exists for me because I know it will end. The thought of matrimony, even if such a thing were possible for an agent of the Crown, is one of the few things I find truly frightening in this world.

To be attached to one single human being for life seems to me to present one of two options. Either one surrenders wholly to it, opening up one’s very soul to one’s spouse, or one spends one’s life keeping a part of them hidden on a daily basis, slowly growing further and further apart. The latter seems damned inconvenient and quite hindering to relaxation. I find after missions that I need my relaxation. But the former, I confess, fills me with abject terror, more than various potentially lethal encounters I have endured. I have no desire to allow anyone to peer into the darkest corners of my soul. Places that even I rarely care to look.

I have no particular fear of dying. When one is dead, one is dead, and it really seems pointless to worry about it. If there is an afterlife for one such as I, then I will deal with that when I get there. For now, I am determined to enjoy this life. And I do. I enjoy taking risks, driving fast, pushing my talents to their limits, puzzling out the enemy and, of course, taking lovers. I also enjoy sitting by my own fireplace, reading and expanding my knowledge. I engage with the world, periodically and frantically, then I withdraw - much as some men make love rather badly - or so their wives tell me.

Sharing every moment with another would deprive me of this ability to retreat from everything, and that I do not think I could bear. I suppose someone might suggest that the only person I was ever truly close to, my mother, was taken from me when I was young and vulnerable. Certainly, at the time, the pain seemed unbearable, and the world with it. Perhaps I do not invite anyone in, because I am unwilling to risk ever suffering such loss again.

Or, perhaps, and I think this far more likely, I am a selfish man, who lives life only to please himself when not serving his country.

It seems a rather innocent letter of mine has been causing matrimonial strife in the Stapleford household.  I ended one of my letters to Euphemia with ‘yours as ever’ and Bertram has taken umbrage.

Euphemia and I had decided, a while ago, that I needed to become an obvious family friend. This was to deter the outside world from realising that we were working together in espionage for our country. The fact is so deplorably well known, or suspected, among her immediate family and friends (the Mullers, the Bishop and her mother, her brother, Merry, etc.) that we sometimes forget that even within the service very few people know. I believe she explained this previously to her currently fuming husband. He has taken such offence that she has even phoned me.

I asked if it would help if I told him that when writing to my lovers, and ex lovers, I end with something far more romantic and intimate than ‘yours as ever’. I also, in such cases, include, or allude, to various activities that we have shared. The letters in question are often a precursor to some deal the department wants me to make with a married woman as wives are one of our primary sources of information. I would not call it blackmail precisely as no one forced any of these lovely ladies to cross the moral wasteland over to my side of the bed.

Euphemia responded, rather tartly I thought, that reminding Bertram of my Casanova-like reputation was guaranteed to make him get even angrier. He fears the letters being seen by others - which was the whole point in my writing them - and Euphemia leaving them around so that ‘other people’ (unspecified) might assume that his wife and I are lovers.

Such tedium. Why, if we had so chosen, Euphemia and I could have been lovers for years. During missions we are often thrown together into circumstances of closeness the likes of which many married couples never experience. In fact, I believe we know each other far better than the majority of so-called happy married people ever do. Besides, if we were lovers, we would be able to hide it completely from Bertram.

Or maybe this is what he fears. That should we become lovers, there is nothing he could do to prevent it, or stop it. I am not usually a petty man, but when I consider the efforts that I have gone to in order to ensure the Stapleford’s marriage continues to be a virtuous one, I rather feel like encouraging poor Euphemia to be my lover. I certainly appear to value her, and what she says, much more highly than her husband. The man is a dog in the manager. It’s not my fault, well not totally my fault, he cannot accompany her on missions himself. It seems he begrudges her what sense of purpose serving her country brings to Euphemia. I mean, ye gods, the rest of the time he makes her live in the damned fens, with no more social contact than the odd Heron.

I am over thirty years of age. I haven’t done everything (as Tolstoy claimed), but I have killed a man. Yet, I now find myself hiding in the cellar of a country house in England when in no immediate peril. Alas, it seems, the most threatening event on my horizon is a game of charades.

Admittedly, I hate charades with a passion, and in general never play. However, I am here at White Orchards this Christmas, to facilitate, with Euphemia’s and Bertram’s help, a conversation between various foreign and British diplomats, and other such people of significance in the current world arena.

I am excellent at doing this kind of thing. The number of weekend functions, both in my own country and abroad, where I have fostered such negotiations under the cover of polite society, is numerous. There are usually lovely ladies to woo, either for my cover, or for national security interests, or there are other dire shenanigans afoot. In short, there is usually entertainment enough, albeit with a spicy element of risk.

At this most awful of gatherings, no one is trying to kill anyone else (how boring), Euphemia would have a blue fit if I found myself some side entertainment of the female variety (goodness knows why) and, worst of all, I am being portrayed as the kind of man who plays charades (quite intolerable for my image as a dangerous international agent).

Why, I merely offered a lovely young woman a tea cake yesterday afternoon, and Euphemia shot me looks that would have wilted a lesser man. Afterwards, she claimed she did not want me distracted from our urgent business. I knew from the first two hours that the situation was hopeless in terms of making any significant political progress. None of the parties had come prepared to move the slightest on any issue, merely wanting to be seen to be taking part. I told her this and asked her to trust my well-founded judgement. But no, she insisted that if the participants can see each other as real people, rather than just the opposition, then they will all join hands and start singing Christmas carols, or some such rot.

To facilitate this, she has arranged numerous party games, and given each of the three of us leading roles in the entertainment.

Horrifically, although I still do not believe it will encourage any political progress, the attendees upstairs have bought into her games wholeheartedly. When Bertram announced a game of The Vicar’s Cat (a game that involves the participants meowing), I had no choice but to flee the scene.

I have come armed with a corkscrew and a wine glass, and thanks to my benevolence, Bertram’s cellar actually has some bottles worth drinking. I also lifted a rather nice Stilton from the kitchen, so I am quite content. If I thought I could get away with a cigar, I would have brought one of those down too, but one must be discreet. And while I would much rather find myself being discreet in one of the ladies’ bed chambers upstairs, I shall make do with the wine and cheese.

Should Euphemia send Bertram to find me, I shall give him the option of either being tied up in his own cellar or joining me in my mischief.

