A ‘Captain Scarlet’ story for Halloween

By Marion Woods

Chapter 1

Captain Scarlet looked up suspiciously from his hospital bed as the door opened, and gave a relieved, welcoming smile. Captain Blue’s fair brows rose in an amused twitch as he smiled in response.

“Hi, Adam; God, am I pleased to see a friendly face,” Scarlet began, as Blue deposited the bundle he was carrying on the bed and turned to drag the chair from against the wall to the bedside.

“I only went to get some lunch; it’s less than two hours since I was here, and you’ve been occupied,” Blue protested, nodding towards the empty tray on the bedside table.

“Yes, but the moment you went Fawn was in here like a ferret down a rabbit hole; draining whole armfuls of blood and prodding me about. He’s promised that later he’s going to give me a whole body scan – again.”

“Aww: you poor little sod,” Blue teased in his best ‘English’ accent.

Scarlet chuckled. “By George, I think he’s got it! Repeat after me: ‘the rain in Spain stays mainly on the plain’…”

“Go take a hike.”

“Gladly – just tell Fawn I’m off, will you?” Scarlet reached for the bundle of papers. “What’s this you’ve brought me? I hope it’s not bills? I’m still far too weak to pay bills.”

“No, I weeded them out,” Blue assured him jovially.

“You’re learning. Hmm, this looks interesting. My mother’s writing, but not her usual stationery…I’d say it’s one that’s been pinched from my father’s office… tut-tut… petty pilfering amongst the landed gentry – what is the world coming to?” He slid his finger under the flap and ripped the envelope open. “Hmm,” he mused as another envelope fell out on the bed. He opened the accompanying letter and scanned it. “Well, well… whatever next?”

“I couldn’t begin to imagine.”

Scarlet looked up and grinned. “My mother sends you her ‘best’. She says: tell Adam we hope to see him soon.”

Blue grinned. “That’s nice. When you speak to her, send my ‘best’ in return, will you? Sadly, I don’t think I’m gonna be able to visit any time soon though; Ochre was telling me he’s finally arranged to take his leave. He’s going on a safari in Kenya – I just hope he doesn’t scare the game.”

“Will do,” Scarlet replied distractedly. He was examining the other envelope carefully. With a twitch of his dark brows, he opened it and drew out the paper within. After he’d read it, he glanced across at Blue. “Flipping heck…”

“Language -” Blue warned him playfully.

“This is from my Great-Aunt Rosemary’s second husband – Kenneth McKirk.”

“Nice to hear from close relatives, isn’t it?”

“Not only nice – but downright unusual; I mean my mother doesn’t even exchange Christmas cards with him – and my mother sends Christmas cards to most of the population. The McKirk connection is the …er… skeleton in the Blake family cupboard – well, the most recent skeleton, shall we say? Great-Aunt Rosemary was my grandfather’s youngest sister and something of a wild child. She became an artist – of sorts - living a very Bohemian life in London. Nevertheless, she eventually married a rich, widowed stockbroker – much older than her - and they lived the life of Riley for a few years. When her husband pegged out – worn out by the debauchery, according to my grandfather – she scandalised everyone by having an affair with Orlando Hearne, the painter. They set up a hippy-type commune and encouraged other artists and – according to the family legends – hangers-on and talentless drones.”

“My grandfather bought some of his works – they turned out to be a very good investment,” Blue volunteered, adding suddenly, “Wait a minute – your Great-Aunt wouldn’t be the celebrated beauty Rosie Wraysby, would she? The woman Hearne left his wife and kids for? One of my grandfather’s paintings is an extremely erotic nude of Rosie Wraysby…” he concluded with raised eyebrows as he recalled the painting in question, which even his broad-minded mother declined to have hung in their house.

Scarlet grimaced. “Yes, that’s her. Posing for Hearne was only one of the many things she did that upset ‘The Family’ big-time. When Hearne died, leaving her all his paintings, there was a court case over the will –”

“I read about that,” Blue said, grinning. “She offered to strip off in court to prove that she was the model used for the paintings, didn’t she?”

“She did,” Scarlet groaned. “Luckily the judge said it wasn’t necessary – he could recognise her face well enough.”

Blue gave a peal of laughter. “I bet that went down well in Winchester.”

“Not so’s you notice, I expect. Anyway, she lay low for a while after that and then she surprised everyone by marrying Kenneth McKirk – a man decades her junior - and decamped to the wilds of Scotland where they raised stone-age sheep – or something – until she died; presumably of boredom.”

“I guess she wanted something a little less exciting to do after cramming so much into her life already,” Blue commented wryly. “So, does Great-Uncle Kenny say what he wants with you?” he added.

“Basically, he wants to give me the once over. He says he feels his life is drawing to its conclusion and he wants to meet me, as my great-aunt’s nearest living relative, to see if I am worthy of receiving the Hearne inheritance on his death.”

“But you aren’t her nearest relative,” Blue reasoned. “If she had no kids, it’d be your mother – or one of her sisters.”

“McKirk explains that: he wants to jump as many generations as possible to avoid unnecessary death duties.”

“A sound business principle,” Blue agreed.

“Are you sure you have no Scottish blood, Adam? After all, making you part with your money can be a real job at times…”

“Ha-de-ha-ha.”

“Anyway, it seems Great-Uncle Ken wrote to me, care of my parents, to make the offer and he explained his intentions to them in a covering letter. Mum says I should go; she says Auntie Rosemary had millions from her first husband and that McKirk is noted for being ‘thrifty’ – so he can’t have spent it all. And, besides, the Hearne paintings must be worth – what she quaintly calls - ‘a bob or two’. She says if I go – well-turned out and on my best behaviour – I should cop the lot.”

“I do not believe your mother said that.”

“Well, no, but that’s what she means.”

“So, are you going to go?”

