The Night of the Absentee Agent

Chapter 8

A New Experience

Over the next week or two, Marshall and Artie got to know Mr Mayberry better and Marsh turned out to be right. Mayberry had taken to Artie and was always keen to hear about his assignments with the Secret Service. After the ship had docked in Queenstown, Cork, it travelled on to Southampton, by which time Artie had been issued an invitation to stay at Mayberry's house until his return to the United States. The Englishman also insisted that Artie stay at his London club when he needed to visit the US Embassy.

While on board ship, Artie had written two letters. One he posted to the US Embassy in London the other was a report for Colonel Richmond, which would be dispatched on the next ship bound for New York. After being processed, the three companions then travelled by train as far as Lambourn where they piled into a dog cart, which took them, with his trunks, to Mayberry's estate.

"Well, here we are, gentlemen," Mayberry said, alighting and leading them to the front door of the Georgian country house. "Come inside and I'll get you settled in."

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After being shown to their rooms, both men decided they needed a bath and, as Artie soaked in the luxuriously hot, soapy water, he decided that this was the life for him. He only wished Jim was there to share it with him, (the life, not the bath).

Just as he had pried himself from the comfort of the bathtub, there was a knock on the door and on saying, "enter!" there appeared a young man, in servant's livery, who carefully laid a pile of clothing on the bed. "With the compliments of Mr Mayberry's valet, Sir. He hopes Sir will find these garments satisfactory." Having finished the words he'd been sent to say he added, "just some togs, belonging to the master, that he thought you might like to borrow while you're staying here, Sir."

"Thanks," Artie replied with a smile. "I had been kind of wondering what I was going to wear."

"There's an outfit there suitable for the country, Sir, and some walking boots. Don't worry about what to wear to dinner. When you come up to change later you'll find everything necessary for the evening, laid out on the bed, Sir."

"That's awfully good of you," Artie said, feeling him self already starting to play the part of a country squire. He walked over to the young man, "I'm sorry I can't give you any recompense but I'm a little strapped for cash at the moment."

"Good Lord, Sir, Mr Mayberry wouldn't hear of such a thing. My wages are very generous and it's a pleasure to wait on such a nice gentleman like your self. Is there anything else I can do for you, Sir?"

"No thank you...?"

"Alfred, Sir. If you want anything just pull that cord over there. Good morning, Sir."

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While Artie was getting dressed in the sort of clothing he'd worn many times before when in disguise, Marshall was not at all sure about the clothes he'd been given, especially the trousers that were made of something called tweed. Shrugging, he put them on, along with the shirt, and jacket and looked at himself dubiously in the mirror. He supposed he'd have to get used to it if he wanted to remain in England.

He met Artie on the half landing, where they grinned at each other's appearance and then continued down the stairs together, to the library, where their host awaited them.

"Thought you'd like a drink before luncheon, I usually do," he said, holding out a glass of sherry to each of them. They thanked him and sat down to savour their aperitifs. "I thought we'd rest up for the remainder of the day, get our land-legs back, so to speak. Then, perhaps you'd like to go riding tomorrow, Artemus, while Marshall and I get to grips with the tasks that have built up in my absence from the stables?"

"I'd like that very much," Artie said. "This is my first visit to England and I'm looking forward to seeing something of the local area."

"That's settled then," Mayberry said.

At that moment a servant appeared to announce that luncheon was served and the men repaired to the dining room.

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Early the next morning, Artie was up and dressed in cream jodhpurs, caramel hacking jacket and black riding hat. He had once again been forced to raid his host's wardrobe, with his blessing, and was also wearing a pair of Mayberry's knee-high, black leather riding boots. He looked and felt every inch the country gentleman, as he set off for the stables.

He was met by a groom who gave him a leg-up onto a large chestnut mare. Artie hadn't really thought about what sort of saddle he would be using and was slightly appalled to find that it was the small, neat, English version. He had never used one before and felt a little unsafe as he trotted over the cobbles and into an adjoining field. He cut across it, still trying to accustom himself to the difference in riding style needed to accommodate the saddle, before taking a well-trodden path into the adjoining woods. He could see that they rose upwards into the distance, ending on the crown of a hill, from which he was looking forward to enjoying the view. He kept the mare at a trot, as he negotiated the odd low-hanging branch and protruding tree root and then the path opened out into a proper track and he pushed to horse to a canter.

The morning air was cool and moist, as the horse's hooves flicked up leaf mould and the odd chunk of soil, while the birds sang in the branches above him. As the sun rose higher, some warmth slowly began to penetrate onto the track and Artie was really enjoying this new experience, when there was a loud bang from no more than ten yards away and the mare reared up. Had Artie been sitting on his own horse with his familiar western saddle, he would probably have fared better but the culmination of a skittish mare with the flimsy saddle and the sudden shock of the loud noise made him lose control for a split second and he came crashing to the ground, while the mare galloped off toward the hill he had been trying to reach. That was all he saw before his head hit a tree trunk and his leg bent up behind him as he landed awkwardly on the forest floor. On the way down his brow had come in contact with a rather sturdy branch and, as he lay unconscious, a trail of blood spurted from the wound and clouded his sight then, as he lay where he was, it tapered off to a sluggish trickle.

The wood was now very peaceful, the bird song much clearer, until another shot pierced the silence and a man in a long coat and wearing a dark cap, pulled down over his eyes, appeared in the clearing, carrying a shotgun.

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