A dark legacy, p.20
A Dark Legacy, page 20
But first, he thought he will rustle up some salad.
Cecilia woke up to the sound of Philip chopping tomatoes on the chopping board. “Get any sleep?” Philip asked from across the living room.
“Some,” Cecilia muttered.
“I thought I’d whip up a salad. You need to eat something. By the way, Nathaniel is on his way. He should be here sometime after half-past 3 or so,” Philip said.
“I will try. I am famished but not hungry, if you can believe it,” said Cecilia.
“Half-past 3, did you say?” Cecilia asked, almost catching up with Philip’s words.
“Yes, he took the 12 p.m. from London. I suspect he plans to leave tonight for Grasmere Keep. And I do think he is right. It’s not safe for you here,” said Philip.
Cecilia looked up with concern and a shadow of fear running across her face. “What happened? Is something wrong? I thought the hotel was not safe, but here?” she asked.
“I did not want to alarm you, but there are two men who have been watching this house from the time you arrived. I think they followed you from the hotel. I tracked them following you from Rue Rodier,” said Philip calmly, as if all this was routine.
“Where? Can we see them from here?” she asked, looking around towards the windows.
Philip dropped the knife and walked towards the window. “Come over here,” he said to Cecilia. He moved the curtains slightly, so she could see the two men standing around and chatting to each other. Her heart skipped, and she stepped away from the window, looking at Philip questioningly, “Who are these people?”
“I suspect they are the Paris arm of the Koenig gang that Nathaniel exposed,” replied Philip. “But you shouldn’t worry. Nothing is going to happen to you here.” He said, “Come, come, you must eat something,” and pulled her by the arm towards the kitchen.
They ate silently, and Philip poured a glass of red for each. He had also cut up some bread and prepared a cheese board. Philip switched on the TV in the living room with his remote, and France 24 channel came on. He reduced the volume to the lowest. A familiar scenery flashed on the screen, and Cecilia sat up, staring at the screen. It was Grasmere Keep. The report was about a massacre at the farm owned by renowned General Sir William Radcliffe II.
The reporter went into the details of the attack that killed the General and his staff, along with his son Thorne Radcliffe. Philip shut the TV down. Cecilia continued to stare at the now blank TV screen. Philip reached out and touched her shoulder and said gently, “Cecilia.” She turned around and sobbed.
The phone rang, and Cecilia almost jumped out of her chair and into Philip’s arms, before realizing it was the phone and tried to regain her composure.
Philip answered, “yes, Nathaniel, where are you?” Philip looked at his watch. It was closer to 3:30 p.m.
“I just got out of the station. There was some kind of delay on the tracks. Are those two goons still there?” Nathaniel asked.
“Yes, they are. Patient lot, the two of them,” Philip replied.
“All right, stay put. Do nothing. I will take care of them, but I think I should wait until it gets dark before I get to your place. I’ll hang around a café here and start heading in your direction around 5:30 p.m.
“Ok, Nathaniel, we will stay put,” said Philip.
“What did he say?” asked Cecilia.
“Well, I think Nathaniel wants to make sure there is nobody outside the apartment when he gets here. He is going to wait until it gets a little dark. The February sun sets around 5:30 p.m. around here,” said Philip.
“What about the men outside?” asked Cecilia.
Seeing the look of concern and worry on Cecilia’s face, Philip placed a hand on hers and said reassuringly, “Well, you may be his sister, and you think you know your little brother Nathaniel, but I don’t think you know Captain Radcliffe as well as I do. You have nothing to worry about. Nathaniel can take care of himself.”
Nathaniel ordered a sandwich at the café and opened up The Times that he bought from the magazine shop next to the station. In the top right corner of the broadsheet, the words screamed at him.
Sir William Radcliffe II Assassinated!
Nathaniel froze. There was a photograph of bodies lying around the farm. He crumpled the paper and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table to steady himself. It felt as if a dagger thrust from below had pierced his heart. He found it difficult to breathe. Memories of his beloved Grasmere Keep with his father, grandfather, Cecilia, Tom and Thorne had flashed across his mind like an album a magician was thumbing through. Then suddenly the album burst into flames, and a rage overpowered him as he made a ball out of the newspaper.