“Filial duty suggests I should. Besides, if I promise to take a week or so off, Fawn might be persuaded to let me out of here tomorrow. I can pop and see the Aged Parents, whiz up to Glen Wheres’it, charm Great-Uncle Ken, and still be back in Winchester before Halloween for the last few days of my leave.”

Blue tutted. “You wouldn’t be trying to avoid Halloween on Cloudbase, by any chance, would you?”

“It may have escaped your notice, Blue-Boy, but every Halloween I’ve spent on Cloudbase has been a disaster.” Scarlet frowned at his friend. “I’ll be as far away from trouble as I can be with my parents.”

“Sure, but the one we had away from here wasn’t a glowing success, either,” Blue reminded him.

“True, but I’d stake my mother to triumph against the forces of darkness any day.”

Blue gave a chuckle. “Yeah – I’d pity the demon that attempted to get past Mrs Metcalfe. Despite that, do you want some company?”

“No – besides, with Ochre away, you’ll be needed here.”

“How about Dianne? I meant she could go with you. She might swing it in your favour; what curmudgeonly old skinflint could resist giving his millions to Dianne?”

“True, she’s a charmer, all right. But, Great-Uncle Ken says I should only come for a day or two and alone, as he’s not in the best of health and tires easily. He’s obviously not extending the hand of welcome too far.”

“Oh well – I hope you enjoy yourself, but I rather doubt you will. Still, I guess a little hob-nobbing with aged relatives is a small price to play for the largest collection of Orlando Hearne paintings still known to exist. That ‘bob or two’ your mom referred to would probably pay to re-roof Longwood Abbey in several layers of gold leaf. Mind you, I think I’d rather risk playing trick or treat with the Angels – especially as Ochre’s not gonna be here to set up his booby-traps, this year.”

“Sure he isn’t planning one already? Maybe he’s just pretending that he’s going to be watching the wildlife in Kenya and he’ll be lurking – waiting to spring out and scare you all rigid?” Scarlet said with a devilish twinkle in his eyes.

“Oh, come on! Even Rick wouldn’t go that far – would he?”

Scarlet grinned. “If anyone would, he would.”

Blue sighed. “You know, I’m gonna make sure I put him on that plane myself – just in case.”

Chapter 2

Paul Metcalfe drove through the wild, border countryside in high spirits.

He’d stopped for an agreeable lunch in a country hostelry and imbibed plenty of the excellent local fare and beer. It was one of the ‘perks’ of being a retrometabolised ex-Mysteron agent; he could drink alcohol until the cows came home without getting the slightest bit tipsy – at least, not for very long. Now, he was on the last leg of his journey from Winchester and he was bracing himself to behave in a sober and respectful manner to his great-uncle. His mother had filled him chock-full with instructions before he left home and he could tell that she was rather hoping he would come home with the news that they were to inherit the ill-gotten gains of Auntie Rosemary. Longwood Abbey had been the family home for centuries and – despite it being a terrible drain on the family’s resources – they would never consider selling it. He knew that his mother was worried about parts of the roof and that she wanted him to inherit a house in a good condition, so presumably she’d already spent a decent proportion of their prospective windfall in her imagination.

He checked the GPS and turned off the main road along what swiftly became a winding lane that was barely more than a single track wide. Over the brow of the next hill he saw that the rolling countryside grew noticeably more bleak. The lane followed the course of a deep, swift-flowing stream, its water dark from the peaty soil.

Of course, it’s ‘Douglas’ Country around here, Paul mused. From the Celtic dubh glas – black water, if I’m not mistaken – very apt. The Debateable Land – home to the fearsome border rievers and the interminable tit-for-tat hostility between the Scots and the English. We spent a summer holiday doing the battlefields when I was about 11: Dad was passionate about visiting them all and we went to Falkirk, Stirling Bridge, Bannockburn, Otterburn, Floddon… then Mum got fed up and insisted we go to Edinburgh ‘for some culture’. I bet some of my ancestors fought around here often enough… I’m sure glad we have peace on the border now.

The road veered off over a narrow stone bridge and in the distance, rising out of the low, undulating landscape, he could see a wooded hillside. The trees were stunted and all leaning in the direction of the prevailing winds, but their stark branches looked healthy enough, and they grew thicker towards the brow of the hill. That was dominated by a remarkable structure. It was a square, stone-built pele tower, built for defence and not comfort, although perched on top of its bulk was a small domestic structure, like a child’s drawing of a house, with a pitched roof and chimneys. It reminded Paul of the pictures he’d seen of ‘Noah’s Ark’ in the books of his childhood.

“Castle McKirk, I presume,” Paul muttered to himself. It was intriguing to wonder what his great aunt – a dedicated City Girl – had made of this remote location, but then - he reminded himself - the place wasn’t that far off the beaten track and the whole area was scattered with villages; in fact, the main towns – Selkirk and Hawick – weren’t that far as the crow flies, but the area was so desolate and the road system so inadequate that it wasn’t an easy place to get to. Presumably the peaty moor that was a feature of the area wasn’t suitable for decent, modern roads. “Maybe Adam was right and Auntie Rosemary had had enough of the bright lights, and wanted some solitude after Hearne died?” he asked the luggage on the passenger seat.

Paul felt some of his earlier enthusiasm for the project wane; the castle was going to be cold – that was a sure-fire certainty. He was pleased to remember his mother’s instance that he packed several warm jumpers: he’d need them, probably all at once.

He stopped the car and clambered out to open the five-bar gate that blocked access to the castle grounds. The only sound he could hear was the rising wind in the leafless branches of the trees and the distant baaing of sheep. The gate was a heavy wooden one and it had a library of notices tacked to it: ‘Trespassers will be Prosecuted’ ‘Keep out – Private Property’ ‘Shut The Gate after you’ and, somewhat bizarrely, ‘Beware of The Sheep’. He propped it open and drove into the grounds, stopping again to make sure he fastened the gate securely once he was through.

