When you join the service, the trainers make short references to attrition, and no one is quite sure what they mean. Before you are released as a field agent, there’s a few off-the-cuff mentions of ‘loss’, but nothing concrete. But then most of those going through that first (and what, with kindness, I can only call cursory) training, are young, raw, and idealistic. I, of course, retained elements of all three attributes, but the corners had been knocked off by my exertions that summer in the Baltic nations, and my run-in with the Black Hand.

I had, in short order, seen freshly made friends mown down in a local revolution, seen the woman I loved throw her life away for a lost cause, and finally, taken her orphaned child to its grandparents in Germany. So those airy mentions of attrition I took most seriously.

Being a field agent at that time, and being in your twenties, was undoubted the best life a young gentleman could lead. Provided, of course, he had the temperament for it. Having seen the alacrity with which life, seemingly so vital, could be lost, I, more than my cohort peers, was more aware of dangers from both friend and foe, and more than willing to defend myself, and my country, to the hilt. Of the fifteen of us who entered training at that time, I was one of only four who was still alive three years on.

Of course, I had the advantage of languages. Never underestimate the ability to address your foe in his native tongue. You go from being a faceless enemy to one with which he must interact. Even a hesitation of a few seconds on their part can be the difference between his death or yours.

I had also learned the hard way that whoever you worked with, and especially when you worked with amateurs, that people, no matter how well intentioned, are liable to betray you through idealism, fear, or simple ignorance. I don’t trust anyone. Ever.

After those three years, I barely recognised myself in the bathroom mirror. I remained good looking. Indeed, I was more handsome than ever. There was a rogue knowing twinkle in my eye. I moved with control, and with the grace of a panther. I looked like a man who could handle himself. I had confidence, and unlike the other remaining members of my cohort, I had the funds to dress well. I was the epitome of the gentleman spy of the time. I may even, on occasion, have laughed in the face of danger. But mostly, I did well because I allowed myself no attachments that went beyond an entertaining flirtation, or a pretence of comrades in arms. I focussed only on my duty, and my survival, and I enjoyed myself.

Ten years after I entered my profession, when I found myself falling for a woman, I married her off as soon as I could. That this did not protect my heart was not something that I foresaw. After more than a decade relishing my time as a spy, this sudden and nonsensical attachment I developed shook me to the core. In the end, it made me a better man, but hindered me professionally in a most annoying, and seemingly endless, manner.

If Jack wakes me early, I have taught him to go through to Griffin and get whatever he wants from him instead. In fact, sometimes he doesn’t even bother waking me and just heads straight through to Griffin to demand breakfast.

I sometimes wonder what Griffin would do without his canine alarm clock. The man sleeps like the dead. He had previously complained that Jack will nip his ears to wake him. I have pointed out that firstly, he is not firm enough with my canine companion (being overly afraid of being bitten) and secondly, it’s really his own fault for sleeping so deeply.

In defence of Jack, I should also point out that Griffin has only ever once required stitches from one of Jack’s playful nips. In that case, once again, it was entirely Griffin’s fault. One should never get between a dog and his sausages; any more than a man should never get between me and one of my paramours.

I’m rather fond of autumn. The nights are longer and the days shorter. Various nocturnal activities are easier and can start earlier. Of course, one must watch out for all the damned leaves, but any gardener worth his salt should be raking them up and burning them.

The close of a bright, brisk autumn day, the air scented with wood and leaf smoke, and my heart alive with expectation, is one of my favourite times. In my work, I’ve travelled to distant parts of the globe, and I will be the first to admit that I like the heat (linen or native clothing being a necessary requirement), but is there anything else quite as fine as a British autumn evening?

At this time of the year, I enjoy my evening walks with Jack more than usual. I stroll along with ease, tip-tapping my cane on the pavements, which are beginning to frost, while Jack ferrets through any missed piles of leaves to root out sleepy hedgehogs. These emerge, snout high, sniffing the air, and move with most humorous, confused, and rolling gait, not unlike a drunken sailor on shore leave. Yesterday evening, a particularly well-rounded one, with larger than usual black eyes - like spectacles on its tiny face - reminded me quite strongly of Bertram after one brandy too many. This caused me to give a crack of laughter so loud that it frightened some sleeping ducks by the lake. This was unfortunate as Jack has a particular dislike of ducks, but although freshly awoken, these showed a zesty earnestness to escape and were quickly aloft. Jack ran after them, barking and jumping as high as he could, but he didn’t get as much as a single feather.

I should record, that while Jack would have done the ducks harm if he could, (who doesn’t enjoy a nice breast of duck?), he never does more than simply bark at the hedgehogs.

It has always seemed to me that he resents any creature sleeping when he regards it as being daytime. He is very much an up-and-at-it creature, much like myself. As most of my female acquaintances know, I very much enjoy being up and at it.

Today Hope asked me again what I was like as a child. As usual, I gave my response - ‘shorter’ - in a gruff voice. She normally laughs at this, but recently, more than once, she has sighed and rolled her eyes in a manner quite like her mother. Then she repeated the question tugging on my sleeve. Even with one as dear to me as my little goddaughter, I do not like - in fact, I positively detest - people pulling at my clothing. With a suit this well cut, it can ruin the line, and indeed, ruin the entire suit. I am inclined to forgive her as her father favours rough, baggy tweeds, which if anything would be improved with a little tugging or, better yet, being thrown into the midst of the gardener’s bonfire (although I would allow Bertram to be first extricated from said item as I am aware Hope is fond of her father.)

So having stared at her, and my sleeve, for a long, cold moment, in which time she diminished in size like a frightened puppy, I decided I should give some kind of answer to prevent such a near catastrophe from reoccurring (thankfully the line of the suit remains intact).

I count my childhood as ending at the age of nine, when my mother died. I did not feel the need to share this with Hope, but I thumbed mentally back through the pages of my memory. I recalled a number of cats my mother had, and of course my faithful friend, the kitchen cat, named ‘Biscuits’ on account of the round biscuit shaped brown patch on her back. My father had dogs, which he taught to snarl at everyone, including me. Great Danes, I seem to recall, which are usually the most placid of creatures, but in his company, they grew crotchety and discontent. I recall being placed by my mother on the back of an enormous stallion. I suspect the horse was normal sized, and that it was myself who was tiny.