A couple sitting two tables away noticed, and the girl whispered to her boyfriend, looking his way.
‘Control, soldier!’ he commanded himself, shifting his mindset to a zone where only the imminent battle mattered. “You can’t fix what you can’t fix. But revenge will be mine. Friedrich Koenig is a dead man.”
After a sandwich and several coffees, while devising numerous ways to eliminate all those responsible for Grasmere Keep, he glanced at his phone and noticed it was quarter past five. He placed a 50 Euro note on the table and walked away from the café.
Nathaniel turned left onto Rue de Maubeuge, taking it easy. There was plenty of time. He needed it to be slightly dark for what he had in mind for the two watchdogs outside Philip’s house.
He relaxed his mind, as was his custom in battle preparation. His body became loose and flexible. He observed his surroundings with renewed attention and was struck by the coherence of Parisian architecture. Most buildings showcased Haussmann-era design, with uniform facades of cut stone and balconies adorned by intricate wrought-iron balustrades at regular intervals.
As he walked on towards Rue Condorcet, the commercial establishments gave way to more residential facades and the architectural details became even more prominent.
He turned left onto Rue Rodier, and immediately noticed its much quieter ambience. The street narrowed slightly, and the pace of life seemed to slow down. He found observing these details to be meditative.
Since it was still light, he waited at the crossroads for 15 minutes, by which time the light had begun to fade rapidly. Across the street, he saw a curio shop that catered to tourists looking for mementos of Paris. He walked into the shop.
Philip and Cecilia were by the window, watching the two men. “They smoke too much,” said Cecilia.
“Well, with these guys, I think a bullet, or a knife will get them before tobacco does - probably unfair,” Philip said sardonically.
Cecilia squeezed his hand, as Philip noticed a man about 70 meters away from the two bulldogs with a blanket over his head. He seemed to be inebriated and walking sideways in an ever-unsuccessful attempt at straightening his gait. Both Cecilia and Philip watched as the man got closer to the Albanians.
As the drunk staggered closer, he drew the attention of the men. He seemed to almost walk into them when one of them shouted, “regarde où tu vas, connard ivre,” (watch where you are going, you drunk asshole).
As Cecilia and Philip watched, the drunk swirled like a dervish, his left leg smashed into the abdomen of the man to the left, knocking the wind out of him as he hunched forward. At the same time, the drunk’s right hand caught the man on the right by the neck and brought his chin down hard on the drunk’s left knee, smashing his jawbone.
Still wearing the blanket, the drunk quickly dragged each man to the side of the street where there were two large trash bins. One green for recycling, the next grey for wet garbage. He dumped both bodies into the grey bins and threw his blanket in with them. Then he turned and walked towards the entrance of 15 A Rue De La Tour D’Auvergne.
“That’s my boy!” Philip said, his voice full of pride.
He ran to the door, opened it, and hugged Nathaniel. “You made it look easy,” said Philip.
“Punks! Amateurs!” Nathaniel said with contempt in his voice.
Cecilia rushed to the door and into Nathaniel’s embrace. “Oh, my dear boy! Am I glad to see you,” she exclaimed.
Nathaniel took her hands, led her inside, and they both settled on the large sofa, still hand in hand. Tears began to stream down Cecilia’s face. “I can’t believe they are all gone, Nathaniel. It’s just the two of us now.”
Nathaniel sat in silence for a few moments, then said, “it’s all my fault. I should have left the past where it belongs.”
Cecilia gripped his hands and commanded, “Don’t you ever say that to me, Nathaniel. Never! It was never your fault. Any of this. The fault lies with one man and one man only,” her voice laced with venom towards the end.
“Where is Annika?” Cecilia asked suddenly, her voice filled with dread.
“She is fine. She is with David and will be safe with him at Grasmere Keep. We have to leave immediately, before those goons wake up and come to visit Philip here,” said Nathaniel.