“Can’t have dangerous sheep wandering about the countryside, savaging the locals,” he said wryly into the oppressive silence.

The road to the castle dwindled to a rough track, and he feared for the suspension on his car as he bounced along over the ruts. The trees grew right to the edge of the track and in the rising wind they almost seemed to be trying to bar his way.

He arrived at the castle and parked on the small forecourt that fronted the solid walls and metal-banded wooden door. It was getting dark already and there was a drizzle of rain in the wind as he walked over to look for a bell. All there was was a heavy brass knocker and so he thudded it against the door a few times, hearing the rolling echo as the noise flowed through the building.

There was a long delay until, some way above him, a narrow window opened and a head popped out.

“Who are yer? What do y’ want? This is private property,” it shouted.

Paul drew a deep breath and shouted back, “Mr Kenneth McKirk? It’s me – Paul Metcalfe. You invited me to visit you, sir.”

“Away wi’ye – is it yoursel’, Paul? Why din’ you say so? Bide – I’ll be down directly.”

Paul went and lifted his suitcase out of the car, locking it and walking to wait by the door. To his surprise, a smaller door in the side of the thick stone walls opened and a stooping figure stepped out.

“Through here, laddie. I don’t open the big door these days.”

Paul stooped and entered the ground floor of the castle. It was an unfurnished, stone-floored open space, full of packing boxes of provisions – food stuffs and household needs - with a staircase in one corner.

“Away up wi’ye,” McKirk said, locking the door behind him. “I don’t use this room.”

Obediently, Paul climbed the narrow, spiral, stone staircase and emerged into another stone-floored room. This was at the level of the window he’d seen his uncle’s head emerge at and this room was furnished with a functional wooden table and chairs as well as an ancient oak dresser, with plates and pans on it.

The kitchen, Paul thought, cheered by the prospect of a cup of tea.

His uncle wheezed in after him and slammed a wooden door closed. “Need to keep the heat in, laddie,” he cautioned.

“I’m sure it must get rather cold in here over the winter,” Paul remarked, laying his suitcase close to the table. The stove was probably the fore-runner of the Aga at home – but this one wasn’t radiating the heat the way the other did.

“Aye, that it does. I was about to make myself some bit o’ supper. I daresay you’ve eaten already?”

“I had lunch,” Paul admitted.

“Then you’ll no be wanting much else,” McKirk said with certainty.

“No,” Paul agreed reluctantly, “but a cup of tea would be welcome.”

“Sit yourself down, laddie. I’ll make yer some tea.”

With a smile, Paul edged onto one of the hard, wooden seats and watched his uncle shuffle about making the tea. What was finally placed before him in a substantial earthenware mug was the colour of warm milk. Paul sipped it and grimaced. The Americans on Cloudbase make stronger tea than this…

“Get it down you, laddie. It’ll keep you warm.”

Paul sipped again. “My parents were surprised – and delighted – to get your letter, Uncle,” he began.

McKirk was nibbling a chunk of bread and cheese and he merely nodded. Finally he replied, “Your mam was a soncie lass; I recall the photograph o’ the wedding. I recall one of you too – as a wee bairn. You’ve grown.”

“Most ‘wee bairns’ do,” Paul answered.

McKirk wheezed rather alarmingly; eventually Paul realised it was laughter.

“You’ve a flash o’ your late auntie’s wit, laddie.”

“I never met my Great-Aunt Rosemary; I wish I had. She sounds a fascinating woman.”

“Aye, she was. As fine an Englishwoman as ever drew breath.”

Paul smiled at the tribute – wondering if it was meant to be as qualified as it sounded. “You live alone here, now?” he asked.

“Aye, but, as I told you, I’m not as young as I used to be and I’ve a mind to make sure that Rosie’s goods and chattels go to a worthy home.” He eyed Paul sternly. “She was much affronted at some of your family’s treatment of her – but that was before your time and I don’t hold you responsible for that.”

“Thank you, Uncle. I’m not sure I know all there is to know about what happened within the family. I do know the behaviour of certain of the Blakes - and the Metcalfes, come to that - has not always been above reproach, but I would hope those days are past.”

“There’s rotten fruit in every barrel, laddie.”

“How true, Uncle. Tell me, how did you meet Aunt Rosemary?”

“She originally came up here with that fellow, Hearne, as he wanted to paint about the place. They stayed at the local inn in the village beyond the Kirk when first they came and gradually they became permanent residents, renting a wee cottage o’ mine further up the brae. When Hearne died, she dinna like staying there alone, so she moved back to the local inn, for a time. I lived here with my mother then and it was she who asked Rosemary if she might stay in the upper rooms here – they had gotten to know each other socially over the years, you see? Mother knew that Rosemary wanted to stay where she’d been so happy, but she did not feel comfortable staying in the inn – well, its not the place for a woman on her own, laddie – so she took up my mother’s offer and moved in for a visit – to see if she liked it. Her visit lengthened until we were married some months afterwards.”

“How very romantic,” Paul said, feeling it was expected that he comment. Poor Aunt Rosie had obviously been on a serious rebound when she accepted McKirk.

“I don’t ken about romance, laddie. Your aunt was a fine looking woman, fer her age, and well set up. She liked it here and I was willing to let her stay. I think she was as happy here as she’d have been anywhere.”

Paul finished the tea and sent up a sympathetic prayer for the shade of Rosemary Blake Wraysby McKirk. What a comedown from being the toast of Bohemian London and a muse to one of the greatest painters around.

“Now, tell me about yerself, laddie. I’ve heard you are a soldier – like yer father? It’s pleasing that the family traditions have been kept up. Your aunt was a great one for traditions. Mind you, I’m thinking you are the last in the direct line of your father’s family; am I right?”