I have a most distinct memory of my mother once taking me down to the kitchen and baking scones with me, much to the cook’s embarrassment. My mother was of the opinion, having grown up in the more liberal United States of America, that everyone should know the basic skills of life, of which she included cooking. In the end she struck a bargain with the cook that she would not return to the kitchen herself, it being unsuited to her status as a Duchess, but that the cook would teach me such skills. I believe our old servant dreaded this idea, but I proved an able student, and my time spent below stairs afforded me a window into a world not usually seen by a Duke’s son.

I remembered the long walks I would take across the estate, with Biscuits following me. I would take my time, and the cat, a serious birder, would climb trees and wait for me to catch up. On occasion, she would even drop into my arms, or onto to my head. This taught me the important life lesson - always look up!

So, I said to Hope, ‘I had a number of cats. I learned to cook. I enjoyed riding. I was, as I have frequently told you, shorter, but most of all, I was happy and loved.’

‘Just like me!’ squealed Hope and gave me a wide tooth-gapped smile. I profoundly hope her adult incisors grow in soon.

The most puzzling encounter I have had to date still returns to haunt me in the loneliest hours of the night. Early on in my career, I had cause to kill an opponent with a knife. Knife fights are uncommon, not only because they require a degree of skill that most do not bother to attain, but because you must have a strong stomach. If you are well matched it is more than likely you will only suffer glancing wounds, but more than this, you are extremely close to your opponent as you inflict very visceral damage to his form. The slicing and stabbing of another human being, usually to death, is not pleasant for either opponent (though, admittedly, even less pleasant for the other chap). Even surviving such an encounter does not mean you will see the day out. Suffering from blood loss can be a death sentence in itself. This is without even considering the possibility of infection.

But I digress. I had landed what I felt must surely be the killing blow, when my opponent paused, looked me in the eye, and said, ‘I’m sorry.’ Then he died.

I confess, at first, I was afraid his weapon had been poisoned, or that he had somehow inflicted mortal damage on me that I had not yet noticed. Neither proved to be the case.

It has been many years since this event, and still I wake having seen his face in my dreams and having heard his final words.

I have not had many occasions when I have heard a man’s last words, but when I have, they have usually been phrases such as ‘tell her…’, sometimes ‘tell her I love her’, or if the person has enough presence of mind, ‘tell Doris I love her.’ As I invariably don’t know who Doris (or whoever) is, said person remains untold. A colleague of mine used to consider it his duty to lean over the dying person to hear if they had a final message. Very sentimental I thought. My colleague stopped doing this when one foe beckoned him closer, closer, until the dying man was able to raise his head and take a chunk out of my colleague’s ear as a last petty moment of revenge. It left him with a rather interestingly shaped appendage. He has made up many a tale to account for it, none of which mention his sentimental stupidity.

I do not lean in to hear last words. More often than not, after delivering a killing blow, I am legging it away from the scene of the crime as fast as I can. Sometimes, when caught unawares, I even have Jack barking happily at my heels. I do wish I could convince him that watching his master kill isn’t done for his benefit. The few times he has been with me, and such an occurrence has taken place, he has considered it a rare treat and reacted in a most excited manner.

Needless to say, when I heard the dying man’s apology, it was long before Jack existed. I sometimes wonder if my deceased foe only said what he did to puzzle me - and make me more likely to recall his demise. In which case he has been most successful.

I have been reflecting on things in life that bemuse me. From little things, like why even so-called gentlemen enjoy getting drunk and telling tales not fit for the ears of a lady. I can join in with all the crude bonhomie, but only because I have trained myself to do so for the job. Such boorish gatherings hold no interest for me. Why anyone would willingly spend time in the company of a number of halitosis-ridden, flatulent, sweaty males, with every indication of their intelligence fading by the moment, I have no idea. I much prefer the company of the female of the species. They are provide far better entertainment, having a wider range of conversational topics, being generally wittier, smelling infinitely more pleasing, and have all manner of skills - both in and out of the bedchamber.

Another thing that I simply do not understand is why any person, who, in the face of mortal danger, stands and gibbers, rather than acts. Surely nature herself has instilled a survival instinct into mankind, the same as any other animal. To use our supposed higher reasoning and consciousness to override the necessity of fleeing seems to me to be the oddest of mankind’s foibles.

I also do not understand why ladies never have enough handkerchiefs and so I must, perforce, carry extra. It can ruin the sleet cut of a fine suit.

Most of all, I do not understand how Jack can always tell which are my most expensive shoes, and will then select these, and only these, as chew toys. On more than one occasion I have gifted him with his very own pair of shoes to chew. I have even tried giving him Griffin’s in case he wanted used shoes. He took to neither, so I made a great show of rescuing Griffin’s shoes from him. That won me a decent omelette for breakfast (proving he can do them well when he bothers – Griffin, that is, not Jack. The latter prefers his eggs raw).

Having an ear for languages translates well to having an ear for music. I have not always found this a good thing. It was amusing to open a piano in front on Alice and play a medley without her being aware, despite knowing me for years, that I could play. But then, I forgot that her mother, for a while, earned her living by teaching piano. By a process of osmosis, Alice appears to have picked up a great deal, as well as being a naturally talented player herself, but she owes most of it solely to dedication and application. She quickly saw that I played by ear, never having bothered to learn to read music, and that my technique, while flashy in style, was, to put it kindly, light on learning. I should have saved my revelation for someone who would have been be more impressed.

Hope, who is currently learning, I suspect would have more success playing with her toes than her fingers. I hope that her parents allow her to give up her instrument soon. She is, in many ways, a capable and even advanced child, but she has a complete absence of musicality.

Having an ear for music has had little relevance to my career. It does allow me to enjoy recitals more than the average person. It also means I am more distressed than your average person when there are off notes, or bad players.