“Don’t worry about me, guys,” Philip said, showing off his Glock 19.
“Philip, I need to borrow your car. I prefer driving back to taking the train. I’m uncertain as to what awaits us in London should we return by train,” said Nathaniel.
“Of course, Nathaniel, but it’s a bloody long drive, don’t you think?” asked Philip.
“Best to keep to the roads and be unpredictable at this time, Philip,” replied Nathaniel.
Cecilia watched in silence as Nathaniel and Philip were discussing the plans. She felt like she was looking at a different man in Nathaniel. His speech, his mannerisms, and confidence all seemed new to Cecilia. She wondered if this was what Philip meant by the difference between Nathaniel and Captain Radcliffe. She looked at Nathaniel with newfound admiration and felt that her love for him knew no bounds. As it should be, she told herself.
Philip handed Nathaniel a Beretta 92 and a couple of magazines and said, “It has 15 rounds in it. But hang on to these as well. I hope you don’t get to use it.”
Nathaniel shoved the gun behind his trousers and pulled his jacket over it. “Thanks, mate, for everything. I’ll leave the car at Cecilia’s place on Grosvenor Square. You can pick it up any time. Ciao for now, brother,” and hugged Philip.
He turned around and took Cecilia’s hand and led her to the elevator. Philip handed him the keys and said, “It’s the black BMW right next to the elevator; you can’t miss it.” He waved them off as Nathaniel and Cecilia stepped into the elevator and descended to the basement garage.
They drove in silence till they were out of Paris and on the A1 towards the North. Nathaniel planned to take the A26 near Lens and head towards Calais for the ferry to Dover.
After a couple of hours of silence, Cecilia said, “Nathan.”
Nathaniel jolted out of his reverie. She had never called him by that name. He turned to Cecilia and noticed a change in her eyes. “What is it, Cecilia?”
“There is something you should know. Something I or Papa should have told you a long time ago…” Cecilia started sobbing.
Nathaniel was at a loss for words. He had never seen Cecilia cry, other than on screen. He felt the deep anguish in her; unlike anything he had seen. This was not Cecilia the consummate actress. She was struggling with an upheaval in her heart. He couldn’t bear to see her tormented like this.
He took the next exit ramp near the little town of Senlis and parked the car by a side road.
“What do you mean by ‘something I should know’?” he asked.
Cecilia, shaking, clasped both her hands together to steady them and said, “Nathaniel, you are not my brother. You are my son!”
Nathaniel was dumbfounded. He stared at her in disbelief. “You mean metaphorically?” he asked.
“No, Nathan. You are my flesh and blood: I gave birth to you when I was only 16. Papa wouldn’t have the scandal in the family, and had you adopted as his own son. All these years I longed to call you my son. And hold you like a mother should. I was too young and too stupid. I should never have allowed Papa to do that,” she sobbed as she spoke, her words breaking up.
No amount of military discipline could brace him for such a staggering truth. Elation mingled with a poignant sorrow within him. His life, it seemed, had been built on a half-truth, yet in this moment, he discovered a mother. He had always been led to believe that his mother, the wife of Sir William Radcliffe II, had died giving birth to him—a weight he had borne throughout his life. He held her in a tight embrace, allowing the tears to flow in silence. Words failed them both.
Cecilia clung to her son. She was afraid if she let go, he would turn to vapor and disappear into the cold night. She kissed his cheeks and brushed away his tears with a gentle touch that only a mother’s love could offer. “There, there, my dear son. Don’t you cry, and don’t ever think that all that has happened is your fault. This is mine. But then I have no regrets because my mistake brought you into this world. I would give up everything for this moment with you, to be able to call you ‘my son’.”
Nathaniel pulled away and asked abruptly, “so who is my real father?”
Cecilia let him go as fear spread across her face, he asked impossible question, a question the answer to which was dreadful even for her. ‘My God! It will kill him,’ she thought.
“Who, Cecilia?” he asked again.
“Friedrich Koenig,” she blurted out.