I’m not a man that minds children. My siblings being so much older than me meant that I was exposed to small children while in my teenage years. I generally found them delightful little creatures. As long as I smuggled them illicit biscuits, and occasionally threw a ball around, or some such easy pastime, they tended to adore me. I quickly learnt how to help them get around their parents’ tiresome strictures, and in doing so, became something of a hero to my young nieces and nephews. The fact I could also build a camp site and cook sausages for them over an open fire made me almost a god in their eyes.

I also found them to be refreshingly frank and open. Children see everything, even if they may not understand what they are seeing. Ever since my nephew, Egbert, once remarked on the fact that nanny was forever going into his father’s room late at night (he assumed his father needed hot milk to sleep, as he himself did) I have known that children are excellent sources of information. As I recall, I managed to extract a five-pound note from Egbert’s father in return for not repeating the story to his wife. Of course, I kept my word and said nothing. However, I advised young Egbert to tell his mother about his father’s late-night visits from nanny. I then sat back and watched the fireworks.

Hope doesn’t let things like this slip. I don’t know if it has anything to do with growing up among spies, but she is extremely reserved with visitors and loathe to repeat anything that Euphemia, Bertram or myself say to her. Which is probably just as well, as she gets everywhere.  I don’t remember my younger relatives ever being quite as active as Hope. But then, I might have lain a treasure trail for the older ones and watched them attempt to solve it. I might have found a soft ball, or a racquet, for the younger ones to play with, but I didn’t play with them. In fact, as I child, I don’t recall ever having a playmate. I was far too busy learning and exploring. However, I do play with Hope. Thank god no one in the department ever sees me on all fours, growling like a tiger!

Hope fell over the other day and hurt her knee. No more than a scratch, but it upset her. I think the fall shocked her. Without thinking, I picked her up to console her before she started to cry (always a wise move with Hope, who has excellent lungs). She threw her small arms round my neck and buried her face in my shoulder. I suddenly found myself overcome with a burning ambition to protect this little creature from any and all harm. The strength of this feeling quite staggered me. I mean, I’m fond of Jack, but he’s never engendered this kind of impulse in me.

There was something about her trust in me, to hold her and keep her safe, that was both incredibly rewarding and yet entirely terrifying. Try as one might, one can never protect another from all the vagaries of fate - as I know all too well.

Will this feeling lessen as she grows, or will I always feel so damned protective toward her? It’s all very well to say she has two doting parents, but that is very much beside the point. I have a duty to Hope. I made a promise and I fully intend to keep it.

The damned thing is that in general, outside of my profession, I hate responsibility. But I fear Hope has me over a barrel. I shall do my upmost to ensure she never realises this. Why, she might be the first female ever who could twist me around her little finger. A most humbling thought.

I’ve always wondered what they put in Gentleman’s Relish that makes it able to transform bland food into something far more acceptable. I’m fortunate enough that in my private life I don’t ever have to make do with secondary fare. In fact, I refuse to eat any less than the very best. I am one of the few to have ever returned a hamper to a rather famous store because I felt it was not quite up to scratch. I mean, when one takes a lady friend on an alfresco adventure, one should at least fortify her with a certain amount of splendour.

At this moment, as I sit here in a damp hollow, waiting for my rabbit to cook in its earth covered oven (far less smoke that doing it over spit, and often with a better result), I am daydreaming not about my home, my dog, my bed, my bath, or female companionship (all of which I am missing), no, I am daydreaming of relish.

I did manage to find some wild garlic, and some of those little yellow weeds that taste like pineapple - I forget the name. I stuffed the rabbit with those, and some wild mushrooms I discovered. There are a lot of mushrooms around here, but only one type that I felt confident in eating. I am not a fungi specialist. Morels and chanterelles are my limit. Depending on what my rabbit had been eating, this should be more or less acceptable. Besides, I really do need the food. As the old adage goes, hunger is indeed the best sauce.

I had not intended to be living wild, or I would have better provided for myself. However, my current mission has taken some unexpected twists and turns, and although I would never let any of my colleagues know this, I rather fear I have ended up losing my bearings. I pushed myself hard enough, without food, trying to make good my error that I have needed to lay up for a couple of days.  At least I have accomplished what I was sent out to do. Now, all that remains is to get to the rendezvous point and be picked up by boat. I took the liberty of defacing the King’s currency, tearing the bills with which I paid the boat’s owner in half, so he will wait in order to retrieve the remainder. Hopefully Peter Rabbit here will give me the strength to quicken my pace.

I hate to stop and rest, but even I must yield to the needs of the flesh (although I would far rather be yielding to some other needs of the flesh than eating rabbit in a field). I think, when I am back home, I will spend some time experimenting with creating a small, portable set of vital flavouring ingredients that I might carry whenever I may have need to fend for myself. Salt, a container of gentleman’s relish, and some root ginger, are non-negotiable inclusions (ginger being most useful in dispelling uncomfortable digestion troubles). But what else should one include? Dried chillies perhaps? In India, hot spices are used to mask the flavour of inferior meat with great success.

The question is, what is essential, and how big can the set be? Obviously, it will have to fit in a pocket. Possibly a large coat pocket? How much can I include? Could I go as far as to include some dried spicy sausage that could be shaved into a meal to make it taste better? Or, now here’s a thought, one could always carry a truffle. After all, I always have a knife to hand.

Damn it! The bloody rabbit is burning! No amount of seasoning is going to make this wretched meal taste better. Still, I think I’m onto something with my pocket epicurean kit.

I’ve just had to give up one of my favourite Argyll socks to Jack. This has left me with a solitary sock from the pair. I took it from the drawer, with the intention of disposing of it, when I was struck by a rather deep and disturbing thought.  A realisation came over me that there are occasions when a solo item, or even a person, is not nearly as useful as when part of a pair. The latter is a revelation that has turned my life slowly, but relentlessly, upside down and inside out. I do not refer to Griffin.

I told Alice of my sock loss in our daily telephone conversation. She merely suggested that I mix things up and wear odd socks on occasion, even if I was only daring enough to do so in the privacy my own home. I didn’t respond. I am much better these days at spotting when she is trying to tease me. She does it mainly as a distraction. Occasionally, I suspect it is only for her own dark amusement. But, either way, rather than flying into a snit, I have trained myself to focus on what she is trying to distract my attention from. With anyone else this would be second nature to me, but with Alice I have a blind spot.

I suppose the same goes for Jack. He got some kind of minor lesion on his paw, and according to Griffin, had made it worse my licking it. Griffin sorted out some canine medication for the poor creature, but we needed him to stop licking his paw. Hence the sacrifice of my sock.