However, worse than this, I am very sensitive to people’s voices. This is good, and useful, when I need to see through disguises or must only listen in on a meeting and identify individuals by their voice alone.

My problem is when people naturally have unpleasant voices. I have met women, who I am meant to - at least flatter, if not more - and have been forced to smile while the timbre of their voice grates on my ear like a metal rasp. I believe, on more than one occasion, I have moved from discussion to kissing, if only to give my hearing some relief and shut them up. Speaking in well modulated tones should be a requirement for anyone who wishes to take their place in polite society.

After all, I cannot be expected to kiss all of the ladies all of the time.

It has been increasingly necessary to engage more agents, so I have been considering vital traits and educational requirements. Although my list is far from exhaustive, I have managed to ascertain certain requirements that I wish in field operatives and desk agents. Currently, desk agents in my department analyse information, brief field operatives, make sort out logistics for said operatives, from hotel arrangements to forged currency/passports, and other such menial tasks. They also read, and if necessary, encourage agents to expand or condense reports before they reach my attention, so that I only receive the most concise and critical information.

FIELD OPERATIVE REQUIREMENTS

Complete honesty: to me

Ability to lie convincingly: to everyone but me

Ability to attain good level of physical health: we can train them, but long-term conditions such as heart problems, or temporary conditions such as pregnancy, should bar them from the field for as long as they continue

Ability to think on their feet and act on their own initiative: this requires not only imagination and a quick wit, but a level of cocksure arrogance that, in ordinary life, is often found by others to be annoying

Good memory: for numbers, images, faces, names etc.

Good digestion: ability to eat most things without gastric inconveniences

Moral flexibility: obviously

Self-reflection: the ability to self-reflect when time allows, to review personal impediments to mission effectiveness (due to their overall general arrogance, operatives must be able to regulate themselves)

Regret: to recognise it as a useless emotion, the only purpose of which is to spur them on to do better next time

Friendliness: the ability to make people, even the ones you thoroughly despise, like you

Self-defence: an operative should never seek out combat, but if faced with it, they should not flinch, and always be ready, if necessary, to exercise a killing blow without emotional backlash (a minor moment of sadness for the loss of a life, especially if it’s a respected adversary, is encouraged as we are not monsters)

Education: wits, and the ability to learn languages, are far more important than regular education and my department will be happy to school promising candidates

Manual dexterity: useful for lock picking, pick pocketing etc.

Criminal turn of mind: as long as they are willing to play by our rules. without exception.

Self-sufficiency: from being able to cook one’s own supper, to being able to live without close companions and lovers as required

Mission sense: to be prepared to die for your country

Ordinariness: a field operative must be able to mix in with the crowd and while some may be of exceptional looks (such as myself), they must know how to tone down their natural handsomeness, and turn up the spy’s ultimate all-purpose trait - charm

DESK OPERATIVE REQUIREMENTS

Secrecy: even more so than field operatives, desk agents have access to a vast amount of confidential information, so they must be able to keep a secret, no matter how shocking (or interesting), and to have no leverage that can be held over them (if they choose to have families, and most do, then it’s best to have everybody think they work in ordinary and tedious employment)

Neatness: the volume of paperwork is confounding, so meticulous accuracy when filing cannot be overstated, and all relevant safety procedures must be stringently observed (including fire prevention, to avoid said paperwork going up in smoke)

Pattern Recognition: the ability to see patterns in intelligence, and to cross-reference items where others may struggle to see the connections

Understanding of Human Nature: recognising that in information analysis, there is usually a human component, and being able to calculate that into the tactical understanding of groups and individuals under observation

Honestly: complete honestly to me, and to themselves (if they find a subject distressing - and in the department most of us have some vestige humanity left - then they must make their superior aware so that the work can either be reassigned or they can undergo appropriate training to help address their weakness)

Letting Go: the ability to live a normal life outside their duty hours and to be happy, despite the knowledge they possess

Inoffensiveness: a mild, but firm, nature is of great use when interacting with field operatives as they value constancy and learn to ‘play straight’ with their desk-bound contacts

Mission sense: on occasion, a desk operative will have to knowingly order a field operative to their death for the good of the country and they must be able to live with that responsibility and its consequences

Although it may seem that field operatives have all the fun, they are, in essence, worker bees, and desk operations are the hive that send them out to collect information. A good desk agent is very hard to replace but a young field operative is all too easy to replace.

I am, of course, qualified in all the aspects I consider. I am an experienced field officer, an astute intelligence analyst, and a brilliant commander.

I am not a man who is prone to introspection. Nor, indeed, do I often reflect on the past. I suppose I occasionally mull over whether or not it was necessary to kill an opponent. Could I have achieved my mission without any loss of life? However, even the service discourages such backward glances and second guesses. Oh, they want you to think about your performance, to improve on your ability to do the job, or note skills which need upgrading, or are absent, but considering paths you might have taken is not something they’re big on. Neither am I, in the general way of things.

Regret is a hostile country, and for the most part I manage to avoid it. But tonight, on the eve of my birthday, as I have done for many years, I look back upon my life. For the first time ever, I have contemplated how my life might have turned out if I my mother had lived. 

I know that the single most devastating event in my life was the loss of my mother in a horse-riding accident when I was nine. For a long time, I blamed myself for not being with her. I can’t even today remember why I didn’t go, but as an adult I know that back then I would have had no way of stopping her bolting horse and, in fact, I would have felt even more guilty. As it was, I blamed my father, who had sold her favourite mare without telling her. I hated him already for the distance he kept from me - I, being so much younger than the children of his first wife. As I have grown older and having discovered that the whole of my mother’s dowry was put in trust for me, not given as a marriage portion, I have wondered even more deeply on their relationship. 

My mother was intelligent, charming, and full of spirit. She undoubtedly set the bar high for any other woman in my life. I measured her entire sex against her. But it also meant I recognised, unlike the majority of my own sex, that women can be just as intelligent (if not more intelligent) than men, and that a woman of spirit is a truly a force to behold. Although neither of us knew it at the time, my mother convinced me that women had a role to play in the SIS, and from my earliest days in the service, I championed their cause.