Nathaniel retched, turned pale. He opened the door, and stumbled out, continuing to retch until he started vomiting by the side of the road.
It felt as though his cranium was crushing his brain. He held his head, his knees bent, until he fell to the ground.
Cecilia opened the door and ran to him. “Nathaniel, my son. Oh! My baby! I am so sorry. My love, look at me. Please look at me,” she pleaded, sitting on the ground with him, holding him, and trying to get closer to him as if to protect him from all the evil in the world.
The silence between them was heavy and thick. After some time, Nathaniel stretched out on the ground, staring at the stars. Cecilia sat next to him, holding his hand for what seemed like an eternity. The street they had pulled into was parallel to the A1, and their silence was punctuated by the swishing of the occasional vehicle travelling along it.
It was getting close to midnight when Nathaniel suddenly sat up. He turned to Cecilia and said, as a matter of fact, “We should get going.”
Cecilia was confused. “Baby, you have nothing to tell me or ask me?” she asked. Nathaniel stood up and gave Cecilia his hand, pulling her up. He hugged her and whispered, “do you realize what this makes me?”
“What? It makes you, my son. A man to be admired and respected. An honest man, a just man. A man capable of love and compassion and kindness, nothing less,” she said.
“No, Cecilia. This means I belong to Hitler’s bloodline. This means I am that monster’s great grandson!” He almost spat the words out in disgust.
“But it means nothing, Nathan. You are nothing like them. You are all the things I just said to you. Please listen to me. Do not punish yourself about this. Blame me for it, please, don’t carry this burden with you for the rest of your life. You are a Radcliffe,” she said with the authority of a mother who knows best.
“There is only one way to remove this poison from my heart and mind,” he said with determination. “Let’s go, we still have a long drive ahead of us.” Cecilia obediently followed him into the car, and they set off towards Calais.
They reached London in the early hours of the morning and drove straight to her house on Grosvenor Square. Hardly a word was exchanged between them for the rest of their journey to London.
Nathaniel parked the car in front of Cecilia’s house, and the two made their way inside.
Nathaniel finally spoke tersely, “We leave for Grasmere Keep tonight. I am going to get some sleep. I suggest you do the same.”
His words, devoid of any emotion, cut through Cecilia’s heart like many scalpels. She turned and walked towards her bedroom, tears running down her cheeks. She thought her heart was going to explode.
20
It was a 6-hour drive from Grosvenor Square to Grasmere Keep, and Nathaniel did it in 5. Cecilia tried to chat with her son but did not elicit much from him in response. His silence was a stone in her heart.
Finally, when they reached Grasmere Keep around midnight, they found a ghost of the Keep they left only a few weeks ago. Oddly, both of them missed their father. For Nathaniel, the emotions were confusing but still warm, and the memories soothed him rather than agitate. There was security around the farm; the entrance was guarded by the police. The assassination of Sir William Radcliffe II, as the newspapers called it, sent shockwaves across the spectrum. The political world was shaken by a bold and audacious attack on one of the most respected men in the UK. The public was repulsed by the brutality of the assault. The death of the child was most traumatic to the people of the Lake District.
As he stepped out of the car, he turned to Cecilia, took her hand, and led her up the gravel path to the front door. She clasped his hand tightly. The spots where each of their family members and staff had bled to death were sectioned off with yellow police tape. A few other areas, where evidence had been discovered, were similarly secured.
Cecilia leaned against her son, and he held her closely. “It’s all right,” he said. “We will get through this, as Radcliffe’s always do. You better get some sleep.”
His words soothed Cecilia as she held him closer and kissed his hand. “good night my son,” she said.
Nathaniel walked towards Sir William’s study. He sat on the grand old chair, behind the grand oak desk and ran his fingers across the top, feeling its smoothness. He recalled his grandfather tell him about how his great, great, great grandfather had made it with his own hands over 150 years ago. He sat back and swiveled around to face the glass window with wrought iron frames. When and who replaced the ancient wooden windows that once framed the view, he wondered.