He allowed Griffin to medicate him, but only I was allowed to manipulate the sock over his paw. Griffin did try, and I’m certain the bite will heal quickly enough. It wasn’t deep and it certainly didn’t merit a grown man yowling so much. It quite frightened Jack, who I had to coax out from under the settee with cheese. Cheese that I had rather hoped to have in my breakfast omelette tomorrow. Still, couldn’t have him licking at the cut again, could I?

He looked at me with deep trust (Jack, of course, not Griffin) as he chewed his cheese, and I affixed the sock. The kind of trust that makes owning a dog so deeply satisfying. I can count on one hand the number of people who trust me so - and those I trust in return are even less in number. When one is wounded and vulnerable, as was my poor Jack, it is generally the time to retreat and hide oneself.

Working alone in the field has previously made me respond like Jack. One time I was shot, and I had to patch myself up and stay out of sight for three days. It hurt like hell digging the bullet out, but I only drank half the whisky and poured the other half in into the hole in my shoulder. I knew full well that developing an infection, on a solo assignment in enemy territory, would be my death knell. Still, I swear it took more will power not to drink all the whisky than it took to dig the bullet out.

Being injured in Alice’s company has always been less risky. Even if it’s usually her fault I got injured in the first place. She will put herself in danger! She is a competent field medic, and well able to keep me alive. Although, I admit, for a long time I behaved towards her much as Jack recently behaved towards Griffin. I don’t recall ever actually biting her, but the idea of someone touching me when I feel vulnerable always puts my hackles up.

Anyway, I have decided to tell Griffin to stuff the other sock with something and turn it into a toy for Jack. He deserves it. I shall have a whisky and mull over what Alice is trying to distract me from this time. Naughty girl!

Of late I have been thinking what I should do with Griffin. I don’t exactly regret my impulse to take him on, and under the circumstances there really wasn’t a long time to think about it. However, I do feel, in practical terms, I was somewhat precipitous.

I’ve always been an independent man, who can take care of himself, like most army men. Of late, even leaving Euphemia out of the equation, I have been asked to do a lot more training and be involved in more planning of serious operations. Consequently, managing my own affairs has become tiresome and time consuming.

I suspect the department decided that, when I took on Euphemia as a trainee, I was finally settling down and becoming less of a wild card. What they did not spare the time to consider was that I might be creating another wild card. Whatever their reason for burdening me with more responsibility, I was becoming seriously stretched.

The ways that Euphemia became my trainee, and Griffin came into my service, look, on the surface, to be almost identical, but there are some major differences. I gave very serious consideration to taking Euphemia on and training her. As far as she is aware, my hand was forced by her incarceration on the charge of attempted murder. In reality, I had been planning on her becoming an agent for a long time. The incident in the church merely gave me the opportunity to put my plan into action. It was already waiting for just such an opening.

Griffin, on the other hand, was about to be hanged before I interceded. I knew I was getting to the point where I was simply too busy to cook, clean, deal with mundane paperwork, etc., and that I would need a valet. I had hoped to recruit someone whose security clearance was high enough that they could be privy to certain operations if I needed support. It seemed to me, at the time, that saving Griffin’s life, and thereby acquiring an assistant, could kill two birds with one stone.

I was wrong. Griffin will never be awarded the clearance I need him to have and, as a former medical practitioner, his intelligence and raw talent is wasted arranging my laundry, cleaning my carpets and performing a little light dusting. Then again, because I choose to work so independently, I often have documents at home that preclude the hiring of a normal cleaner. Regardless, I trust Griffin enough that if I inadvertently (on purpose) leave (certain carefully) selected classified paperwork lying around, Griffin might offer up valuable insights.

I have to decide, at this point, if I will train him in any of the arts of my profession. It would be extremely useful to me if he understood a few basics, such as cyphers, brush passes, dead drops, simple tailing, etc. He’s smart enough to be taught how to read a person’s body language and how to elicit information from an individual without them realising.

 The big question is, should I do this? I can’t ask the department because permission would certainly be refused. Do I know the man well enough to take this action upon myself? I fear not. Euphemia was accused of murder, but I knew she was innocent, and even the department conceded she was, helping with her cover story. Whereas Griffin is a self-confessed and convicted murderer. I admit, if I had been in his position, I would have acted in the same manner, only I would not have confessed, nor would I have been caught.

That he killed a man is not in question. I fully understand his actions. I also know he acted quickly, and out of raw emotion, rather than a cold, calculated undertaking. He wanted revenge, not justice. I am not convinced many people truly, in their hearts, understand the difference.

I do know that Griffin, despite breaking one of the Ten Commandments, is tiresomely moral. Why, there are even times when he seems on the verge of telling me he disapproves of my actions, especially those concerning my relationships with the opposite sex. He has never gone so far as to voice his feelings, but he has sniffed in a most impudent manner.

I could send him back, but his return to prison would be short, ending with a visit to the gallows, and I certainly don’t wish that upon the man.

Perhaps my biggest hesitation stems from the fact that Jack doesn’t like him. I trust the opinion of my dog more than I trust the opinion of most people. Annoying as it is, I fear I must take things slowly with Griffin. I hate under-utilising my assets, but in this instance I must. How bloody boring. Damn the man.

Griffin has, this very moment, enquired if I am ‘at home to callers’, as if I am some aged dowager. I sent him off with a flea in his ear. If I am being called upon then I have been in town too long. For heaven’s sake, my address is meant to be unknown to most. Euphemia is an exception, naturally, but for the rest of humanity, this is meant to be my secret haven. How has it come to pass that so many know where I live? I shall have to move.

I maintain a few flats within the metropolis, as well as property in the country. Where else should a man put his money but in property? I suppose there is also the bank, but even using the recommended one (by the service), I dislike the thought of my money working for other people. I’d rather it was working for me. I don’t believe I’m a greedy man, but I choose to be careful with what I have.

Oh, damn and drat it. This is my favourite place. I should have realised that once Celeste figured out where I lived - though I am still unsure how she ferreted the information out. Not from me, that’s for certain. But once she knew, it would inevitably be spread around. Despite being married to a diplomat or two, she is not as discreet as I would wish. She most likely exchanged my address for a favour. I know better than to think she would give it to a foreign agent or diplomat, but she would not be above giving it to one of my many female admirers. Indeed, she would find rather amusing to have me hunted down in my lair. Wretch that she is!