“I am a soldier, yes. I trained with the WAAF and was appointed a colonel. I… I am on secondment at the moment, to the World Government.”

“Aye; the Metcalfes are a warlike family and no mistaking. Yer aunt told me that she’d grown up with the Metcalfes who lived in a big house nearby. She was friendly with Laetitia Metcalfe – the only artistic amongst them, she said – and she told me that Laetitia’s sisters had entered the military, like their brother. It struck her as odd that they should do so. But then Rosemary was often out of kilter with her own family. She did not get on with her only brother – yer Granddaddy, that’d’ve been, him as ye were named for – but I do believe she was fond of your grandmother, and your mother too, she was proud to hear of her marriage to your father and followed his career for her niece’s sake. Blood is thicker than any dispute in any family, laddie; and, it is for that reason I have a mind to make sure her inheritance goes back to the Blakes – through the Metcalfe family. She’d have wanted it.”

“You are very generous, Uncle.”

“Pah, they’re no but some daubs by that painter she took up with – Hearne. Not my thing at all. I like a picture that’s pleasing to gaze at.”

Paul hesitated and then said, “Uncle, are you really expecting me to believe you have no notion of the value of these ‘daubs’? Hearne’s work is highly valued these days.”

“I know, laddie. But I couldn’t part wi’them anyway. They were yer aunt’s.”

Paul gave a warm smile; presumably, for all his eccentricities and bluster, McKirk had cared for his English wife. “I can promise you they’d be appreciated.”

“Aye – no doubt.” McKirk drew in a deep breath and added, “Ye’ll have no arguments with staying here for a few nights then, laddie? Letting me get to know yer?”

“I had come with the intention of staying a few nights, as you mentioned in your invitation and I am entirely at your convenience, Uncle.”

“That’s fine.”

McKirk finished his meagre tea in silence and washed up the dishes in a trickle of hot water from the enormous kettle. Then he opened a cupboard and produced a small oil-filled lamp.

“You’ll need this, laddie. I don’t keep the electric on much. If you want to wash, you can have what’s left in the kettle. I’ll get you a basin.” Paul’s expression must have spoken volumes as McKirk started wheezing with amusement again. “I see you’re thinking this is a poor way to be going on? I imagine you have all the lights blazing at home all the day and night. Well, I don’t do that here. The mains supply is precarious and I although I have a generator in the cellar; I don’t fire it up more than I have to. I’m not made of money and the oil’s expensive. Besides, you’ll keep warmer in your bed.”

“Bed? But it’s only 8.30, Uncle.”

“Please yourself, laddie. I shall be away myself shortly.”

“I wouldn’t want to disrupt your routine, but may I at least watch the television for a few hours, please? I’ll keep it quiet.”

“I’ve no television for you to watch. Read a book – it’s better for you.”

“Very well, I’ll have to. I’d prefer to sit up and read, though. If you show me to my room, I’ll unpack and sit for a time before I go to bed.”

“You’d be wise to go to bed now, laddie, for the generator stops at nine and once the stove’s out there’s no heat in the place. Come on up, I’ll show you the room. Did you want some warm water?” Paul shook his head. “Then follow me.”

McKirk led the way up the spiral staircase to the next level. Here there was a drawing room, with an empty fireplace and a few somewhat dilapidated armchairs; around the walls were half-empty bookshelves and cupboards. Above this was the little ‘domestic’ level – as Paul had christened the eccentric house-shaped feature that topped the building - with three doors leading off a central landing. McKirk opened one and ushered Paul into it. The only furniture in there was an ancient single bed, a table and a solid wooden wardrobe. In one corner was a recess covered by a worn curtain. The stone floor had a rug on it next to the bed but the rest was exposed. Paul slung his suitcase on the bed and saw a cloud of dust rise from the coverlet.

“There’s a bonny view in the morning,” McKirk said, going to the curtain-less window. The dawn comes up over there and you’ll get the early light.”

“Splendid, I’m an early riser,” Paul said trying to sound enthusiastic.

“Aye, that’s as well. Breakfast is at 6.30.”

“Where’s the bathroom?” Paul asked. “I didn’t see one on the way up.”

“Downstairs on the level you came in at.”

“That’s the only one?”

“Indeed, but there’s the garderobe in the corner – it goes down to the cesspit across the hillside. You’ll cope.”

Paul eyed the alcove in dismay. “Do you mean to tell me there is no proper toilet here?”

“Laddie, this place has functioned for centuries without one. It’ll last the few nights you’re here.”

“It’s just that I can’t imagine my aunt living like this!”

“She got used to it,” McKirk said reprovingly.

“Obviously. Well, goodnight, Uncle.”

“Goodnight. Sleep well, Paul.”

Once McKirk was gone, Paul opened his suitcase and slipped on two extra jumpers. His retrometabolism meant that he was usually immune to all but the extremes of temperature, but the stone walls were cold and the room felt damp. Matters were not helped by the draught that was whistling through the inadequate curtain that separated him from the repulsive ‘garderobe’; he was profoundly grateful he hadn’t been invited to stay in the height of summer. He rummaged down the side of the case and found the bottle of whisky he’d bought for his father from a specialist malt shop in one of the small towns he’d passed through, opened it and swigged a mouthful – reckoning his need was the greater. He gazed out of the narrow window and saw only an intense blackness.

Sighing, he surveyed his surroundings with a distinct lack of enthusiasm, then set about making the best of it with his usual thoroughness. He stripped the bed, shook the bedding and remade it. He fished out a second pair of socks and clambered into bed with his clothes on. He thought he should let his mother know he had arrived safely, as he knew she would be worrying quite as much as she’d be interested to hear his first impressions of the place and of his great-uncle. He smiled at the thought of how he could tease her about having sent him to the ‘frozen north’ and reached for his mobile phone, pressing the quick dial number for home. A frown knit his brows – the thing wouldn’t work; the register showed that there was insufficient signal – even here, high above the ground. Presumably this place was one of the black spots that still dotted the country. He tutted, disappointed, and switched it off; if he couldn’t get a signal tomorrow, he might try Cloudbase – Spectrum’s powerful communication systems could overcome most poor terrestrial signals. Adam or Dianne would let his mother know he was all right, if he asked them.

