THE NEXT OF KIN AFFAIR
Illya Kuryakin did not know why he was here. The peaceful setting was so incongruous to his dark mood. He stood before a cheerful stone cottage amid riotous cascades of blooms and fragrance and color and sunshine. It was too soon. He had been surrounded by flowers at the funeral. Barbarous custom, decking the dead with the living.
He knocked and a pleasant woman, smelling of clover and cinnamon, opened her door to him.
"Miss Frances Dalton?" he inquired solemnly.
"Yes..."
He cleared his throat. "I am here on behalf of Napoleon Solo..." and she swooned into his arms.
# # # # #
"I'm sorry." Frannie stirred to the sensation of Kuryakin gently rubbing the underside of her wrists with his thumb. "I've been expecting you...dreading you, really, for a week or so...since Mr. Solo failed to keep a long-standing appointment. Tea, perhaps?" she suggested irrelevantly, elbowing herself up from the couch. "Yes, tea," she repeated, " that's just the ticket."
She rose mechanically and marched resolutely under the arch toward the kitchen. Then she slowed, faltered, leaned against the wall and whimpered like an orphaned kitten.
Damn. Damsel in distress. That was Napoleon's province. Illya sprinted to her side, gingerly patting her shoulder. Who was this woman, and why had Napoleon named her as his next-of-kin? That was why he was here, he admitted to himself. Not for her comfort, but for his curiosity.
"Line of duty?" she whispered, not looking at him.
Kuryakin nodded.
"Ah. Well." As if these singular syllables summarized the situation. "You're certain? You were with him?"
"Yes." I was there. I couldn't stop it. I couldn't save him. The same guilt that had been revolving around his head for days had followed him all the way to New Hampshire. But Illya felt no accusation projecting from her, just grief, soaking slowly through every cell.
"How dreadful for you," Frannie finally engaged his eyes in empathy.
"How is it possible-" the Russian cut off his thought abruptly. He had always considered himself the more reticent partner. Now he was confronted with some clandestine companion of Solo's-"Forgive me, Miss Dalton, for bringing such news. I was his partner, for nearly ten years."
"So was I, for nearly a dozen," she replied softly, but not as if in competition for grief. There was enough of that to share. "Well, not partner, precisely." Frannie blushed, and he was glad, for it brought some color back to her face.
"He listed you as next of kin," Illya explained.
She understood instantly. "So someone would let me know if-when-. Napoleon was always so thoughtful. I think maybe I can manage that tea, now. " The cups and saucers rattled in her hands, but she steadied them and proceeded to concentrate on preparing the ritual.
"He never mentioned you. Ever." In his grief, Illya never considered how cold and dismissive his statement was. All he was capable of feeling was his own absurd sense of betrayal.
"He never wanted me to be part of that life. He called me his island of serenity. We teased about it," she smiled fondly. "Frannie," he'd say, "when you are ready to experience life instead of merely cataloging it-I'm a librarian, you see,-I'll take you to New York." And I'd demure, and counter, "when you are ready for peace and stability, you're welcome to plant your roots here." So you see," she shrugged, " all these years later and we still live miles apart..."
Kuryakin felt himself drawn into his partner's last remaining mystery. "How did you meet?"
Frannie smiled at the memory. "We had An Adventure. Then he kissed me good-bye and caught the train into the sunset."
"And you kept in touch..."
"Oh, no," she shook her head emphatically. "No letters, no phone calls. I don't know if he thought of me at all during the next 364 days and nights. But come September 9, 1963, one year after he kissed me good-bye, he was standing at my door with a handful of forget-me-nots. Oh, Napoleon, master of the grand gesture...There were no promises exchanged, we each had our own lives, free to flirt or whatever. But come September 9, 1964 he was knocking at my door. The rendezvous just sort of evolved into tradition. Our sweet reunion, once a year."
It was a personal question, but the agent had to know. "And that ..ah..arrangement was enough for you?"
She made a face that translated: typical obtuse male. "Of course not. But you understand, with Napoleon Solo one suspended ordinary expectations. We cherished what we had and didn't whine over any lack. Although, now I wish he had let me keep something...a photograph, a letter, a cufflink..." and Solo's Secret began to cry quietly and Illya wisely let her.
Kuryakin's hand went into his pocket, and he reached for the security of the two jacket buttons. They had become a strange sort of talisman for him, the buttons from Napoleon's favorite Italian silk suit. He rolled them over and over between his fingers and thought of his partner. Thought of this woman who meant so much to him. Thought that there was indeed enough grief to share.
"Miss Dalton...Frannie..." he held out one button to her. "It's not much, it's just-"
"His," she said firmly, recognizing it. "It's enough. Thank you."
Illya felt as if a burden had lifted from his spirit. Perhaps tonight they would all rest in peace.
finis