So how could this paragon of a woman have loved the curmudgeon that was my father? She never discussed their relationship with me, so I will never know. She certainly wanted me to treat my father with respect, and I know she encouraged him to spend time with me. Perhaps our dislike of each other was rooted in some subconscious oedipal complex, where we both competed for her attention.

Oddly, it was my father’s morals I inherited. I had discovered my mother weeping. I must have been seven or so, and it was the housekeeper, who finally answered my insistent demands to know what was wrong. She said my father had acquired another lady who kept him company from time to time. Of course, I had no real understanding of what it meant back then. Despite that, I was furiously angry.

Now I have, if not copious then more than is usual, intimate relationships with women. I like women, and I like their company as well the more physical side of things. Although, I admit my keenness in that area has increased rather than diminished from my younger years. If a man bothers, there are so many things to learn about the art of making love. 

It is important to me that a woman chooses to be with me. Seduction, I reserve for an ambassador’s or foreign dignitary’s wife, and I try not to take such an episode to its ultimate conclusion.

I suppose, unlike many of blustering contemporaries, I have never been scared by women, or their criticism. Although, I admit, I dislike being on the wrong side of Alice. That does make me uncomfortable.

If I am to pull on all these threads, what do I find? If my mother had lived, I would have stayed in college. I would have taken her punting, and for elegant picnics on the riverbank. All women would have had to have measure up to her, and her morality.

I suspect I would have become something in the diplomatic circle, or possibly, with my parents’ connections, even attached to the Royal Court. I would have searched for the perfect bride, and my mother, being who she was, would have loved anyone I brought home to be her daughter. Perhaps things might have eased between my father and I (though I doubt it). And then, when the accession came my way, I would have sat in the House of Lords and been endlessly annoying to the politicians in power.

If the British public felt that the Great War was disruptive to their way of life, I fear a riot when this latest show gets underway.

I am not referring to the enormous loss of life in the trenches. Dear God, a generation wiped out in a few short years. It changed the world. I doubt anyone can anticipate the casualties of this new war, but I carry the fervent hope that we will never see the like of those on the scale of the Great War again.

No, I am referring to the fact that, other than the absence of the younger men during the Great War, we had only a couple of Zeppelins attempt a few crude bombings of our homeland. The Women’s Institute began during the war. The jam making, cake baking, and hymn singing, supposedly to keep up the morale of the women left behind. The idea that, across our great nation, best cake competitions will be running in all the little parish churches’ summer fetes during this new round of slaughter is risible.

We will lose men. We will be bombed. We even face the possibility of invasion. To this diary only do I admit that fears of invasion are not misplaced. I already have evacuation plans in place for my agents and the very few people I feel an affection for.

I have been thinking today about how, when the bombs fall, when the fatalities rise, when streets collapse, can our British way of life hold firm? Of course, we will be issuing a lot of home propaganda. Much of it will be about how we can all join together to help each other. That will be issued regardless of the real situation. However, I do have faith in the British people. I believe most will show their better side in the conflict. A few will doubtless take advantage of the blackouts and chaos to steal, even to murder, but most folk will do their bit, one way or another. ‘Doing one’s bit’ is such a lovely phrase. It allows people, regardless of what they do, from sweeping platforms to brain surgery on the injured, to feel that ‘their bit’ helps. It’s an excellent maxim, and easy to propagate. It also feels reassuring.

Keeping the police visible is an important as having the ARP wardens on duty. The perception of continued order, no matter what, is paramount. It’s one of the reasons all the services have rankings. Come what may, know your place, know who you are responsible for, and do the goddammed job you’re trained to do. Decent training should make your work, from fireman to aircraft gunner, so instinctive you don’t need to think about it. In the same way, fear of your superior officer should keep you on your toes and lessen the chances of slacking, or heaven forbid, deserting. Deserters are awful for morale. On a human level, I understand the desire to get out of the madness of warfare, but as a commanding officer, I understand why it is that deserters are so often shot. War is a nasty business.

But even considering these aspects of British life, I do not yet feel I have reached the heart of what essential requirement the British Public need to feel that eventually all will be well. The order of law, and the order of rank must be held, but what does John or Jane Smith rely on? It can’t be bricks and mortar, as these may disappear in a cloud of bomb dust. Icons like St Pauls are also subject to bombing and resultant morale lows (although I suspect the enemy will leave St Pauls as a marker to navigate by).

What do all British people do in a crisis? What do they need?

Oh lord, when I put it like that, it is obvious.

In a crisis the British put the kettle on. The Great British Public needs their tea. If we can keep the tea supplies going and ensure that even if you’ve lost your home, there will be tea wagon for you to get your cuppa… then all will be well.

It’s what the empire ran on, after all. It’s what we will win this war doing – reassuring each other, doing our bit, and drinking tea. God help us.

As is the nature of such things, it is very fashionable to smoke.  I can’t see the attraction myself. Adherents tell me of the exhilaration of the first intake of smoke in the morning. That deep draw into the lungs supposedly giving one a buoyancy of the soul. As someone who has had to be on reconnaissance for a significant amount of their working life, I can only say that smoke from any kind of fire quickly loses its appeal. Tobacco and wood may be different substances, but the after-effect of their combustion is a long-lasting reek. One, that if I never smell it again, I will not miss. It reminds of those long weeks on a mission when soaking in a bath is but a distant dream.

Of course, should I wish to feel heroic, I could indulge in heroin – so called for making weak men feel like lions. However, my favourite way of feeling heroic is sitting by my own hearth with a glass of brandy and reflecting on my actions during my last mission. It is astounding how fondly one may remember actions which, in the moment, were frantic, angry, desperate, or less than wise, but by the familiar glow of a roaring fire, become positively rosy.

