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The weakening light of the last day of October cast long shadows across the road in front of us. It was approaching four and we should have been at Aunt Margaret's a couple of hours ago. God knows we had left Beverley with plenty of time to spare. What I had not counted on was getting some dirty fuel when we stopped at Pickering. At least I presume that is where we got it. Normally I am very careful about what fuel goes into my MG 14/28 Super Sports, but needs must, and I had to refuel at a garage just outside the town. We had not been driving for more than another twenty minutes when the engine started to splutter, finally stopping with an awful cough. Usually the sign of some interruption in the fuel supply.
Fortunately Gerry, my secretary, is a pipe smoker so he had some pipe cleaners in his luggage. Doubly fortunate, he had been my mechanic in the Royal Flying Corp during the war, so knows a thing or two about engines. In fact he knows most things mechanical, coming as he does from one of the Midland's leading engineering dynasties. Despite that it still took him about an hour to clean out all the pipes. He used one of my silk kerchiefs to fashion a temporary filter that he put over the pipe leading to the fuel pump.
"Might well get clogged up again before we get there," Gerry stated. "At least if it does I will only have to clean out that one point. We should still make your Aunt's before nightfall."
"I hope so," I responded. "Don't want to be stuck out here at night."
"What's up, old chap? Scared of hobgoblins?"
"Not scared, just wary. Strange things happen out here on the moors," I responded.
"Come off it Michael, it's 1925, those sorts of beliefs went out of date with the War."
"In Town maybe. But probably not around this part of the country," I pointed out.
We mulled that over in silence as I willed the car onwards. With a bit of luck we would be able to make it.
Once we were over the next rise, it would only be about a mile or so to Timbuklan House and downhill all the way. As we crested the rise the house came into view, appearing to float over the low mist that arose from the moor. At that point the engine started to splutter. I dropped the gears into neutral and allowed the car to coast down towards the house. Fortunately, we picked up enough momentum on the run down to the entrance that I was able to turn the car sharply into the drive and run up it nearly to the door.
Aunt Margaret opened the door as we drew to a stop.
"You took that turn a bit fast, didn't you, dear" my father's sister stated as she embraced me and kissed me in the French style, one peck on each cheek.
"Not much choice really. I got some dodgy fuel and the engine cut at the top of the rise. Case of take the corner at speed or push the car up the drive," I replied.
"And I suppose you would have used Gerald to do the pushing," she commented, giving Gerry a hug and peck on each cheek. She slipped her arm into Gerry's. "Leave your luggage, I'll send Baines out to deal with it. Better get Evans to look at the car."
"I'll have a word with him," Gerry said. "He'll need to know about the lash up I did."
Aunty smiled. "You are such a clever man, Michael is so lucky to have you."
On that I had to agree.
Aunt Margaret guided Gerry into the house, I followed on behind. On the way in I commented on the surprising lack of cars. I had expected there would be a large turnout for my Aunt's sixtieth birthday. Even though she had virtually exiled herself to the wilds of the North Yorkshire Moors, as the Dowager Duchess of Kilamorgan she was one of the leading lights in establishment society Her attraction might be due to the small fact that she had been able to bail out quite a few of them with helpful loans. As one political scribbler had stated, at least a third of the upper house owed monies to the Dowager Duchess, at least another third would like to.
I suspected that one reason Aunt Margaret placed herself here at Timbuklan House was so that she could not be accused of dabbling in politics. Mind you, I also suspected that she probably had a direct phone line to Baldwin. The couple of times I had been with the Prime Minister when my aunt had been mentioned, he had almost blanched. Not that I could blame him, I have seen my aunt on the warpath a couple of times. It is enough to make anybody blanch.
"They are all over at Tampanton today. The Nesbits, those parvenus that bought the estate last year, are putting on a shoot." The tone of her statement made it clear that my aunt disapproved of blood sports. "No doubt my brother is wasting a fortune, one he hasn’t got, on the shot needed for him to massacre hundreds of defenceless birds.”
"Uncle George is here?" I asked, knowing full well she could not be referring to my father, who was out in India running a patch of Empire on behalf of the Viceroy.
"Of course he is," Aunt Margaret stated. "You don't expect him to miss out on free board and lodgings and the chance to massacre defenceless creatures do you? He arrived on Monday and I have no doubt will hang on till the last. I doubt I will be rid of him before the Christmas season starts."
"You might have him till the New Year then," I stated.
"Not a chance," Aunty replied. "I've decided to winter in Nice. Thought I would take my time going down, spend a few weeks in Paris on the way. Leaving on the fourteenth."