Hugging the whisky to his chest, he snuggled under the blankets trying to keep warm and get some sleep, but the long hours wore interminably away into the rich blackness of the night before he finally slept.

Chapter Three

Paul woke as the murky dawn broke over the distant hills. He clambered from the bed, bleary-eyed and unshaven. Shivering, he put his shoes on, grabbed his towel and sponge bag and made his way downstairs, searching with increasing urgency for the bathroom. As he passed through the kitchen, McKirk bade him a cheery good morning and told him to hurry or his porridge would get cold. When Paul finally found the basic bathroom, he decided that not even a gallery full of works of art was worth this. He washed and shaved in the cold water, then raced back upstairs to dress in his warmest clothes before making his way back to the kitchen for breakfast.

The breakfast porridge still lay on his stomach like a layer of molten cement when Uncle Kenneth suggested a brisk walk around the small estate. Wrapped up in several of his jumpers, and a waterproof jacket, Paul marched beside the old man, finding rather to his surprise that McKirk set a brisk pace. The old man was obviously not as frail as he’d cared to make out yesterday. He led the way down to the five-bar gate and pointed out the view back towards the main road.

“It’s all McKirk land from here to the village beyond the next brae,” he explained.

“I drove passed it yesterday – it has an interesting looking church,” Paul replied. “I thought I might take a look at it later. Is it the local church for your family, Uncle? Is my aunt’s grave there?”

“No; we’re non-conformists – we dinna bother with the bricks and mortar of the established church, laddie. You can go and take a look, if you want to – you might meet the new pastor, if ye go by. A city-trained man, all books and learning, with no real feeling for the souls in his flock. I dinna like him – nor he me.” He wheezed his dry laugh. “He came here once – but he dinna come here ony mair.”

Paul glanced at him, and catching his eye, McKirk winked and set off again at a sprightly pace. This time they stopped on the northern side of the compound, and once more McKirk pointed out the extent of the land. There was another tiny village nestling amongst the rolling hills, but before Paul could respond to his uncle’s explanation, they were off again, and this continued until they had boxed the compass and he’d admired the land to the north, south, east and west of the castle.

On the western side, his interest was captured by an impressive standing circle of stones some distance away on the brow of a mound of heath land. The murky weather made a clear glimpse of it difficult and McKirk had brushed aside his questions about the monument and started to lead the way back to the castle.

Reluctantly, Paul trailed after him, wondering what was expected of him now, and whether he would be allowed the time to explore the remote wilderness that surrounded them.

“Ye’ll be wanting to make yerself useful, laddie,” his uncle said with conviction as they approached the castle by way of a jumbled store of branches and timber that cluttered an area obviously used as a small wood-yard. They were at the rear of the castle, and there seemed to be another storey built into the side of the hill, that lay below that of the basement Paul had entered through yesterday. His uncle explained that these were all storerooms and included the home of the rarely-used generator. Paul guessed what was coming next.

“In yon cellar, you’ll find an axe and a saw; you can chop this wood for the fires whilst I make us a meal of some soup.” McKirk’s expression was amused as he glanced at the irritated look on Paul’s face. “It’ll make sure you’re nice and warm and give you an appetite,” he said jovially as he left Paul to it.

Paul had to admit that actually the physical nature of the work was somehow soothing. He hadn’t really slept well last night – his retrometabolism meant that he needed little sleep on the whole. Now, if he could physically exhaust himself, he might find the tedious hours between their farcically early bedtime and tomorrow’s dose of breakfast ‘concrete’, less eternal.

He chopped and sawed at the timber, the pile of logs beside him growing more impressive by the hour. Finally his uncle called him in and gave him a chunk of greyish-brown granary bread and a bowl of ‘nourishing soup’. Surprisingly, it was tasty, and Paul finished the bowl and drank the weak tea with an appetite spiked by his exertions.

“Mebbe, you’d like to see the paintings your aunt kept?” McKirk asked as he wiped his mouth on a handkerchief.

“That would be interesting. I have seen the Hearnes in the galleries in London, of course, and a friend of mine is fortunate enough to own one or two – well, his family does. He was a good painter, I’ve always thought, although towards the end some of his subject matter got a little wild – not to say downright weird. I’ve seen the picture in the Tate Modern – I’m sure you know the one, it gets printed in magazines and so forth often enough – it’s supposed to be of an ancient ritual, according to the notice beside it, anyway. The setting reminds me of these landscapes; do you know if it was painted here?”

“Aye, I’ve seen that one. Hearne painted it when he was here, but he wasn’a content with it; said it didn’a capture the spirit o’ the place – or some such blether. He and your aunt were awful keen on such things – the sense of a place and the true nature of the people there. Hearne was quite a student of ancient ways and beliefs – yer aunt too, in her way. They grew disillusioned with Cornwall – all those weekenders and tourists ‘clouded the aura of the land’, they said. They closed that commune of theirs and came north – seeking the true spirit of these islands.”

“These Islands? Oh - you mean the British Isles… Well, this is a very atmospheric place, Uncle. There must have been people living here for millennia. I can see how it might attract a sensitive soul.”

McKirk cast a perceptive glance at him. “Do you now? Well, that’s fer the good, laddie. Come, let’s see these daubs.”

They went back up to the level with the bookcases and cupboards, and McKirk drew out a large iron key from the pocket of his worn cardigan to open one of them. He switched on the dim overhead light and drew out a large canvas, wrapped in cloth. He carried it to the small table and laid it down, drawing back the material so that Paul might see it clearly.

