Dennis Wheatley - The Launching of Roger Brook

When they reached the ferry over the Avon they made a hearty second breakfast off the provender that Jim had brought with him, then, fording the stream, continued their way through the seemingly endless forest. They encountered no footpads but came upon an encampment of Egyptians, as the gipsies were then called. These strange dark folk, with their black locks, gold earrings and brightly coloured scarves seemed very alien to England, yet they had dwelt there in the forest in apparent contentment for centuries. It was said that they sometimes kidnapped children and they were certainly horse thieves, but they never molested travellers. Roger gave them a friendly wave and the white teeth of their women flashed as they smilingly waved in reply. The children ran beside him for a little way, shouting for largess in their strange Bohemian tongue. He threw them a few small coins and cantered on.

The sun was high overhead by the time they left the forest and crossed Setley Heath. Shortly after one o'clock they walked their horses into Lymington.

The town was opposite the western end of the Isle of Wight but lay about four miles from the sea. It consisted of some half-hundred houses grouped round the quays, where a widening of the river Lym formed a small natural harbour, and a single long street that ran up a steep hill to westward of the old town. Just above the crown of the hill the High Street divided into two narrow alleys passing either side of the Town Hall, with its stocks, blind house and butchers' shambles, then uniting again in a broad thoroughfare as far as the church. Beyond this lay a straggling ribbon of houses, known as St. Thomas's Street.

It was from this western end that Roger entered the little town and on reaching the church he turned seaward, down Church Lane, a few hundred yards along which lay his home. The house was situated on a gentle slope to the south of the High Street and separated from it by gardens, a strip of woodland and a large meadow.

From time immemorial there had been a dwelling there and part of the last remained; a low-roofed building faced with old red tiles which was now used as the kitchen quarters. Roger's grandfather had bought the property, demolished most of the earlier structure and built the main portion of the present house. It formed a solid square block with tall, white-painted windows most of which faced south and had a fine view of the Island. There were two storeys only but the rooms were spacious and on both floors twelve feet in height. It was not a mansion according to the times, but if for sale would have been advertised as a commodious residence, suitable to persons of quality.

A small orchard lay to west of it, an acre of walled kitchen garden to its north, stabling and outhouses to its east; along the south front of the house ran a long balustraded terrace, ornamented with carved stone vases and with two sets of steps leading down to a wide lawn beyond which a number of fine trees and shrubberies formed shady walks. The whole was enclosed by a high brick wall which, although the property was so close to the town, gave it as much seclusion as if it were a mile or more from its nearest neighbour.

Eager to greet his mother, Roger dismounted at the orchard gate, leaving Jim to take his mount round to the stables, and, running up the path burst into the house by its side entrance. As he had guessed would be the case, at such a time, she was in the kitchen superintending her maids in the preparation of a gala dinner for her returned hero.

Lady Marie Brook was then forty-six. The dark hair, partly hidden by her lace cap, was now turning grey, but in her deep blue eyes and fine profile, it was still easy to recapture the ravishing beauty that, eighteen years earlier, had caused the dashing Lieutenant Christopher Brook to declare that he must have her even if he died for it. And he very nearly had, since both her brothers had called him out and in the second duel he had been seriously wounded.

At the time of their meeting Jacobite plots had still been rife, and he had come upon her, white-faced and indignant, while he was leading a naval landing-party in the forced search of her home in Scotland for a concealed store of arms. She had been only seven when her father, the Earl of Kildonan, had joined Prince Charles Edward's ill-fated rising and after the battle of Culloden been butchered by the Duke of Cumberland's brutal Hanoverian horsemen; but had been old enough to remember the grief of her devastated clan at their losses in battle and the merciless hunting for fugitives that had succeeded it. The passing of twenty years had made no difference to the extreme hatred that she and her family bore to all who wore the uniform of the Hanoverian King; yet the very first sight of Christopher Brook had caused in her an overwhelming emotion. Her first love had been killed as a result of a shooting accident and she had felt the blow so deeply that she had rejected all other offers, but the dashing young Naval Lieutenant had dissipated her old loyalties as swiftly as mist is dispersed by strong sunshine and, in spite of all arguments, entreaties and threats, she had broken with her family to run away with him.

Lady Marie was not only a beautiful, but also a very practical, woman; and her housekeeping was a model of industry and efficiency, even for those times. Not a fruit, herb or vegetable in her garden was ever allowed to go to waste and the shelves of her storeroom groaned under their loads of conserves, pickles, spices and syrups.

In the old kitchen where she now stood, making pastry herself while she kept a watchful eye on her ample-bosomed cook and her two maids, Polly and Nell, the time-blackened beams overhead were festooned with hams, tongues, and flitches of bacon, while the tables could hardly be seen for joints, game, pudding-basins and vegetables.

As Roger ran in she swiftly dusted the flour from her hands and, laughingly submitting to his wild embrace, kissed him on both cheeks; then she held him from her and exclaimed:

"My darling boy, you're looking wondrous well, and I can see that you're much excited by the great news. Your father is out on the terrace with some other gentlemen. He's just mad to see you, so run to him now and leave me to my cooking."

After kissing her again Roger did as he was bid, and slipping from the old to the new part of the house, he came out through the pillared portico that gave on to the terrace.

His father was there, a big, brown-faced, jovial-looking man of fifty-two, surrounded by a group of neighbours who had called to welcome him home. Roger knew most of them; old Sir Harry Burrard, the richest man in the district, who lived, across the river at Walhampton; General Cleveland of Vicar's Hill; John Bond of Buckland Manor; Mr. Eddie of Priestlands and Mr. Robbins of Pylewell. Captain Burrard was there, too, talking to Harry Darby, the Mayor of Lymington whom he hoped to succeed, in that ancient and honourable office which had been held by no less a person than the Duke of Bolton only ten years earlier; and Sam Oviatt, the local wine-merchant, present by virtue of his calling, which was considered of such importance at that date that wine-merchants were freely admitted to country society, which rigorously excluded all other tradesmen.

As Roger's father caught sight of him, he cried: "Why, Roger, boy, thou hast become a man! Stand not on ceremony but come hither, lad."

Roger had been about to make a bow but instead he ran down the steps and his father kissed him heartily.

"What a surprise you gave us," he laughed up at the bronzed, heavy jowled face just above his own. "Where is the Bellerophon? Did you dock at Plymouth or is she in Portsmouth Roads?"

"Nay, I left her in the Indies, and came home as a passenger in the frigate Amazon. I carried dispatches, and having a fair wind behind us we made all sail up channel to anchor at the Nore. 'Twas half a day saved, though it meant my jolting all the way from London in a plaguey post-chaise yesterday. But you know the company, Roger?"