"I'm sure Lindsey will be happy to see you," I commented. Aunty laughed. Her relationship with Lindsey St Just was widely known, but it had always been conducted in such a manner, even when the Duke was alive, that nobody could take offence. Unlike my relationship with Gerry: Uncle George had definitely taken offence to me having 'that man' living with me.
Aunty must have guessed what I was thinking. "Don't worry about George, I doubt he will say anything inappropriate," she stated as we entered the withdrawing room. She pulled the bell cord to summons the service.
"Why not, he always has in the past," I commented.
"Dunlievin is here, with John Mitchell," Aunt Margaret replied. Just then Baines came in, my aunt ordered tea and some light refreshments, stating that dinner would be late due to the hunting party. Baines was instructed to ask the parties in the library to join us. She then continued. "Even my brother knows better than to say anything that might reflect on that relationship."
I had to smile at that information. The Duke of Dunlievin was probably one of the richest men in Britain, he was certainly one of the most politically powerful. He was also openly in a relationship with the war hero, John Mitchell.
Just then the door opened and was held for a beautiful woman to enter. I had not seen my cousin, Elizabeth Hallard for some five years, but her beauty had not diminished. If anything it had grown since our last meeting. Behind her the Reverend Paul Hallard, her husband entered, to be followed by John Mitchell.
Both Gerry and I stood as Beth entered the room. I had known her from childhood. Gerry had first met her when she had been nursing me after my kite had come down in no man's land in January nineteen eighteen. I had been lucky to survive the prang. Gerry had been posted to a training role at Waddington and taken the opportunity to visit me as I convalesced at the family seat near Boston. It seemed he was blaming himself for my crash as he had entrusted the service of my plane to another mechanic.
It was during that weekend that we both declared how we felt about each other. Beth had been witness to the events and have given us her tacit approval. Unfortunately, Uncle George had also been there and had demanded that Gerry immediately leave the house, denying him the use of the phone, even though it was late at night and a four mile walk to Boston. I learnt later that Beth had gone to the stables, saddled a couple of horses and gone after Gerry. She had found him about a mile down the road to Boston. Got him mounted and rode to Boston with him, then brought the horses back. Unfortunately, Gerry had never ridden a horse before and found the whole experience something of an ordeal.
As things turned out the following week I was deemed fit for light duty and the powers that be also posted me to Waddington to train new recruits. There I was able to establish my relationship with Gerry, which we have managed to maintain ever since.
Of course, our relationship was illegal thanks to the eighteen eighty-five Labouchere Amendment. The amendment was introduced to the Sexual Offences act as a way to attack the Duke of Clarence, whose proclivities were well known in certain sections of society. Not that it had much impact in that direction. It was the working and middle class men who got caught up by the act. Those with family connections were fairly immune against any police action, no matter how open their relationships were to the public gaze.
I greeted Beth, then Paul, then I turned to John Mitchell.
"Nice to see you again," I commented. "How is James?"
"Very upset at being the Duke of Dunlievin," John Mitchell stated.
"Why, he's known he was in line for the title for years," I pointed out.
"Yes, but he had expected to have many more before it descended upon him," John informed me. I could appreciate that. James' grandfather had died at the ripe old age of ninety seven, in nineteen eighteen a few weeks after the armistice he had been so instrumental in bringing about. The title had gone to James' uncle, who had died last year at the expected three score years and ten. Unfortunately, James' father, who was considerably younger, did not long outlive his brother, dying a few months ago.
I had been out of the country at the time, so had not made the funeral or seen either James or John since. Even with some shelter from prosecution that my position in society gives us, in general Gerry and I prefer the more liberal attitude to our relationship that exists in Paris and Berlin.
We had just seated ourselves when the maid brought tea in. Aunt Margaret asked John what he was doing these days.
"The normal you know, for a university tutor," he replied. "Mostly looking into working class social movements in Europe." It was a glib answer and one which I suspected had a great deal of truth in it. After all John Mitchell was a senior tutor at the London School of Economics and word was he was in line for a chair as soon as one became vacant or was created. One suspected the later was probably more likely.
I could not avoid thinking of the rumours I had heard of the Consultative Intelligence Committee and John's possible involvement with it. However, the existence of such a group was always denied, so John could not be involved with it, but if it did exist, being a university professor would be a perfect cover for the type of thing John was rumoured to be doing. One thing was certain, John always seemed a lot better informed than most people around him were, that included a lot of leading politicians.
"Don't tell me James is off shooting?" I said.