Cocaine, I dismiss out of hand. Inhaling a toxic powder directly through the mucus membranes into the brain? I may not be a licensed medical practitioner, but it strikes me as foolish beyond belief. I have a fine mind, and I suspect a highly complex and perfectly formed set of lobes. After all, I speak more languages than the average person can name. I do not, in any way, wish to damage my fine organ.

I have referred before to the drinking of wine and brandy. Of course, there are occasions when I must have a strong head for my work, carousing with the highest and the lowest. However, my preference is only to have the occasional glass of excellent brandy at home after a mission has been successfully completed. Other than that, I am content to take decent wines and spirits to White Orchards to drink at Christmas. I prefer less alcohol, but better vintages. I never become inebriated. I know far too many secrets to allow myself to become compromised in such a fashion.

But I do have my addiction, of sorts, and I must own it. My addiction is undoubtedly the fairer sex. I do not refer simply to activities beneath the bed covers, but simply the company and conversation of women. I admire beauty, but I am quite happy to do this at a distance. A woman who combines intelligence, an interesting personality, and a pleasing demeanour is alluring beyond doubt. Make the lady beautiful as well and I am drawn to her as any drug addict is to his stash. I must frequently be mindful of this as it is a perfect way for an enemy to sabotage any of my missions. This is why it is my duty to ensure that I always have such ladies to return to, after a mission – ones I have suitably vetted, and who ensure I am not distracted from my business for the Crown. Little do they know that in pleasing me they are ensuring the safety of our great country. I am ever so grateful to them.

I recently had a communication from my steward at my small farm estate. I have no inclination to be a farmer myself, but as I seem to be in the habit of surviving, it became appropriate to buy myself a small estate. I thought I might retire there, should I, against the odds, enter the autumn years of my life above ground. Or, in the very unlikely event that I should ever marry, it is somewhere to leave my wife. On the whole, my London properties are quite small, and most are let out. I retain the largest one for myself, but it is not the kind of place that a lady should live. It is very much a bachelor’s flat.

My steward was writing to let me know he had acquired several sows and one hog. I have taken against pigs since the time I was held captive and tortured at a pig farm. The whole thing was utterly sordid and embarrassing. I should never have been caught. It is not an episode I care to revisit as it reflects very badly on me. During torture, I lost a fair amount of blood. What surprised me was the interest the pigs took in my blood. I realised that should I die there and then; I would be fed to them. Pigs will, I came to learn, eat absolutely anything.

I now, rather unfashionably, like to know where my bacon or pork has been sourced. I continue to take great delight in eating pig, but I want to be reasonably assured that the pig has been fed on acorns, possibly slops, and never flesh of any kind. The whole thing gives me the shivers. I’d rather face a dozen enemy agents, with my arm tied behind my back, and only a blunt butter knife for defence, then find myself once again in a pen with a pig.

I do not want pigs on my farm, but apparently my steward does. He gave an excellent argument for their efficiency in all manner of things, and even assured me that they are remarkably intelligent. This last fact, I was not happy to learn. I had divined the evil nature of pigs - nose to snout - on several long, cold, and desperate nights. That they might also be intelligent may well give me one of my exceedingly rare nightmares.

However, the fortunes of the farm, and its tenants, are my responsibility, so I am being a considerate landholder and allowing the steward to keep the pigs. In his note to me, he has enquired if I will he visiting soon. He assures me he has got only the finest animals, and that I would be astonished to see them. He also asked if his little girl could have a piglet for rearing, saying she quite understood that at the end of its days her pet would be eaten, and had thought up a suitable name, ‘Yum-Yum’. She sounds likes a most interesting child.

Apart from asking me to visit the new livestock - not a chance in hell, until they are made into sausages - he also asked me to name the hog. Apparently, it already has some championship name – Ambrosios Kallias Demeter the Fifth, or some such nonsense, which he feels unable to shorten, and wishes me to rename it.

I honestly could not care less, but he is a good man, who does an excellent job, so I have written back a one-word answer, the name of someone I dislike and who invariably gets in my way. Although it will be sometime before the hog is killed, for now he is merely around to sire piglets, but when his time comes, I will take great pleasure in sending him off for butchering.

I have called the pig ‘BERTRAM’.

I didn’t like the auxies, but I saw the point. I’m not entirely sure if I was meant to see the paperwork, but it came across my desk, by one means or another. The auxies, or auxiliary units (to give them their full name) was where men were trained to wreak destruction on the enemy in the event of a German invasion. There was no expectation of survival. Their mission was to disrupt and defy for as long and as comprehensibly as possible, until they were caught, tortured, executed, or died in the course of performing their duties. Many of the volunteers, none of them conscripts, were prisoners, or men who had somehow been disbarred from fighting. The convicts had heard the rumours of men being shot in their cells, so volunteering as an auxie was a life-extending proposition for them (in the face of invasion.) I don’t know if I would have trusted any of the bunch, but perhaps some of them wanted to do their duty. The others, men with flat feet, or bad eyesight, or some other minor impediment, were simply courageous and determined to play their part. The training was tough and effective.

Considering what little we had in 1940, they were well equipped. They had hideouts built by our engineers, and stashes of stocks the army could ill-afford to spare, but at that point in time we didn’t think it was a matter of if, but rather when, the invasion would come.  

That was before the Battle of Britain. We had no chance of winning that, but we did. Against all odds. Young men, barely out of school, defended our coasts in remarkably agile, but fragile, machines. It still confounds me that we beat off the invasion.

All good. But then, with the auxies more or less disbanded, someone came up with the idea - and yes, I know who it damn well was - to try something similar, yet different, in the occupied zones. It was complete madness.  Ungentlemanly madness.

The SOE, or Special Operations Executive, was to be made up of swiftly trained civilians who could be dropped behind enemy lines in France, or further afield, and tasked with disrupting the enemy. Where to start with the problems arising?

Firstly, we already had well trained agents in the field, with years of experience, who were doing good work. Shipping in a load of amateurs put them at risk. My biggest issue with all of this is how can you expect anyone, no matter how brave, to become an agent in the field? You can’t, of course. What they were, whether they realised it or not, were terrorists. Not at all unlike the original auxiliary units, but less well trained and less well equipped. Their intervention would see thousands of local civilians executed for any small victory of sabotage. Not that the SOE trainees were told this. They were being sold of dream of patriotism and launched like chicks from the nest.