Still, I like this place. This is where I first brought Jack home. And Euphemia for that matter. Damn it all! I shall keep it, but I’ll call my solicitor in the morning and say I am on the lookout for something better. At least, if I do that, I can find somewhere that puts Griffin’s accommodation even further away from mine. Hey ho, silver linings and all that.

It’s either this or I must leave the country for a while. Not that I couldn’t do with a sojourn abroad, but that’s a tad tricky at the moment, not to mention dangerous. Still, dealing with a few bad chaps has to be easier than fending off hordes of female admirers turning up at my door.

I am annoyed. While putting on my waistcoat this morning I noticed a certain snugness. Then, when I did it up the last button, it popped off and Jack ate it!

I am not especially worried about this. He has eaten far worse, and Griffin always deals with the consequences. It did mean I delayed Jack’s breakfast for ten minutes, which is a long time for a dog. When we are at home, I like us to eat together. He looked at me most plaintively as I ate. I had intended a twenty-minute wait, but his eyes were far too sad. He is, unlike most humans, capable of complete repentance.

Which brings me to Christmas recently past. I was sad to leave Euphemia behind, but otherwise I couldn’t shake the dust of White Orchards from my feet fast enough. The whole sad affair was a series of clandestine diplomatic meetings designed to bring the war with the Kaiser to a swift conclusion. As far as the outside world was concerned, the Stapleford’s were hosting an extended Christmas and New Year Eve event.

I cannot fault either Euphemia or her husband’s effort. Bertram was an affable host, and while he insisted on having his duck hunt (or, as I refer to it, a senseless day of avian slaughter), a great many gentleman guests were only too eager to join in. I came down with a bad cold and ended up spending much of the day with Euphemia. Strangely, by dinner that night, my cold had entirely disappeared. I told the cook her home remedy had done the trick and left out the minor detail that I had poured it directly down the drain.

No, the real tragedy of the event was that although the diplomats from both sides were happy to eat, drink, make merry and even talk to one other, they stubbornly refused to make the slightest progress towards peace. It is understandable from our point of view. The Kaiser is the aggressor and his demands and ambitions unseemly. However, our generals must know by now that we are in for a war of attrition and I fear a huge number of young lives will be sacrificed. I had hoped that we would have put forward some ideas on changing the arena, or minimising the scale of the conflict, but it didn’t even seem to enter any of the minds of the diplomats or politicians. They stuffed their faces, drank fine brandy by the fire and even played charades. Yes, that was all part of the cover of the event, but I could not help reflecting on the other men serving our country. While the diplomats and politicians sat comfortably around a table, young men were fighting for their lives in muddy, rat-infested ditches, savouring the briefest of respites from the front line in full knowledge of the atrocities they must return to.

I have now heard that a number of soldiers from both sides met on Christmas Day to exchange cigarettes and chocolate in a show of seasonal peace and goodwill. I only hope their superiors won’t shoot them for fraternising with the enemy, abandoning their posts, or some other such rot. It’s a sad day when the average man seeks peace only for his so-called superiors to hasten them back into conflict.

“Get off Jack!”

My dog jumped off the bed and crouched on the ground whimpering. I don’t shout at animals, or children, so the raising of my voice was something new to him. I shout a lot at Euphemia, but she shouts back. There is nothing like a strong woman to pull you into line when you’re wrong. Of course, I am so rarely ever wrong that it can take me a few barks, as it were, to realise my mistake. I don’t think it’s ever bothered her. She’s always liked that I treat her as an equal. Jack, however, is not my equal, and now he’s frightened and unhappy.

I called for Griffin and told him to make me a bacon sandwich. He naturally protested as we were already late. I tersely agreed but told him to do it anyway.

It was three days before Christmas, and I was heading to White Orchards for my second Yuletide there. I would be spending time with the Stapleford’s, then they would hold a large party, where the great and the good would come to talk off the record. Then, of course, Bertram would have his bloody duck shoot. It was the only way we could get him to agree. Although, I pointed out to Euphemia, he is becoming a recognised columnist for the newspapers, and making contact with our select invitees can do his prospects no harm.

I am especially grateful to Euphemia for including me in their family celebration. It means I have an excuse not to go anywhere near my own family this season. I believe she told Bertram that we required the time to plan for the upcoming grand Christmas event. I could almost kiss Morley for coming up with the idea. Almost.

Griffin returned with the sandwich, which I immediately fed to the dog, much to Griffin’s annoyance and my amusement. While Jack was busy stuffing himself, I managed to select which dress shoes I would wear and stow them in the valise. The only thing Jack likes eating more than bacon is my finest leather shoes.

Griffin hovered in the background until I sent him away. I’d told him that I wanted to do my own packing, as I had to prepare for every eventually, given that we couldn’t be absolutely sure of the intentions of all the people attending. This was, in part, true. I didn’t particularly want him, or anyone else, to see the knives, small gun, and various other paraphernalia it has become my custom to carry into potentially volatile situations. However, the real reason is lodged in one of my shoes. A jewellery case, of evident quality, and its contents that once belonged to my mother.

I have all her jewellery, and I have, for some years, wondered what to do with it. I am unlikely to ever marry, so will have no wife or daughter on whom to bestow it. But I’m damned if the jewels will go to my half-siblings, or their offspring. Then it occurred to me, I’d rather like Euphemia to have them. Goodness knows, Bertram doesn’t have the money, or doesn’t choose to use his money, to buy her decent jewellery, and she had none of her own.

My problem is the jewellery in question is worth a substantial amount of money. I couldn’t care less about that, but I know Euphemia would worry about upsetting Bertram. Again, I couldn’t care less about that. However, I don’t want to cause Euphemia strife. Last year, I managed to get her to accept a small amethyst, diamond and platinum broach in the shape of flower. I told her it was silver and paste. A trifle, in all truth. This year I am upping my game and attempting to get her to accept a ruby and gold necklace that will suit her admirably. I am prepared to accept that she can hide it from Bertram, until he is in a good mood (I am supplying copious bottles of brandy), and in good health before she tells him about it.

Then, one day, I hope to get her to take the prize of the collection, an arrangement of diamonds that hang on the end of a thick platinum chain and are arranged in the shape of a star. She does get it, and all the other jewels, in my will, but I would prefer to see her wear them while I am alive. The star alone is worth a small fortune, and I fear I will have to work up to that for some time. But she deserves it - almost as much as Jack deserves his bacon.

