The Traitor's Brand

PART~1

Bartholomew Bigelow

Butterworth

Brother~Betrothed~Bastard

1882~1913

CHAPTER ~ 1

THE LIEUTENANT COLONEL

His had become a peaceful life, simply using the skills he had developed while serving with the British army in India and South Africa. However, on this rather pleasant day, that idyllic simplicity he had grown to appreciate, was about to be ripped from him, and send him headlong into an investigation of death and tragedy that, for a time, would even transcend a world at war.

Lt. Col. James Wilson Horn

Lieutenant Colonel James Wilson Horn had retired from the army, a life he loved and though his service to the British Empire and his King would never truly end he was depressed and plagued by frightful dreams. After a miserable year or so of doing nothing, he decided to put his skills to use and pass the time productively by solving small mysteries. There were too few to keep him busy, yet it was a satisfying enough occupation to contemplate. He had a close friend who, for the second time became his investigative partner.

It was Major Anthony Hillman, with whom he tested and refined those special skills over many years in the army.

During the recent war in South Africa, they had travelled under cover in enemy territory, gathering intelligence. It seemed appropriate that in peace time, they should continue to work together in the same way.

Major Anthony Hillman

Both bachelors, James and Anthony had their own flats in a house James owned in London. Sergeant George Findley served with them in the field and was fatally wounded in a skirmish against a handful of Boer guerrillas. As he lay dying, he asked James and Anthony if they would look in on his wife Sylvia from time to time, just to see that she was doing alright. He was a good friend and a thoroughly decent man, so of course they promised they would.

To keep their promise James brought her up to London and employed her to run his house and look after them. It was an arrangement which satisfied all involved. Save for the fact that Mrs. Findley was rather talkative, and forever listening at keyholes.

Their practice of private and independent investigation had several high-profile successes. For that reason, since 1909 James and Anthony had become loosely connected, through the joint initiative of the Admiralty and the War Office, to what is now called the Secret Intelligence Service (SIS).

During those times when there was nothing of national importance to investigate, and those times seemed to last forever, they worked on their own to pursue civilian investigations and pleasurable pastimes.

James, a decent artist, had engaged in a hobby, for want of a better word, which allowed him to rest his brain from the stress of city living. His objective, while remaining in the city, was to be in peaceful surroundings and out of doors. He chose to wander the parks and cemeteries of London in search of interesting things to note and draw.

On this pleasant day in late June, he was ambling through the Brompton Cemetery, armed with a sketchbook, a box of pencils and other materials he might need if a subject appealed to him.

His method of finding that particular thing that spoke to him was to scan beyond the ubiquitous crosses and slabs of stone faded by years of weather, and to seek out the unusual. Those objects which most people would never see, works of art which had employed imagination, personality and, even in some instances, whimsy. With drawing materials in hand, he would study and sketch them. If he found one of particular beauty he would record it in fine detail. As well, he even transcribed the odd epitaph that amused him, and some were very odd indeed.

What caught his eye on this day was a stone that stood out because it was so new, bright and polished amongst the faded tablets. This ‘new boy’ had two distinct points of interest. The first was the rather cryptic and rude inscription: Brother, Betrothed, Bastard.

The second was a design, chiselled with the same care as the inscription, but on the right edge of the stone and as a veteran of the South African War, James found its message very disturbing. When referring to a man, as this design most certainly was, there could only be one possibility as far as James could see. The man who lay rotting beneath that stone had been branded as a traitor.

****

The Origin of the Brand

Though the war against the Boers had ended twelve years since, James could never forget that mark. Having noted the name of the deceased and the insulting epitaph, he sketched the mark then began his journey home.

It was while he was walking to the exit that a second idea struck him. This inscription and the added mark encapsulated a mystery that could provide him with some measure of entertainment. With a little more spring in his step, he set off in search of the caretaker’s office.

The Brand

The man he spoke with would not readily be engaged in conversation, and limited his comments to a few grunts, a nod or two, and the telephone number of the management authority. That was enough to get him started, so he hired a cab and headed for home.

Immediately following his return to Number 5 Warwick Square he called the agency and had a brief conversation with a clerk in the cemetery’s office. It seemed, he thought, that the staff of the Cemetery Management, had been chosen because of their utter lack of conversational skill. Though the exchange was far from entertaining, the information he received served to provide a touch of drama to the mystery.

There was apparently, no family involvement in the purchase of the plot, the burial, or the headstone. The transactions were conducted through the offices of a solicitor representing the deceased, by a second anonymous client. Isn’t that a rather odd bit of business? James asked.

It’s got nothing to do with me, sir. I simply assigns the plots and keeps the records. You want to know more, then I suggest you go ask the solicitor.

So, that is precisely what James planned to do and telephoned to make an appointment. The firm was located in the Flat-Iron building on the West Strand, and the solicitor was Mr. Fenton J. Hardcastle, QC, of the firm Young, Thurborn, Davidson, and Hardcastle. He agreed to see him the next morning at 10:00. James arrived for his appointment precisely at 10:00 am.

It never ceased to amaze him, how the smells of the city permeated everything. Humanity’s ability to replace the sweet smells of the open country was a never ending source of regret. Yet that slight breeze that followed him as he entered the front room was further tainted by the smell of the perfume introduced to ameliorate it. The unwashed bodies of the gaggle of clerks, and stale tobacco smoke went unnoticed by the people within, but were a momentary shock to the system for James. All could be banished, he thought, by the introduction of an open window or two.

His welcome was equally bracing with the less than cordial greeting from a Dickensian horror known as Mr. Hickory Stoat, the firm’s clerk. With a nasal voice that matched his twig-like stature he said, I feel that I must remind you, sir, that Mr. Hardcastle is extremely busy, and his time is precious to the firm. See that you don’t waste it.