Paul stared at the painting in surprise and awe. It was a complex scene of the desolate hillside below the castle, with the trees in new, vibrant green leaf and blossom. From one corner came a procession of young women, decked in flowers and leading a woman on a horse, weaving down the hillside. There was no mistaking the rider – the dark-haired, vibrant beauty of his great-aunt shone from the painting. Her head was crowned with a garland of flowers and her long, black hair hung loose over her breasts. Her shimmering-white gown was so long it almost reached the ground as she perched side-saddle on the dappled-grey horse. He was no expert, but the picture had to rank with anything of Hearne’s he’d ever seen before.

Whilst he examined it, McKirk had fetched another, smaller canvas. Unwrapped, it proved to be another local landscape, from the other side of the castle looking towards the stone circle Paul had glimpsed. The setting sun touched the monoliths with gold as it sank behind distant, purple-hued hills. As McKirk produced more canvases it became apparent that many of them showed similarly themed works, some more abstract in their concept than others and Paul wondered why Hearne had become obsessed with this one theme in his later years. There were a few, more conventional pictures, abstracts and landscapes, but these lacked the inspirational quality of the ‘pagan’ pictures; and were what Adam would no doubt have described as ‘painting by numbers’ – his habitual description of anything half-hearted.

Finally McKirk drew out the last canvas – it was a miniature, no bigger than a standard hardback book. It was totally different in style from the others, with an immediacy that took Paul’s breath away – it was if every ounce of Hearne’s considerable talent has been poured into the image. It was almost certainly the companion piece to the most famous Hearne painting – the one he’d had seen in the Tate Modern - and it showed a woman – Aunt Rosie, again – reclining against the trunk of a contorted tree like a modern day dryad. Her only covering was a boa of mossy foliage that twined around her hips and breasts and her eyes seemed to stare out of the canvas with a look of imperious omniscience – as if they had seen all, and knew all that was and would ever be. The pearlescent blue moonlight filtered through the young leaves, patterning her bright flesh with a subtle mottling. The twisted branches and gnarled bark took on the form of a grotesque face

This was the only picture that bore a title next to Hearne’s distinctive signature. ‘Rosemary, the Priestess of the Eternal Hern,” Paul read aloud, staring at the face of his relative in open-mouthed awe.

“It’s a wonder yer aunt never caught cold,” McKirk said prosaically, looking over his shoulder at the picture of his late wife. “But she was a hearty woman.”

“Did she pose for this?”

“Aye, that’s Rosie – Hearne never captured a better likeness of her. That’s the old Hern Oak away in the ancient wood beyond the circle. They both set a great store by that old tree.”

“You mean this was done from life?” Paul asked. “She looks too young for them to have been painted after she and Hearne moved here.”

“And you call yourself a romantic, laddie? Have you never learned that to her true-hearted lover a woman never ages? I daresay that to Orlando Hearne, Rosemary was always the young woman he’d first seen in London.”

Paul gave an embarrassed grimace. “Well, allowing for artistic license, I suppose that’s true, Uncle. He must have loved her very much,” he added thoughtfully.

“He always said he would die for her; and he did – in his way. You’ll have heard how he was found, one morning out in the countryside, his easel at his feet, an unfinished painting on it? The doctors said it was a stroke – and that’s as mebbe – but Rosemary believed he had died for her.”

“Why? I mean it’s an odd notion for her to have acquired.”

“He’d been told he was suffering with a bad heart condition – he hadna much longer to live. He painted like a madman for months afterwards – saying he would leave her a legacy to keep her through her life. It pleased your aunt to believe he had done just that.”

“Well, I think it is rather gruesome, Uncle. I can’t be as much of a romantic as you think.”

“No – the Metcalfes were always a dull folk.”

“We prefer to think of it as a good grounding of common sense,” Paul said a little tartly.

“Whisht – I dinna mean to upset you, laddie. I sense in you an uncommon strand of perception.”

“What happened to the unfinished picture?”

“Yer aunt burnt it. When Hearne’s family in London demanded his body be returned to them for ‘Christian’ burial, and we couldn’t stop that – your aunt decreed that to honour his spirit, a bonfire be built every year and a moiety of his art sent to him beyond the veil.”

“She burnt his pictures?”

“Every year since his death one of them has been committed to the flames,” McKirk confirmed.

“Good Lord, that’s terrible! I mean – these are works of art, Uncle. They should be placed where everyone can see and enjoy them.”

“Hearne painted them for your aunt – they were not meant for everyone.”

“My aunt has been dead for many years now, Uncle; I hope you didn’t continue this practice?”

McKirk started to stack the paintings back in the cupboard. “You’ll hope wrong then. It was what Rose wanted.”

Paul was astonished. “Then why show them to me? Why say you will give them to me – that she wanted me to have them?”

“Because it is what she wanted; she often told me – for the hundredth anniversary of Hearne’s birth, there was to be a celebration of his life and the remaining paintings were to go with her brother’s grandson – in token of the son she miscarried when she was first with Hearne. She didn’a specify which o’ the grandsons it was to be – beyond that he should prove worthy - but I have chosen you, laddie, knowing she was fonder of your mother than her other nieces, and seeing that you’ve made a fine start in your chosen profession. She always had her reasons for doing what she did – and this is the hundredth year - so in accordance with Rosemary’s instructions, I’m doing what she wanted. I have spent years researching into the ways these things were done, and as part of the celebration of Hearne’s centenary and your aunt’s life, you shall have the paintings.”

Paul expressed his sincere thanks and added, “It really would be criminal to destroy anymore of these pictures, Uncle – whether I have them or not.”

“Mebbe you’re right, laddie; mebbe you’re right,” McKirk said thoughtfully as he stared at the beautiful portrait of his late wife, wrapping it carefully and placing it safe and sound on a shelf before he locked the cupboard again. “I shall think on it.”