At last, I am done. I am leaving my diary behind. I want no worries about it falling into the wrong hands, so I shall recommence in the new year.

I quickly learned that while staying at White Orchards during the festive period, if it was to be bearable, meant that I should bring my own wine and spirits. Bertram never seemed to be able to afford, or never had the palate to appreciate, decent alcohol. Although he always tended to inhale the brandy that I brought him before New Year’s Eve. I deliberately held back a bottle for the celebrations.

Euphemia has a decent palate, and as Hope grew, being allowed the smallest glass of wine at festivities from the age of eleven, her palate exceeded her father’s. Sadly, she did acquire a taste for champagne, which as any right-thinking person knows, is a peasant’s drink. French peasants once drunk it in pints, much as the hoi polloi do nowadays with ale and beer.

I generally don’t drink while I’m on duty, and as the White Orchards celebrations began as a cover for various meetings backed by the SIS, I felt no obligation to provide beverages for anything other than the private family meals that occurred before and after the working meetings.

In the first instance, Euphemia included me in these family occasions because we needed to plan how the various clandestine meetings would work, and not too much later Hope came along. It was quite the highlight of my time at White Orchards to be in her company. Euphemia was always too busy with Bertram, the household or other arrangements for us to see much of each other. But I confess, being able to see her on Christmas Day was a most pleasant alternative to spending time with my cantankerous father, or my various step siblings and their offspring. I did my very best most years to avoid Bertram’s bloody Duck Shoot. The best that can be said of it was that at least they ate the wretched creatures. More than one guest broke their tooth on buckshot, and I say it served the blighters right.

Anyway, somewhere among all this, I became known as the master punch maker. It’s not a skill I generally boast about, but it’s true that my punches tended to go down well. Below are three of my most favoured efforts.

The General Punch (for all guests, made from Bertram’s kitchens and cellar)

I favour making a sugar syrup the night before, consisting of sugar, water, the juice of lemons, limes and oranges, adding star anise (if available) and a goodly amount of dark rum that has a strong vanilla taste.

Sugar is dissolved in water, roughly 1lb to two pints. Likewise, for every two pints, add the juice of 1 lemon, 1 lime and 2 oranges. Star anise must be used sparingly. Rum, well, as much as you dare. You leave this in the fridge overnight for the flavour to deepen.

The next day, make a good strong pot of black tea, roughly a half pint to every two pints in the base. Add the same again of boiling water. Combine, and if you really must, add some bottles of champagne to taste (or lack therein). If the guests are the kind that find chopped fruits in their drink exotic, add various chopped fruits (not bananas, but really, almost anything else will do). If guests are very sweet toothed, you can add Grenadine to taste.

The After Duck Shoot Toddy (made from presents given to Bertram, and from his kitchens)

Use your host’s best single malt, it serves him right for terrifying and slaughtering innocent creatures. Pour the entire bottle into a large silver punch bowl, add a jar of clear honey, two sliced lemons, fill with hot water and add sugar to taste.

Family Mulled Wine (made from ingredients I provide)

Take two bottles of soft, rich red wine (Nuit St Georges is best), add half a bottle of good ruby port, cinnamon sticks (as many as the other drinkers will let you add), some oranges spiked with cloves, mandarin segments, and sugar to taste. Heat slowly over a medium heat, or in the hearth if possible. If Bertram has any brandy left, I often add a dollop at this point, so it won’t be simmered off. Drink copiously (but don’t give Hope more than a thimbleful or she will start giggling and fall asleep within ten minutes).

It is not surprising that a man might not regard as his best chum the chap who is forever taking his wife away to foreign locations. Bertram Stapleford and I are very different sorts of men. He is the worst product of the rising middle classes.

I am being a tad unfair. Bertram was raised by a monster of a father, and a mother who found him of little interest - a reaction that I can, in part, understand. They attempted to indoctrinate him in all their values, which were founded primarily on the basis of do whatever you like to the other fellow, just as long as you come out ahead. Bertram is not, I am glad to say, like that. Sometimes he needs a prompt from his wife to regain his bearings, but at heart he is a good man (I did say we were quite unalike), and keen to help and support others. He hasn’t quite reached the heights of noblesse oblige, but he is trying. Why, he has even supported Euphemia in her membership of the Suffragette Society.

Which is why, when he asked me to be a witness to his will, I was so shocked. I had come to believe there was no harm in the man, and that he adored Euphemia. I had not accounted for the pride of a man who feels himself less than he should be, on account of his poor health. It transpired that Bertram still had some of the old Stapleford scruples.

Euphemia had brought to their marriage a considerable sum of money. Bertram had refused to use it and asked that it be put into trust for their children. I thought him a damnable fool, but I saw his perspective. He wanted to provide for his wife, as any gentleman might. Personally, I would have let her keep the money to do as she wished. Add to this the fact that their house has ongoing repair issues, and their land is still not drained properly. Even with the home farm up and running, Bertram was never going to be able to provide Euphemia with the luxury she deserves. In fact, both of them will be dogged with financial worries for the rest of their lives because he will not allow her to use her money, or let it be spent on the farm. I don’t mind him impoverishing himself, but I’m damned if I can see why he should impoverish Euphemia.

I have done what I can to rectify the situation. I have ensured she has a reasonable salary from the department, although she doesn’t know that I top this up myself. I have set things up for her to have her own private banking arrangements and I gave her what I said was a loan of an apartment in London that she could use as her own (someday I will have to find the right moment to hand her the deeds, which have her name, rather than mine, on them).

Bertram would be furious if he knew any of this. And perhaps I would not have interfered so much between the two of them if it hadn’t been for the will. It really took my last ounce of restraint.

I had been about to sign it as a witness but, as a matter of form, I never sign anything without reading it, and while this was technically nothing to do with me, I had scanned the document before I even realised it.

In it, I discovered that Bertram had decreed that should he predecease Euphemia, which given his health he surely will, the estate and all monies would transfer to their children, bypassing her entirely. None of Euphemia’s own money would be returned to her. She would be left a pensioner, reliant entirely on her own offspring. If there were no offspring, Euphemia would inherit a trust fund that would cease should she remarry. In this instance, the estate and remaining monies would transfer back to the Stapleford’s original bloodline, to be divided equally among the living relatives.