Narrowing his gaze, James removed his glasses and looked down on Mr. Stoat with a raised eyebrow, and with as much calm as he could muster, replied, An appointment was scheduled for ten o’clock this morning, was it not?

He sneered, Apparently so.

That rudeness did not sit well with James. His temper rose quickly when confronted by such behaviour and his voice dropped low and menacing as a lion’s does when meeting a rival. Apparently so?

The fear response was as intended, and realizing that he overstepped, Stoat recalibrated his tone and posture to explain himself, Colonel Horn. If you will permit me, I meant only that…

Let me stop you before you waste anymore of my time. Show me to Mr. Hardcastle’s chambers at once.

Of course, sir. This way. As quickly as his attitude had improved, the old Stoat returned. When they arrived at the office door he pushed it open and barked, Mr. Hardcastle."

From somewhere buried behind the stacks of files and books there lurked the man James had come to see. Yes, Stoat, what is it?

Your ten o’clock is here, he announced, then scurried away.

So soon? The disembodied voice grumbled. The sound had come from a dark place near the far window. Good heavens. Well, show him in if you must.

James surveyed the cluttered chamber. It would seem that I am already in, Mr. Hardcastle.

Oh, what? Uh, well that’s… uh fine. There was a rustling of papers and frustrated breathing. Where did I leave my… oh, they’re right here. Splendid.

The office had every appearance of a work in progress, and from that James began to form an opinion of the man that was quite different than the one who welcomed him. The whitewashed walls were bare save for the framed diplomas from the colleges where he absorbed his profession. Simple but sturdy wooden shelves lined two walls and were filled with precedent setting cases and law journals.

His cluttered desk was piled so high with documents marked read and to be read that he was all but invisible behind it all.

He was overworked to be sure and seemed to be truly uninterested in the usual trappings of his profession, but keenly interested in the law. Before laying his eyes on him, James felt an instant sympathy for the man.

He stood, combed back his thinning hair with his bony fingers and smiled, allowing James the opportunity to see the man for the first time since entering the office. Colonel Horn, is it?

Yes, a pleasure Mr. Hardcastle, good morning. Reaching over the precarious mess James performed a perfunctory handshake. Is it? I often wonder, he said, glancing at the door with quiet humour. The way people avoid me around here one might think I am diseased. Now, to the question that brought you here. Have a seat… if you can find one.

Thank you, He lighted on the chair that Hardcastle apparently had not seen in years. Then parting the stack of papers as if it was the Red Sea. Aha, there you are, he said, as he sat, almost disappearing again.

Hello again, James uttered with a smile he couldn’t resist. I am given to understand that your office arranged for the burial of Mr. Bartholomew Bigelow Butterworth.

Did we? asked the aging solicitor, as if it was something crucial that he may have missed. I don’t seem to recall... Uh... Mmmm… Uh… Oh… wait just a... a… Butterworth, Bartholomew…Patience, patience ‘B’ for Butterworth. James had become quite used to dealing with his fellow Englishmen’s eccentricities, and this one seemed rather likeable. Oh yes… Tut-tut-tut, silly of me. It should be in this book... uh... no. He set aside the large ledger, turning his attention to a small notebook which his fingers happened to find within the cavernous jumble on his desk.

Yes… this seems to show some promise... uh-hah, this is it. Thumbing through it from back to front, he asked, What year would that have been?

James smiled. Nineteen-hundred-and-thirteen.

Uh hah… thirteen… thirteen… oh yes, finally, here we are. Butterworth, Bartholomew Bigelow. He recited the name as if calling from the attendance at school. Billing? No, that is not what we want. Uhhh… I’m terribly sorry, I... am usually... much more... He was about to give up when his eyes brightened, and he actually smiled. Oh, at last. How simply marvellous. Yes, ‘B’ for Butterworth, it is coming back to me now. A strange situation, that one, as I recall. I believe there was no family left in England to take care of his estate, so the client left the details to his friend, uh Mr. ... oh yes, wishes to remain anonymous. He laughed briefly.

Almost gave it away, didn’t I? Looking over the rims of his spectacles. He took it upon himself to act as the executor for the estate. It was quite a small undertaking as Mr. Butterworth had little left to his name. He saw to all the final arrangements through our good offices and paid the outstanding costs.

A fairly routine business, was it?

Not a bit of it, he sputtered quickly, and took off his glasses. Not the usual sort of thing at all. I was given very specific instruction as to the style of stone to select, and what was to be inscribed upon it. There was to be no reference to any religion and, as I recall, there was some sort of profanity in the text of the engraving. I could look it up for you ...

There is no need, I have seen the stone.

Have you now? Well, thank heavens for that.

There was a symbol engraved on the side of the tablet, James said, leading the man to the second point of his visit.

Uh Hah. What extraordinary business, not the sort of thing one puts on a grave marker.

How was it described to you?

I can do better than describe it. The man gave me a drawing which I passed along to the stone mason. Here, see for yourself. He held up the page. Very odd. I have no idea at all as to what it represented. I suspect that, as with the text, there was something rude and unsavoury about it. I suspect some boys will never grow up. None of my business, of course. I merely execute the wishes of the client.

Of course.

He continued, A lot of fuss about nothing I thought. And then stopped, eyeing James closely. He was a shrewd old man and curious too. But since it seems to interest you, perhaps I was mistaken?

He was possibly hoping for something to make this trip down memory lane more interesting. James let his question hang in the air for a moment before he answered. To be perfectly truthful, it was simply a matter of personal curiosity.

Uh hah, I see.

And now that I have uncovered all there is to it, I can dismiss the matter and move on.

"Mumm, humm, well I suppose it’s for