I expect that the SOE will have some success. It’s an outrageous enough effort to garner some results. I also expect that most of their agents with be, at best, regarded as enemy spies, and shot. At worst they will be tortured for weeks, for intelligence they do not have, and will die desperate, alone and in utter despair.

It’s all very well for people like me who’ve trained for that end and accepted it.  While we resist it for as long as possible, we know what our likely exit from this world will be. Schoolteachers, accountants, and physical fitness enthusiasts, have no idea what to expect. How could they?

I think it unconscionable to thrust civilians into the darkest areas of espionage. I expect the attrition of the department will force its closure within six months.

The trouble with most people is that they are far too emotional. When you are in a tight spot, it’s rarely a question of doing what makes you feel good about yourself. The way out of difficulties is more often about sacrifice. Those who want to save everyone are good hearted, but quite deluded. If we could save everyone, of course we would do so, but circumstances seldom allow it.

It can be quite a burden, thinking dispassionately about what to do. I mean, if it meant I had to sacrifice Alice in order to complete a mission, could I do it? I like to think I am that I am wedded to my duty, but the reality is, if I consider the mission liable to go that way, I simply won’t tell her about it and I’ll go alone - or with another colleague, if I must. I can work as part of a team easily enough, but when it’s simply myself and another agent, I find myself liable to strangle them. Other people, with the exception of Alice, can be extremely irritating in the field. I have my way of doing things, and that’s how I want it done.

I suppose one of the joys of being a spy is that while I might have to make field decisions, I’m never called upon to make politician decisions. One of my older brothers is an MP, and he is the most phenomenal bore. He’s also going bald with stress; he can’t be more than eleven years older than me (my rather aged and unpleasant father is still as bushy as an owl).  However, my brother’s role requires him to determine what is in the best interests of the nation and argue for it. Naturally, a lot of MPs are in it for the luncheons, and more than willing to tow the party line. Unfortunately, Egbert, is far too conscientious and does his best to figure out what is right for for everyone in the Kingdom. As I said at the start of this entry, that is an impossibility. Sadly, he stress-eats, and with the option of dining at The House of Commons twice daily during the time it sits, he is as rotund as your average barrel. I see no shining accolades in his political future, more likely an early death by apoplexy.

I also have a hope of dying by apoplexy, preferably around one hundred years of age, when a lively young woman inadvertently, and through extreme exertion, brings my existence to a happy end.

I believe I am peripatetic by nature. But, even so, I need a tether. Something that drives me to pick myself up when exhaustion all but overwhelms me and return from whatever insanity I have been forced to confront.

 This last mission threw me back on my own basic resources more than I have experienced in the last decade. At the beginning, and at the end, I was alone. There were colleagues I encountered in the midst of the chaos, and as sometimes happens, none of them survived. It couldn’t be helped. We got the job done. All of us agreed that the mission was more important than personal considerations. My survival was as much about luck as it was skill. I don’t believe in god, or fate, but I have come to believe in raw luck. How else can you explain why others just as skilled as you perish? There was no rhyme or reason to it. No one role in this mission was more dangerous than any another.

 Now I am back at my flat. London is as it always is, busy, crowded and filled with all the usual smells, both pleasant and unpleasant. The engines of cars and buses provide a low hum of background noise over which, every now and then, a human voice rises; the high pitch of newspaper boy hawking already outdated information about the war, or someone else simply trying to make a living selling their wares. Of course, I heard similar noises abroad. But, back here, there is an absence of gun fire, the guttural gasps, and cries of the dying and no more birdsong than the ubiquitous London pigeons. That a great swell of birdsong tends to fill the air during the lulls in battle has always astonished me. I am unsure if it is to be regarded a sound of hope, or a mockery of nature toward man, the only creature to wage war and achieve such wholesale slaughter among their own species.

 I am having difficulty in feeling at home. I find myself wandering from room to room, stupidly picking up things and contemplating their use. That I have a kitchen tap that provides clean water, a hot oven to cook food, an entire room solely for the purpose of sitting and reading, and a large (and comfortable) bed, seems incredible. At least, it does in comparison to what I recently experienced, so great was the want for the most basic of things, like food, water, and sanitation.

 Jack, as ever, is a comfort. He knows I am out of sorts, and after his initial manic leaping into the air upon my return, has now settled to follow me around my rooms, flopping down quietly at my side, when I find I have the internal capacity to stop and rest. This is not often.

 I am thinking I will go to White Orchards. It is not my home, but it has, without my knowing, become my tether to the normal world. Alice will be angry she did not accompany me. Indeed, she knew nothing of my last mission, but for once I could see no place for a woman in my team. I will try to explain, and do so without revealing what I saw, and what I did. In war we…I…do things that are…that I would not have imagined I could do. Whenever I have thought to myself that this is the lowest that I could sink in deception, death, and destruction, I have been proved wrong. If I must do worse, then that path is not one I will lead Alice down. It is one I will walk, and walk alone, without relish, and do so only because duty demands it.

I’ve recently had reason to ponder what I might do if I wasn’t working for the service. Before enlisting Alice, I always thought I would die on the job, that I’d go out in a blaze of glory. Hopefully my body would never be found as there’s something about cadavers that strikes me as pitiful, and I never want anyone to look upon me with pity. Especially when I’m dead. No, I thought I would die as I lived - hard, fast, and having fun.

Not a bad way to go out, but when you have a partner it’s not only your life you are threatening to take out in a dramatic and adrenaline fuelled last stand, it’s theirs as well. Although I’ve never actually put it into words, I’m fairly certain Alice is prepared to die for her country. In the field she is brave and often impulsive, but I’ll be damned if I am the one who is going to bring about her death. If anything, I have become the kind of cautious agent I always used to mock in the past.