There are several interpretations that can be placed on his actions. None of them are kind. It was, of course, no business of mine how he chose to treat his own wife, but I would not sign the damn thing, and told him so curtly and crudely. I both wanted to thrash the man for his controlling ways, and to demand why he would treat Euphemia so shabbily. I had no right to do either. Instead, I did what little I could to ensure she would never be without her own place to live and her own small income.

I do not know if Bertram got someone else to witness the will. He has a house full of staff to ask. I have never discussed the matter with Euphemia. However, I know damn well that his will is written in such a way because he fears I will run off with his wife, and he was showing me how he could punish her if she did.

Little does he know that, and if I chose to, I could buy Euphemia, if not a palace, a great house at the very least. And damn the man, one day I just might.

There is no other description I can use for Celeste’s recent behaviour than moping. It is most out of character for her, and rather depressing to be around. I was quite up for some genuine consoling while her husband was missing, especially as said consoling quickly transformed into a more physical form of reassurance. But now she has become less interested in keeping our affections alive.

Lord knows, I’ve moved through a fair share of relationships in my time - more than a fair share, probably, but it is rare for the lady to signal her lack of interest in my attentions by sighing repeatedly. I have never entered into sexual congress with an unwilling woman and have no intention of ever doing so. But for a woman to encourage my attentions, only to break off sighing and apologising for not being in the mood, is a first for me, and a situation I never wish to encounter again.

I must therefore conclude one of two things. Either I have lost my touch with the fairer sex or Celeste is genuinely heartbroken at the continued and unexplained absence of her ambassadorial husband. The former is obviously impossible, so however improbable it may seem, the cause must be the later.

That any woman could prefer the dull, monotonous attentions of this most serious man, whose idea of entertainment is apparently to sit and look over his collection of postal stamps, over my witty and experienced attentions is damn near impossible to fathom.

This is a man I have witnessed on more than one occasion tell an after-dinner story in such a manner that at least half of those present were near comatose with boredom. Once a chap even set his moustache on fire while lighting his cigar. He said it was an accident, but I am inclined to believe that Celeste’s husband was so monumentally boring that it was an unconscious act of self-defence (I merely stopped listening and occupied myself with far more agreeable thoughts).

Although Celeste is as immoral - possibly amoral - as every artiste I have ever met, her laughing, partying self appears to require a solid centre around which to orbit. We have been passionate in our affections, but I do not recall ever raising my voice in her presence. In fact, I am often at my most subdued in her company. I had thought this to be contentment, but I am only now coming to realise the danger I am in.

Celeste makes her lovers complacent and boring. Precisely how she achieves this goal I am not sure. Last night I met a man at my club who talked affectionately of an old friend, who had been ‘an absolute riot’ during their days up at Oxford. When he finally revealed this chap to be Celeste’s husband all my fears were confirmed. She has some witchery about her that sucks all the vitality out of a chap.

Mind you, a lady sighing while entwined with you, does rather take the spirit out of one. Anyway, I have decided to remove myself from danger. Instead, I have lit a fire under some of my foreign office contacts, using up a number of favours and blackmailing a few in the process. The upshot is that they have got together an expedition to go and hunt for the man. God willing, they will bring him back to Britain’s fair shores in the next few months.

In the meantime, I will not abandon Celeste. I do have a deep-seated regard for the lady, but I have decided our interactions henceforth will only be those appropriate between good and chaste friends.

I can endure most female peccadillos but sighing during love making is not one of them. Quite shrivels a man’s soul, and - er - other things.

I knew I should never have done it. I swore it when I first stepped over the threshold. This was to be my castle, my solace, my respite from the world. I should never, never have let anyone into my apartment.  Especially Euphemia.

My residence, which I bought not long after entering the Service, was my first truly personal space. Previously, I had lived in at my father’s house, at halls in university, and at various locations while working. This space was entirely mine. I can still remember the satisfaction of unlocking the door for the first time when I took ownership.

Of course, I had needed workmen to bring the place up to my standards, but that was only a transitory issue. When the last coat of paint had dried, the last nail hammered and my carefully selected furniture brought in, there was no need for anyone else to enter my space ever again.

Later, the telephone intruded. I resented even the voice of others in my place of calm. Having, by this time, become very much of an army man, I was more than able to keep the rooms I used in good order. I did not resent a little work to avoid the necessity of a cleaning woman. I could cook for myself and be generally self-sufficient. I did send my laundry out, but then, only the most unfortunate do their own washing.

The apartment came with a service suite, but until Griffin’s time I kept them unused, the furniture covered in dust sheets and often filled with boxes and papers that I should have kept in the office.

Overall, I gloried in my freedom. I have never had a problem with my own company. Too often in my life the company of others has been forced upon me. I like being alone. I can read. I can study. I can do whatever the hell I like in my own space.

Letting Euphemia know where I lived, and even occasionally using my place as a base, seemed like a good idea at the time. Were there ever more damning words written? I was not used to having someone there. However, Euphemia was, I felt, the most sufferable of people to allow in. We had spent so much time working together, and so quickly, that she was sensible of my moods and most of my peccadillos.

Most.

One day, we had been working long hours on planning an intricate mission. Both of us had sore heads and sore eyes from pouring over maps, and badly damaged documents. Euphemia had decided to make us dinner. She was just about competent by then and I was too tired to disagree. I sat by the fire; my feet stretched out in front of my hearth, and took a few moments to consider the merits one of my private collections.

I had barely begun when I heard the woman behind me. Apparently, I had run out of chilli pepper, which she loves so much, and she wanted to check if there was a stash of the stuff secreted away. As if I would hoard chillies!

There was no escaping her seeing what I was viewing, particularly as I had taught her never to try and quibble when you have clearly been discovered. I awaited the reaction. I admit, I was more than a little curious, as well as a little apprehensive. I could not have predicted what she did next. She laughed. I was shocked. I had expected disapproval and scorn. I turned to say as much and reflect on how she should have responded as a lady and as a Vicar’s daughter.

For some reason she found this even funnier. She said that her time with me had opened her eyes to many aspects of the world that had previously been hidden. I responded rather stoutly that she should have a care to what she said, lest people think the worst of her.

She merely continued to laugh, saying that while she had no doubt that decent gentlemen, like her Bertram, would never entertain such a collection of photographic material, it seemed quite in my character that I would do so.

This stung and I found myself thrown on the defensive. I cited that many gentlemen had similar collections, and the kind that I myself collected were generally considered art. She snorted at this and returned to the kitchen. I felt most uncomfortable. The dynamic between us had shifted slightly, and I was doubtless the loser by it.