"No, he's upstairs resting," John replied. "There was some sort of panic at the Foreign Office and he was there all night. Didn't come home till gone seven this morning and we had to be on the eight thirty for York. He finds it impossible to sleep on trains so as soon as we got here he collapsed. He’s catching up on sleep so he can face the trials of dinner tonight."
"Are you intimating that my dinners are a trial?" Aunt Margaret asked.
"My dear lady, your dinners are not the trial, it's your guests that are the problem."
"Oh I do hope that my brother does not start giving you or Gerry problems," Aunt Margaret sighed.
"Get him talking about Africa," the Reverend Hallard suggested. His wife smiled at him. "Once onto one of his tales of the great white hunter he is unstoppable and won't talk about anything else."
"He probably doesn't want anybody asking what he was really up to in Africa," John commented. From the seriousness of his expression I thought John must know something that led him to say that.
"What do you mean?" Aunt Margaret said.
"Nothing particular," John stated. "It just one hears things."
"Do tell," said Beth.
"No, I couldn't," John replied.
The telephone in the hall rang. Baines came through to inform Aunt Margaret that the hunting party was leaving Tampanton House.
"They'll be here in an hour," Aunt Margaret stated. "Tell cook we will dine in two hours please Baines."
"Better make it two and a half," suggested John. "That fog is getting awfully thick. It will slow down their return across the moor."
Aunt Margaret agreed to the suggestion but went on to add that we might like to take the opportunity to freshen up and change for dinner. We all took the hint that had been given.
As we entered the main hallway, I pulled John aside and asked what he meant about Uncle George and Africa. I wondered if he knew more than the snippets I had heard about his activities around the time of the Second Boer War.
"Look Michael, there's nothing official but some people have asked some questions about your uncle. He's seems to have acquired a lot more funds than could have been expected of a White Hunter."
"What are you suggesting?" I asked.
"I'm not suggesting anything," John replied. "It's just that your uncle seems to have been better connected with some of the Muslim leaders in those parts than one might have expected."
I had to accept that John would not tell me anything more, so thanked him and made my way up to my room.
Gerry and I wandered down to the ground floor about two hours later. We had been expecting the first gong for dinner, but it had not sounded so we thought we better find out what was going on. Just as we came down the stairs the hunting party came in. Lady Dorothy, an old school friend of Aunt Margaret, and her husband, Sir Richard, led the way, followed by their son Martin and a young lady I did not know. Behind them came Uncle George. He looked up at us as we came down the stairs.
"Back in the country are you Michael?"
"Yes, Uncle George," I replied.
"See you've still got that hanger-on," he sniffed.
"Gerald is my companion and my secretary in that order," I stated.
My uncle was about to say something, but Aunt Margaret interrupted to inform me that James and John were in the Billiard Room and could probably do with somebody to play with. We made our way to the Billiard Room. As we approached I noticed the door was partially open.
John greeted us as we entered. "Heard him starting on you," he stated.
"Yes but aunty intervened," I replied.
"Be careful," James advised. "I wouldn't put it past George to rush into your room hoping to find you in a compromising position."
"Surely not!" I exclaimed.
"Unfortunately I think James is right," John responded. "Shaw called it 'Middle Class Morality' in Pygmalion. I think it is more a case of middle class pseudo-respectability. They love to show others up just to show how moral and respectable they are."
"But Uncle George is definitely not middle class and he is certainly not respectable. Even I've heard rumours of what he got up to in Africa during the Second Boer War and after."
"That may be the case, but most of the people he is in contact with don't know him, they only know the persona he presents. That is one of middle class respectability," John stated. "They crave to be part of a group, to have fixed rules that give them status. To be part of a group you have to define who is not part of that group. Our kind are easy targets.
"Mussolini is already describing us as being degenerates and hinting that we should be excluded from society. That maniac down in Munich is worse."
"At least he's not in power," I pointed out.
"Not yet but I would not count on him being out of power very long," John stated.
"Really John, I think you are being a bit pessimistic there," James commented. "I've read the Foreign Office briefings and they are saying he is a harmless nationalist fanatic. Anyway, his putsch failed, they've only just let him out of prison. He's lost all credibility."
"James, no nationalist fanatic can be harmless," John pointed out. "Since his release from prison in January he has been stirring up trouble. He is attracting a lot of middle class support."
"I thought he had been banned from public speaking," James said as he racked the red balls on the table.
"He has been, after the incident in February following his release," John confirmed. We tossed a coin for break, John won. "Actually the fact he has been banned might be working for him. Some of his deputies are far more acceptable to the middle class than Hitler is."