My point is that someday I may need to retire. This is a concept I cannot fathom. I’m very good at what I do. Very, very good, and quite frankly, I don’t know what I would do if I stopped working for the department. In fact, the suspicion has crept up on me lately that I might naturally be rather a lazy person.

After school I went on to study languages. I opted for languages because I found them easy. Learning them was not like, for example, doing mathematical problems that used to make me physically sweat with effort (of course, this has now been remedied as a certain amount of that knowledge is necessary for an agent.). However, the fact remains that I chose languages because there was very little effort involved. I put effort into pursing the dean’s daughter but, other than that, I can’t recall exactly exhorting myself over anything else at University. I learned a little cane fighting, but I am a naturally well-co-ordinated fellow, and already had a certain fitness from my love of horse riding. My mother first put me up on a horse when I was three, so I find that effortless too.

Everything else I have learned has been because it was necessary to fulfil my duty. Left to myself, what would I have achieved? More languages certainly. I would have travelled the world but being cushioned by wealth, it wouldn’t exactly have been taxing. I would have pursued women and read books.  Having seen my parents’ own marriage, I doubt any single woman could have tempted me to limit my physical interests to her alone for the rest of my life. I’ve always liked good food, so I suppose it’s also possible I might have become quite fat. Especially if I spent a lot of time travelling by sea. Overall, I feel I wouldn’t have been a great success of a man. I must concede, it was the SIS that made me.

As to whether others like what the SIS made me is open to debate, but I like the man I have become. My greatest fear is that should I be forced to retire, should my work be taken from me, I will become indolent, fat and a tiresome bore, whose sole pleasure is chasing after women far too young for him, and growing an ever longer moustache. I shudder to contemplate it.

So, if I am not to die on the job, and I cannot retire, I shall have to start planning now. I shall need to become one of the faceless gentlemen who remain ‘involved’ in SIS until their natural demise. Such men hold secrets and power the likes of which few will ever understand. I shall have to build my own private empire.

Well, at least it will give me something to do on those long winter evenings when I am not on a mission and poor Alice is stuck at White Orchards.

I have, more than once, had to assassinate someone I liked. I don’t mean the occasional casualty that falls by the wayside on a mission where I end up terminating someone in self defence, or because they stand between me and the completion of my mission. In the latter case, I try to ensure there is no other way. Even when defending myself, I am always looking for an exit rather than a death. However, if it looks increasingly likely my death is on the cards, then I do what’s necessary.

The difference with assassination is that you are sent specifically to kill someone. You are told by someone senior to yourself that the death of the target is crucial to the Empire, King and County. Then you do you duty. There is no pleasure taken in it. Or there damn well better not be from anyone that I’ve trained. We are not a department of psychopaths. This is crucial. The taking of a life, in peacetime or in wartime, is a most serious matter and should never be taken lightly.

When I first encountered the service, I was asked to do small tasks. This and that. Convey things to certain places, look out for what is happening in an area I was passing through as a tourist, or go to a party to retrieve information or listen in on gossip. Over time things changed and I went from eavesdropping on gossip to being asked to start it by the spreading of rumours. Then I was asked to find out information less through direct conversation and more though cultivating assets who would be willing, and able, to pass such information onto me. Cultivating, in this sense, can mean everything from bribes to seduction. In general, the method of ensnaring the assets was left up to me.

But, when I officially became a Field Agent for SIS, in that I got my little badge and my monthly pittance - which barely covers the cost of my silk socks and couldn’t buy a pair of my handmade shoes - my training was formalised.

I’ll note here that it was important in the early days of the service that agents were financially well off. Not only did the department have a ridiculously small budget, but the ‘right kind’ of people, in the department’s view, were of the upper classes, and were rich enough that they could not be bribed.

The point of needing them to be upper class is complete tosh, of course. A working-class man can be as proud and as loyal to the Empire as any upper-class gentleman. Indeed, in many cases, more so.

But the confirmation of one’s status in the service is confirmed by training in assassination. I should be clear that the service prefers not to assassinate people. Besides not being barbarians, assassination, even when you make it look like an accident, frequently causes more trouble than it is worth. It’s far better to discredit or impugn someone than to kill them. You have no risk of ensuing martyrdom and the besmirched target generally loses not only his friends but his followers (political or otherwise) and any ideology he’s been proselytising is sunk before reproach.

So, to be asked to assassinate someone is rare. So rare that it may never happen to an agent in their whole career. However, should one be called upon to do the deed, the department needs to know you will not hesitate, you will not question, and you will your duty, no matter how distressing this may be. And, throughout the experience, you will keep a stiff upper lip and find no gratification in the act, other than from serving King and Country. You will also, naturally, be disavowed if you mess it up.

I have been called upon to assassinate people I both respect and like. In each case I was instructed by a senior officer whom I trusted, and, in each case, I could see why it needed done. I hated each and every moment, but I did my duty regardless.

I believe that, even if I was asked to perform such a duty, in circumstances that I did not understand, providing I trust the department member who assigned me the mission, I should do my duty. Should I ever be asked by a department official that I do not trust, I am unsure how I would respond. My trust is not easily given. Good intentions alone do not win it. I only follow orders from people who I believe know what they are doing. This is a problem and the main reason that I am regarded as a maverick. If I wasn’t as good at the job as I am, and if I didn’t know all that I did, I wouldn’t be surprised to have been disavowed years ago. However, there are times, when it seems to me, that intelligent men (and now women) in powerful positions grow fewer in number by the day. This is of considerable concern to anyone with any sense.

It’s well known that I like to have the best of the best. When I’m in the field, I often have to make do with a great deal less than the best, so when I’m not, I feel entitled to treat myself. My pay from the department is minimal but, fortunately, I have my own investments and, of course, the legacy from my mother. This brings me to the question of wardrobe.

I don’t, as with Euphemia’s German brother-in-law, have a penchant for embroidered smoking gowns or, heaven forbid, smoking caps with tassels like Bertram. I believe a gentleman’s clothes are no substitute for wit, character, or charm, all of which I have in abundance when I choose to display them. Clothes should be clean, crisp, elegant, obviously hand stitched, and as close to form fitting as is proper - at least when one is of as fine a form as myself. One must never be garish, but neither must one adopt hues that chime with the current fashions of house decor. In my own time I can please myself and I say, with all modesty, that I dress well and to advantage.