There was but one thing to do. This Christmas I must send Bertram a special present, an album with which to begin his own collection.

Hope was born on the 11th November 1918 at 4.30pm. Her mother had a terrible time of it. We were at White Orchards. The flood had ensured that neither the London man I had secretly sent for, nor Doctor Butcher, the local physician, could get to her. Fortunately, Merry was there, and while her nursing training had centred around treating the wounded, she had skills that would prove to be of use.

Bertram was not a lot of help. He refused to enter the birthing chamber to keep his wife company and to help keep her calm. He even had palpitations when it was suggested and had to go and rest in the library. I do sometimes forget that Bertram is a product of his age; a well-informed gentleman and a liberal when it comes to the rights of women but, at heart, a solid Edwardian gentleman who will have no truck with women’s ‘matters’.

I have always tried to not only move with the times, but to be ahead of them – or, at least, not bound by unreasonable strictures. I did not feel confident, or competent, but after the warning Madam Arcana had given Euphemia, I had taken steps to expand my knowledge of first aid in the field into the realm of childbirth. I had even managed to witness two first-hand, with help of some assets, by posing as a junior doctor. I am sorry to say both episodes made me feel quite queasy, hence my decision to send for a London specialist behind the Staplefords’ backs.

Euphemia had been of the opinion that her mother had given birth twice, without difficulty, and without a doctor, and as long as she kept her chin up, all would be fine. Neither she nor anyone else could have foreseen the storm that cut us off.

To be scrupulously fair, Bertram did offer to ride off and fetch Dr Butcher ‘Come hell or high water’, as he put it, but Euphemia begged us not to let him go. She felt it was far too dangerous and his heart too weak. I cannot remember being in a worse position. She made it clear she would fret with worry if he went, and she would not hear of my going either. In fact, when Bertram had his little episode, Euphemia clung to my hand and asked me to stay with her instead. I had never seen her so distressed, and I had no damn idea what I should do. Should I, against her wishes, rip myself from her side to go and fetch Doctor Butcher? Merry told me she believed Euphemia’s time was very near. Even if I could have done so, it seemed that I had left it too late. The baby, unusually in a first birth, was coming early, and quickly.

However, one look at Euphemia’s face told me something was wrong. I did not have the knowledge to know what exactly, and neither did Merry. The pregnancy had gone along nicely up to this point, despite Euphemia’s activities, and she was an extremely fit and healthy young woman, but nature is capricious and unfair.

I made my decision to stay and told Euphemia. She clung to my hand so tightly I was reminded how my fingers had become so mangled in the first place. I teased her about that and won a small smile. She has never been afraid of pain, but I saw fear in her eyes that dark afternoon. I do not recall myself ever being as frightened before, or since. I did my best to hide it, but Euphemia knows me all too well. We ended up consoling each other, and that raised a smile in us both.

I sat beside her, allowing Merry to do the actual work of helping her give birth. Thank God for Merry. It must have been all the harder for her after what happened to her own daughter. What I could do was confirm details that Merry, in the heat of the situation, hesitated about, causing her to doubt herself.

Hope arrived into the world with a cry so loud that it must have caused the birds miles away to flutter off in fright. Euphemia gave a small triumphal smile and closed her eyes. Merry quickly wrapped the baby and gave it to me to hold. I took it, puzzled. I assumed the worst was over, but Merry’s face showed a different picture. ‘Euphemia’s bleeding badly,’ she whispered. ‘If I don’t manage to stop it, she will die. Talk to her. Tell her about her baby and the future. Make her want to live.’

I honestly don’t know how I managed to get any words out. I have no idea what I said. Merry was working frantically with towels and other things. I didn’t pay much attention. This was well beyond my knowledge. I could only hope that Merry’s short time working with soldiers who had come directly from the front had taught her how to stop haemorrhaging.

Euphemia did respond to my words. She opened her eyes and looked sleepily at the baby, but she was talking nonsense, telling me how proud I must be and how we would raise her together. I feared she could no longer recognise that I wasn’t Bertram and that she was slipping away from us. I looked up at Merry. Her face was white, and her lips were pursed together. She gave a slight shake of her head but kept trying to staunch the flow even though tears were coursing down her cheeks.

I felt death hovering over us; that final implacable enemy that no mortal man can defeat. I held Hope tightly against me and, for the first time in a long time, prayed. Internally I was offering God all sorts of bargains if only he would only save her. I knew a plea from me alone would not be enough. I am one such that even the most benevolent god would not ordinarily grant a favour.

In the end it was Bertram, against all expectations, who was the hero. Left alone in the library, he had girded his loins and, without us knowing, had gone out into the foulest of weather and managed, God only knows how, to bring back Doctor Butcher.

The doctor burst into the room, covered in rain and mud, and took over from Merry who was, by then, sobbing. I remained by Euphemia’s side. Bertram, I found out later, had stayed by the brandy, but then, in his mind, now that a doctor was here, his wife would be fine.

He was right, and yet he wasn’t. Not entirely. Doctor Butcher had saved Euphemia and earned the undying gratitude of all of us. However, Euphemia had not only a lot of blood, but there had been other complications that meant the doctor thought it quite unlikely she would ever be able to conceive again.

It took Euphemia a long time to recover. Bertram relapsed, but not critically. I stayed at White Orchards for as long as I felt Euphemia wanted, or rather needed, me there. With her recovery, the signing of the Armistice, and Euphemia’s decision to call the child Hope, for once I gave myself licence to believe the world could become a better place.

As Hope grew, more and more she came to resemble her mother, inheriting her timeless beauty. Fortunately, of Bertram’s less than admirable features, there was no trace.

Little Hope has asked me, on more than one occasion, what I was like at her age. She is ten at present. I tend to reply ‘shorter’ or ‘no moustache’ in a curt and severe tone. A tone that anyone other than her mother and her would take as a signal to finish the conversation. Under those circumstances Alice would ask what was upsetting me and pester me until she had an answer. Hope’s strategy is much more effective: she giggles.

She is a sweet girl. Perhaps a little young for her age, but despite attending the local village school she tends to spend most of her time among adults. I suppose we treat her as younger than she is. I doubt there is anyone in the White Orchards that does not dote on her. You would think this would make her a spoilt child, but she remains eager to please and delightfully friendly.