"I got the impression that he was leading a workers' party," I stated.
"Yes, both Mussolini and Hitler started off with a workers' party," John responded. "They needed disillusioned unemployed workers to give them a start. However, both had to turn to the middle class to get support and acceptability. The middle class are very good at turning a blind eye to what they don't want to see, so they do not see the brutality that both employ to support their position. If you are an opponent of either the Fascists or Nazis you are likely to find yourself beaten up or worse.”
As if to emphasise his point, John made the break, smashing the white into the cluster with such force that the reds were scattered all around the table.
"It is the middle class,” John continued, “who are providing the funds the Nazis use to pay the thugs they call Sturmtruppen to smash the offices of newspapers that print articles critical of Hitler. It's their money that funds the thugs who push liberal lawyers into dark side allies and then kick them to death."
"But Uncle George is not middle class," I pointed out.
"Then what is he?" James asked. "Think about it. He does not have a courtesy title does he?"
"No, his father died before he inherited the main title," I responded. "It went directly to his older half-brother."
"And your father holds a title doesn't he?"
"Yes, but he is the oldest son of my grandmother's second marriage to my grandfather, after George's father died."
"So, he is not in either line of succession," John pointed out. "He feels left out. He really does not feel part of the aristocracy, even though he is born into it. He's made his home in the upper middle class and is comfortable there, with their ideals and prejudices. They are making their influence felt more and more each year."
"Mackenzie got six months at York last week," James informed me, changing the subject.
"What!" I exclaimed.
"Yes, he and Peter were caught at it in the hay loft" James stated. "Mackenzie got off with six months at the magistrates."
"What about Peter?" I asked.
"Peter's a stable hand, he's been sent to the Assizes, he's looking at two years," James said.
"But Mackenzie and Peter have been together for years," I pointed out.
"We know," John replied. "Somebody was out to get them."
"You can be fairly sure about that," James said. "Apparently the chap who walked in on them is de Lorrain's chauffer."
"De Lorrain, isn't he one of Uncle George's pals?" I asked.
"Yes he is," James replied. "William de Lorrain and your uncle are both founder members of the Society for Morality and Standards."
"Never heard of it," I commented.
"Not surprising, they only set themselves up a few months ago," James informed me. "That Mosley fellow is also a member."
"Wasn't he deselected by the Tories?" Gerry asked, re-joining the conversation after he had made an excellent effort at clearing the open reds. 
"Bit hard to say which came first, his deselection or him becoming an independent, word is that he will be joining labour at the next election," John said.
"It really does not matter all that much whether he jumped or was pushed. I know the high ups in the party were not happy about him," James informed us. "I suspect he probably moved before they could do anything about him. Since then he has become something of a rabble rouser.
"Anyway, both your uncle and de Lorrain are in the SMS. One thing they have been doing recently is pushing for cases to be taken to court. You know the standard procedure on a first offence has been a caution. They've been campaigning to put a stop to that.
"It also looks as if they have adopted a policy of outing couples in ways that ensure they are prosecuted. Hence de Lorrain's chauffeur walking into a place where he had no reason to be and catching Mackenzie and Peter. Ten years ago the chap would have been told to mind his own bloody business, now Mackenzie has six months and Peter's facing two years."
"That's bloody unfair on Peter," Gerry stated. "Why wasn't he dealt with in the magistrates."
"Don't know but we can guess. I had a word with Uncle David on Friday before we came north. Hopefully, he can pull some strings on Peter's behalf," James stated. "The result of course is more of us are taking up residency in Paris or Berlin."
"I would advise Paris," John stated. "Berlin is too unstable."
"Be careful," James advised. "I have the advantage I can demand trial by the House, which I am sure they would wish to avoid. Unfortunately neither you, John nor Gerry have that right. Though they might have a problem dragging war heroes into the courts."
"Gerry did just as much in the war as I did," I pointed out.
"I know that, but you were the flying ace and John was dashing around Arabia, following Lawrence. Gerry was a mechanic. Doesn't play that well."
Just then the tam-tam rang out with the first gong for dinner. Gerry looked at the table and commented we probably just had time to finish the game. James agreed. There were two reds and the colours left. It was John's shot. A few minutes later the table was cleared. We congratulated each other on the game and made our way to the reception room just as the second gong sounded.
Sir Richard and Lady Dorothy were already there, talking to Aunt Margaret. Baines came over to us with a tray of Amontillado sherries. He offered it first to James.
"Your Grace."