In the field, clothing must be different. Often it requires to be hard wearing, waterproof and of hues that do indeed fade entirely into the background. Rarely I disguise myself as another person, and during these times I will affect the use of face paint. I dye the hair on my head and my body a shade between dark brown and black. Nature gifted me with a hair colour which, while delightful on my mother, is a terrible nuisance to one in my line. My natural hair colour is a fiery red. When I was younger this allowed me to make jokes about burning bushes of passion, but it is now a distinct nuisance, being both noteworthy and noticeable.

Occasionally, on missions, I am required to wear evening dress. However, I must always ensure I have a way of covering the stark white of my shirt, should I need to slip away from the bright lights. Likewise, whether at work or not, I insist on shoes that are handmade, even boots, and which have an excellent, but subtle, grip. I must always move with the quiet grace of a cat. I prefer to go unarmed and, therefore, avoid the knotty problem of bulging pockets. I generally carry a cane and that is more than enough weaponry for me. Gloves are, of course, useful to avoid scraping my knuckles while climbing or punching people - both of which I am finding I increasingly need to do.

And, finally, the considerable problem of trousers. Less often than most people think, especially Euphemia, do I have the necessity of removing my trousers during a mission. Nevertheless, it’s still of great importance that these are both easy to don and easy to remove. No fancy cummerbunds for me. Simplicity will suffice. I have also designed some fastenings that I ask my tailor to include that allow me to engage and disengage my trousers with more ease and speed than most gentlemen.

Of late, I’ve had the time and space to start teaching Alice how to work on analysis and other such things.  My thinking is her honeymoon period with the service is almost over. It’s certainly lasted longer than mine, which ended before it started, more or less, in the last Balkan revolution.

Like myself, she enjoys enormously risking her neck - jumping off things, tricking her way past sentries, and all that. The kind of derring-do that earns the job the misnomer of ‘the great game’. Thing is, when you’re out in the field on a mission, you have your sights focused on a goal and will generally do whatever is necessary to achieve it.

The longer you’re in the game, the more you get to know the other players. Foes are often the only ones who understand your world and become an odd sort of friendly rival. It’s all a bit sheltering. I mean, when you sit down and start thinking about the global impact of what’s happening then things stop being about you and whatever stick you’re chasing. You begin to see the bigger picture. You understand how the plays and interplays may affect the lives of thousands. It’s horribly sobering.

I admit, I try, when in the field, to push the bigger picture to the back of my mind. Dwelling on your responsibilities mid-mission isn’t going to help anyone. Of course, I look out for signs that the bigger picture is changing. That comes with experience and is expected on the more time dependant and vital missions. But, on the whole, I throw myself into things and do my best to have a good time. It’s the way I work best.

It doesn’t mean I’m ignorant of my responsibilities, but rather burdening myself with woes and doubts won’t help anyone, least of all myself. I’ve seen some dicey times when I thought we were all heading straight to hell, but somehow or another the old train righted itself on the tracks and rumbled on.

It’s part of my job to help avert the worst of times, but this is only possible if I do not fear them. Fear is paralysing. I must trust in God, King, and my colleagues. It’s never my job to consume myself with the worries of our fragile world. I am not that important. I can only do my bit.

I am seeing frown lines form on Alice’s forehead. The weight of her responsibility as an Agent of the Crown has hit her hard. I want to explain the limitations of the burden we can individually bear, but I fear I have played the Bon Vivant around her too much for her to take me seriously. I can only hope that, in time, she will come to understand that her duty as an agent may bring trials, but it does not have to extinguish all her happiness. Terrible things may or may not happen but it’s folly to expect to be the one to save the world, and everybody in it. Such thoughts lead to madness and the rising of dictators. Not that I wouldn’t make a jolly fine dictator.

It appears the department is ‘on holiday’. What an odd idea! Of course, there remain various necessary services, which I cannot list here, but they ensure that any agents in the field who are able to reach a communication point can still call in to deliver information or, perhaps, even to ask for help. Would said help not be delivered until after the holidays, I wonder?

This is, of course, the fault of the ever-expanding clerical and so-called managerial positions. With the former, I suppose, it was what people of that class expect, after all, they invented that awful time known as ‘the weekend’. Persons of my class generally fall into two camps. Either they consider themselves on holiday all the time and do little or no work. These are colloquially known as wastrels. The others, who run working estates, or service their country in other ways, like me, have never known the luxury of a holiday. On the small estate I own in the South, my animals still need fed on holidays as much as they do on any other day. I’m sure my staff would love a day when the sheep or the cattle offered to feed themselves, but that is nothing less than a fairy tale.

My point is that in the real world, amid all the things that can happen, there are no holidays. There are no occasions when a spy can turn his back upon the world, no more than a farmer can leave his livestock unfed.

Yes, there are celebrations, such as Christmas, but these are quite aside from the work that must still be done. It’s one of the reasons that holidays are so damn inconvenient. However, the assimilation of diplomatic parties into a Christmas celebration at White Orchards is a damned good idea. Damn clever of Euphemia to suggest it. Why with the right people on hand, I may even be tempted into playing Hunt the ruddy Slipper. There are a few people I can think of I would very much like to get alone in a dark corner.

What is damn insensitive is the frequency of said holidays. Christmas, I suppose, one must allow, but now the services have an expectation of having the other solstices and some of the summer high days away from work.

What do they expect me to do? Drop a note to Herr Schmitt in Germany, or my friend Vladimir in Russia, saying our intelligence offices are closed between such and such dates, so please don’t do anything annoying during this period? Perhaps I could even ask them to recall all their assassins, spies and saboteurs so as not to interfere with our holidays.

There are times when I despise the middle classes and their bourgeois ideas. Normally, I am all for going for a pint and chatting with the chaps, but all this talk of taking time off has really got my goat.