Later that afternoon McKirk took Paul on a walk across to the stone circle he’d seen from the castle grounds on their previous circuit. It lay part way between the fenced grounds of the castle and a dense wood that covered the ridge between the valleys. The ground around the circle was rough moorland and rather boggy underfoot, which made it heavy going, but such was the extent and state of preservation of the monument that Paul thought it worth the effort.

He was surprised at how complete the ancient shrine still was. Thirteen stones of varying sizes were positioned to form a wide circle, and within its boundaries, smaller stones formed a second ring and a tall, monolith of whitish stone, some fifteen feet in height, stood in isolation in the centre. Some of the taller outer stones seemed to have been deliberately positioned so that they inclined towards the central monolith. Paul was familiar with Stonehenge, on the broad Salisbury Plain, as well as the complex earthworks at Avebury, and he’d visited several other Neolithic sites around the country at one time or another, but he’d never seen or heard of this one before and he marvelled that it remained unknown to the tourist trade – such was the grandeur and complexity of it. These stones were far more graceful than the lumbering giants of Stonehenge and they had never been designed to carry a capstone. Their isolation and the sweeping, barren landscape, which had probably not changed in millennia, set them off to advantage. In addition, Stonehenge was all too often swamped with tourists and it was impossible to approach the stones. Here he was free to wander through the circles, touching the ancient stones with a reverence born of awe for the dedication of the ancients who had raised it.

His uncle watched him, although he did not seem too pleased when Paul produced his camera and took pictures from vantage points about the monument. He called him to view the site from different angles, pacing round the circumference, with Paul in his wake, as he told him what was known about the place and the original builders.

Finally, as he led the way around the construction once more, he said, “Yer no superstitious, are ye, laddie?”

“Not unduly,” Paul replied, striding after his sprightly host. “Is there some superstition connected with this circle?”

“They say yer shouldna walk widdershins around it.”

“Widdershins?” Paul dragged his memory. “Anti-clockwise…” He grimaced - they were striding ‘widdershins’ for the third time round the circle. He stopped as some vague premonition of danger swept through him. He shrugged it off with a sceptical grimace. “I thought that only applied to churches, Uncle.”

McKirk’s wheezy laugh came back to him on the breeze as he completed the third circuit. “Are you sayin’ this monument is not a religious site, laddie?”

“Well, no, I mean it must have been once.” Paul sighed and strode after his uncle, “But it’s obviously been here for millennia…”

“Then is it not even more sacred than yon Kirk in the village?”

Paul gave a wry grin. “Maybe – if it was still in use.”

“As you say, Paul. As you say.” McKirk nodded and strode back towards the castle, leaving Paul to make his own way back.

When he finally strode back into the kitchen, Paul found, to his surprise that McKirk had made tea and he produced a plate of newly-baked scones, with jam and cream. He piled some of the logs Paul had spent the morning sawing, onto the ancient stove and they sat in relative warmth and comfort, sharing the special treat and talking.

“Tell me about yerself, Paul. I daresay a good-looking man, like you, has seen plenty of excitement in his life?”

Paul considered his experiences in Spectrum and silently agreed that he had indeed seen plenty of excitement; however, from the phrasing of the question he surmised that his uncle was speaking of a more romantic strand of excitement and he shrugged, not willing to commit himself. “Well, it’s not as if I’ve had much chance – moving about in the WAAF as I have been since I joined. You don’t get too long in any one place.”

“Just like a sailor, wi’ a lady in every port, eh?” He gave a cackling laugh. “Oh, I’m no as dry as you imagine, laddie – I can appreciate a fine bodied woman, wi’ the best of ye.”

“I don’t doubt it, Uncle, and I have to agree that … well, I’ve had a few exciting encounters, in the past.”

“And now? You sound as if some one woman has ye tamed, at last.”

“Tamed? Oh, well – not so you’d notice! I mean – well, there is one young lady – but it’s all very unofficial.”

McKirk nodded. “You’ll have to bring her to see me – if I’d have known I would have asked her here now.”

“Oh, I doubt she’d have been able to come – she’s a busy woman.”

“Not too busy for a little romance though?”

Paul found himself blushing as his uncle’s wheezing laugh echoed around the room.

“Is she bonny?”

“Very.”

“Fair or dark?”

“A redhead – fair-skinned and blue-eyed.”

“Ah – fiery lovers, redheads.” McKirk poured himself another mug of tea. “Mind you, all cats are grey in the dark, as we say.”

“Not this one – Dianne is special.”

“There’s always one who is special. I’m glad you’ve found her, laddie. Many men go through their lives and never do. Cleave to her – come what may.”

“I intend to – if she’ll have me,” Paul confessed.

“What’s not to like? You have your health; you’re a good-looking man, from a good family – well-to-do in the general way of things. She could do far worse.”

“I’d like to think so, Uncle – but; well, my job’s a dangerous one and I’m reluctant to ask her to share the dangers or the anxiety.”

“Treat her too carefully, Paul, and she’ll abscond with the first bounder she encounters who treats her like dirt – harken to me. They can be irrational creatures – however dainty they are.”

“Maybe… but I don’t think she would do that.” He placed his mug back on the table and reached into his wallet, handing his uncle a small snapshot he had there. “That’s Dianne with her best friend, Karen, and her boyfriend, Adam, who’s my best friend, as it happens. It was taken this summer when we all went on a little visit to Winchester. I meant to give it to my mother – but I forgot.”

“Now that is a pretty woman, laddie – you are a lucky man.”

Paul reached over to recover his picture, feeling a trifle absurdly that somehow McKirk’s examination of it and his comments were an affront to Dianne. His uncle was turning out to be disconcertingly difficult to read, veering, as he did, from warm and jocular to coldly indifferent in a trice.

He tucked the photo away.

“A man’s blessed indeed if he has good friends,” McKirk commented. “You’re close to yours, you say?”