At her age, I was in deep grief from my mother’s death, who fell from a bolting horse. She was a fine horsewoman, but my father had decided to sell her favourite mare before it got too old and was no longer worth money. To be scrupulously fair, he had arranged another mare to replace hers. However, it was delayed coming to the stable and my mother took out one of my father’s stallions, despite the warning of the grooms. I think, in the normal way of things, this might have been without issue, if it have not been for a new rabbit warren appearing in the lower fields, and that no one had noticed the stallion, aptly named Nightmare, had an abscess in his mouth, making him more than usually wild.

My mother’s demise was my first encounter with death, and it make me realise the impermanence of joy. I learned, on a beautiful summer afternoon, that one’s world can be torn asunder in a single moment.

As a grown man, I rarely save anything for a special occasion. I am stalked by death in my work, and I know it as a merciless foe. If there is happiness or pleasure to be had then, my duty allowing, I take it when it is offered. I seek to do no harm, other than to my enemies, but I am impervious to petty laws and common moral standards.

As an Agent of the Crown, I must frequently risk my life, and so I attempt to make the most of the time I am alive. As a boy, I hoped to meet my mother again in heaven. As a man, if heaven exists, especially after all I have done, I doubt strongly that I will be admitted. Apart from not seeing my mother, I don’t especially mind. It sounds like a rather boring sort of place and it seems unlikely there would be decent brandy available.

I am not amoral, as Bertram has more than once accused me of being. I have my own code, and I put my duty to the Crown above all. I chose to accept my role, when it was offered, as I believe in the British way of life and that, in helping to preserve this, I am giving my fellow humans the best shot at a decent life. Except for those I am required to kill, of course. I can’t claim to be helping those fellows out, but then, their own actions will have put them in my sights.

When I joined the Service, I was little more than a boy and extremely naïve in an idealistic sort of way. My outlook has been tempered by my experience. As a boy I knew some men were bad, like my father. However, I still believed that most people, given a fair chance, would turn out to be of good character. I have now changed that belief to some people. I continue to believe in the greater good, but I am now more willing to do ever darker deeds to preserve it.

As a boy, I never imagined I would kill anyone, unless there was another war in Africa, and I was forced into the army. I have always enjoyed the company of animals and have a degree of empathy with them. This has not changed - except perhaps I now openly acknowledge some animals are better companions than people. It is rare to meet an animal that could be termed malicious. As far as I am aware, only three creatures kill for sport - polar bears, leopards and, most commonly, man.

I am indeed far different from the boy that learned languages at his mother’s knee, who went on long rambles with only the company of the kitchen cat, who learned to move with stealth and hide in hedgerows to observe the woodland creatures, and who learned what to bring back to the cook to add to our stores - sloes for sloe gin, brambles for jam, edible mushrooms for that extra meaty stew. All this was done in return for cook not telling my father that I was not upstairs studying my books.

For those times when I was not with my mother, I always wanted to be outside and away from my father, his home, and the daily tiresome rituals of polite society that smothered the place. I was a wild, solitary creature, most at home in the rambling forest next to our estate. Nature gave me hope, as well as beauty. I was always content with my own company. Animals improved my mood, but people rarely did. That aspect of my personality has not changed. I have also become increasingly adept at duplicity. Bribing the cook’s silence was perhaps the first sign of this as one of my innate talents.

I do not think I will tell Hope much about my boyhood. At boarding school, to which I was sent when my mother died, I learned quickly how to manipulate others and bend them to my will. I studied how to find their weak points, and at that time, I chose to help and support others in return for their thanks and favour. Now I use that ability to extort and control. I could lie, but as Alice is not sending Hope to boarding school, I do not want to tell her how much fun it was (although, if mine had been next to a girls’ school, I might have a great deal more fun).

I shall, therefore, continue to give short and taciturn answers when Hope enquires about my own childhood. I shall present grumpiness and an ill-mannered face, until her giggles bring me back to the playful self that I am around her. Then I shall pounce on her like a tiger, growling and tickling her until she screams with laughter so loud my ears hurt and Jack hides under a chair.

It is fortunate there is usually something, somewhere, going on in the world that merits the attention of my department. In fact, it is common for there to be many such things going on. More than enough to go around my compatriots and I.

This is good as I am not a man who is attuned to doing nothing. I am aware that it is the height of ambition for some to be a gentleman at leisure. To eat, drink, shoot hapless, defenceless creatures, and pretend to run one’s country estate (letting the steward do all the real work), is a dream for some. To be it sounds like a nightmare.

I am at my best when on a mission for the Crown. There is a short time afterwards when I desire rest, partake of brandy, and enjoy a few nights at the side of my own hearth to reflect on my actions. Once this has passed, I am eager to be off again.

Despite paying me the most paltry of salaries, which I accept, to make a point, but have no real need of, the department occasionally tries to enforce holiday or down time on me. I am unsure why. Without a mission I am even more arrogant than usual and extremely ill-tempered. Jack is of great consolation, but unless I am in the throes of infatuation with some lady (although these never last long), I end up pacing around like a caged tiger.

From time to time I have occupied myself training other agents. I prefer, after a very basic induction (and casting my eye over them to see if they are worth my time), to train agents on the job. I find those that have an aptitude for aspects of our work flourish under pressure. Alice was slightly different in that my reluctance to take an unskilled female into the field was tempered by the fact she had frequently thrown herself into the field without my bidding, on several occasions. In fact, having a measure of control over her actions gave me far less sleepless nights then when she was running wild. I still shudder to think of some of the exploits she engaged in when effectively untrained. Rash doesn’t come near to a descriptor of her actions.

Of course, I also have my hobbies. I collect incunabula and derive pleasure from examining them. I suppose women could be also described thus. Although I have no ambition to be a breaker of hearts, I do find this is the only form of hunt that is to my taste. I also get moments when I decide I must recreate some exotic dish I have eaten abroad. This minor obsession I ascribe to the near madness of boredom. It is also an obsession better shared. Alice is an adventurous eater, as well as impervious to hot spices, and is happy to join me on such ventures. She has an excellent palate, now that I have trained it.

On reflection, it is only at White Orchards that I have been able to relax and almost let time while itself away. But then, I have the great sport of baiting Bertram when I am there. Also, Alice is as restless as me and always up for some new adventure or mischief. She does her best to be a loyal country wife, but that she remains in this role, I believe, is largely down to her adventures with me. Without them she would be near mad with boredom. In some ways we are indeed two of a kind.