“Some of them.” Paul hesitated: on becoming a Spectrum agent he had been obliged to let many of his former friendships slide, but now he felt little in the way of sadness about his lost friends. He heard about them from his mother often enough and very few of them had ever been as close to him as the friends he now had in Spectrum.

Since his first death and Mysteronisation, his closest - and at one point he had truly believed, his only – friend had been Captain Blue; the slightly older, slightly taller, slightly broader American, with the fairness of his Scandinavian ancestors, a formidable intellect and the patience of a saint, who had become his partner. Blue had stood by him through the traumas and hardships that followed the events at the London Car-Vu.

They’d hit it off from the very early days of Spectrum, but Blue had proven to be the friend of a lifetime when he had steered Captain Scarlet back to a semblance of normality, and helped Paul Metcalfe come to terms with his new self and his remarkable abilities. It was probably as much due to Blue and Symphony’s encouraging assertion that he should declare his feelings, that he had finally brought himself to believe that Dianne might feel about him as he did for her.

His uncle was still waiting for a reply so he tried to explain. “I owe my life to Adam and we’ve become very close. There is a group of us who work together, but he and I are partners. I can’t imagine working with anyone else now.”

“Like two of the three musketeers, eh? All for one and one for all?”

“Something like that,” Paul conceded with a deprecating chuckle.

“So, you are a man who can win friends and keep them; that’s good. A loyal friend in your own right – that’s good. You impress me, laddie – as you would have done your aunt.”

“Thank you, Uncle,” Paul murmured. He felt it was expected that he say something.

Still thinking about his wife, McKirk continued, “She was a woman who could attract and keep the love, loyalty and trust of others. A marvellous woman.” He rubbed the end of his nose as if overcome with a sudden sweep of emotion. Then he looked up and said, “I have a mind to do something to celebrate her centenary. I thought to maybe hold a gathering of the locals that remember her – and there are a good few still. You’d do me the honour of staying for it – I hope?”

“Well, I do have to get back to work for the start of next week, and I’ve promised my parents I’d see them before I go back, but I’ll accept your kind offer, if it is at all possible.”

“Good! I shall see about it with haste.” McKirk chuckled. “We’ve not had a party for many a year…”

If ever, Paul thought to himself.

Given that he wasn’t going to be leaving as soon as he’d expected, Paul planned to warn his mother and he took his mobile phone down towards the village, hoping for a better signal, but without any success. As he pushed open the door to the small local shop and post office and walked in, he was acutely aware that the conversation stopped the moment he crossed the threshold, and that the eyes of the three women in the place were trained on him with speculative interest as he asked, politely, if he could use their phone. His request was refused, courteously enough, and he was directed towards the only public house in the village.

Having bought himself a pint, he made his request to the landlord, who agreed and pushed an old-fashioned sound-only landline phone across. Paul punched in the numbers and waited as the phone at the other end rang.

“Hello?” His mother’s voice sounded distant and strange over the old connection.

“Mum, it’s me – I’m spending another day or two here –“

“Hello?”

“Mum, can you hear me? Mum?”

In the distance he could hear the rumble of his father’s voice and his mother replying: “No-one – wrong number I expect.” The line went dead.

Damn and blast, Paul thought. He handed the phone back and left more than enough money to pay for the call. He drank the beer and walked out into the early autumnal twilight. He strode back to his car and drove towards the castle, stopping at the gate and getting out to try his mobile once more.

He rang the restricted access Cloudbase number, but the static blast that almost shattered his eardrums told him that he was out of the range of even the base’s powerful receptors. He frowned and tried again. This time he rang the secure line to Spectrum London – their boosters should pick up the weak signal well enough.

“Spectrum: London; how may I be of assistance?” Even this contact sounded distant and there was still interference over the line.

“I’d like to speak to Captain Blue on Cloudbase – reference 11372,” Paul almost shouted to make sure he was heard.

“Please hold the line….”

He tapped his fingers against the roof of his car as the silence continued. He wondered if he’d lost the connection and called, ‘Hello?’ several times.

“I am sorry, sir, that is not possible.” The voice sounded pre-occupied.

“But I gave you the personal code number –“

“Captain Blue is not on Cloudbase at this present time.”

“Then I’d like to leave a message –“

“Please try again later, caller.”

The line went dead.

Paul Metcalfe swore. “I will be making sure the colonel gets a report about your inefficient, abrupt public manner,” he snarled at the phone in his hand.

He got back in the car and hurriedly drove back to the shop. He bought a much-faded postcard of the castle and addressed it to his mother.

Staying here with Uncle K for another couple of days, he wrote, to celebrate Aunt Rosie’s 100^th birthday - unless pneumonia sets in beforehand and I am rushed to the local hospital. The things I do for you. Love Paul. P.S. – you were quite right about needing the jumpers.

He bought a stamp and handed his card to the assistant with a smile. She stared blankly at him and he left with a feeling that strangers were not liked in the village.

By the time he got back to the castle, his uncle was preparing their meagre supper of bread and cheese, and shortly after that they trooped upstairs to the bedrooms for the night.

This time Paul wasn’t prepared to simply curl up in the bed with his whisky bottle. He read for a while by the light of the small oil-lamp and then wandered over to stargaze out of the window. He tried his phone again several times – because he wasn’t immune to the vague human belief that things will improve if you just ignore the problem for long enough. It still wouldn’t work, so, exhausted with the sheer boredom, he clambered into bed and counted sheep – ancient, curly-horned, scrawny Iron Age sheep such as roamed the grounds of the castle and which, his uncle had assured him, had delighted his auntie in her last years. He pulled the rough, woollen blanket around his shoulders – it seemed his aunt had knitted the thing herself from the wool of her own sheep – it certainly smelt like it - and Uncle Ken had given it to him as a gift for his mother.