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Diamond Crime Books Ltd - Stephen Timmins

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135 pages

English

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John Hannay, grandson of the great Richard Hannay of The Thirty-Nine Steps fame, is still haunted by his past, still finding enemies he knew nothing about. Now there are two more deaths. Two of John Hannay's closest friends and advisers, murdered. And now he's becoming more and more sure that that someone very close to his family is one of the killers. Why? "The kidnapping, the bombings, the killings, they were just sideshows. The game was me and I was a game because a criminal gang, a century ago, had been beaten by a Hannay and their game, 'their great game' had been ruined." Now, they're taking their revenge. Now it's all or nothing. It's time for the reckoning.

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Thriller

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Publié par	Diamond Crime Books Ltd
Date de parution	16 mars 2022
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781915649065
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0200€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Stephen Timmins spent far too long of his ‘adult’ life ducking–and–diving in the insanity that is TV production. Born in Purley, Surrey, he moved upwards to Sanderstead and finally to Warlingham. He has since descended from Surrey’s verdant hills and now lives in a village in North Somerset which has an excellent pub. He has been a fan of John Buchan’s Richard Hannay stories since childhood and often wondered what would have happened to Hannay’s descendants. This is the third of the books that tell their story .
Published in Great Britain in 2022
By Diamond Crime

ISBN 978-1-915649-06-5

Copyright © 2022 Stephen Timmins

The right of Stephen Timmins to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published.

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Diamond Crime is an imprint of Diamond Books Ltd.

Thanks to the Pidge, the VI, Shed Man, JVTG and Jack.

Book cover design:
jacksonbone.co.uk

Also by Stephen Timmins

The Fortieth Step Thrillers
Volume 1 – Legacy
Volume 2 – Revenge

And coming soon to Diamond Crime
The Fortieth Step
Volume 4 – Revelation

The Stanwood House Chronicles
Flora’s War
Kit’s War
Flora’s Peace

For information about Diamond Crime authors and their books, visit:
www.diamondbooks.co.uk

Dedicated to my wife Elaine, and our family

The Fortieth Step
VOLUME THREE
P romise

STEPHEN TIMMINS

1940

The club servant finished fitting the Black Out drape to the last of the high Georgian window. He left the room, bowing his head towards the tall, straight backed, silver–haired man who nodded back at him then turned away, his clear grey eyes looking through and beyond the panelled walls of the London club. Although he didn't appear as though he would understand the meaning of the word 'nervous', he seemed... nervous. He started as one of the men seated in front of him, watching him with affectionate amusement, spoke.
“Come on, Dick. You’ve been havering for the last five minutes. Spit it out, old man or we’ll miss dinner and I for one am famished.”
Four of the other members of the group nodded their fervent agreement. The fifth smiled to himself – he was used to missing dinners.
The tall man reached for the document case on the small table to his right. Now that his mind was made up all semblance of ‘havering’ disappeared. A foolscap envelope was handed to each of the group, their names hand-written on the paper – Ludovick ‘Sandy’ Arbuthnot – the Lord Clanroyden; Sir Archibald Roylance; Johannes Haraldsen; the massive old Gypsy, Caspar Baptista. And, finally, the young Joshua Bullivant, heir to old Lord Artinswell, bored by this meeting of his father’s friends, half amused, half irritated.
After the tearing of paper, there was a minute of silence, followed by another. Bullivant finished first. He looked up ready to laugh, but one glance at his colleagues silenced him. They stood as one and turned towards their leader, looked respectfully at Mr Baptista who smiled once again and nodded. Then Sandy spoke for them all.
“Dick, we’ve been through the devil’s own time together in the past, although we’ve all been classified by the powers-that-be as too old for this present shindig.”
He nodded towards the blacked–out window and the distant sound of sirens heralding the first of that night’s German air raids.
“So, I for one pledge myself and my heirs to do everything to protect your son, Peter John, and his heirs against the monstrosity of Dominick Medina and his spawn.”
The man they called Dick raised his hand. “We must also never forget our battles with the Graf von Schwabing – der Schwarzer Stein. He may be dead, but perhaps he had heirs too.”
The four older men nodded and stepped forward to clasp hands. Reluctantly, Bullivant followed suit. The five men faced inwards and swore what was to them a sacred oath.

CHAPTER ONE

Days like this should always be mid–winter: cold, grey, wet, half–dark, disheartening. Thanks to the Christmas and New Year celebrations, Sir Ian Hamilton's funeral had been delayed and the rotten weather had stayed with us until the seventh of January. I peered through the windscreen and wished I had replaced the wiper blade on the driver's side of my grandfather's Bentley. It screeched irritatingly and left a one–inch band of sleet spattered glass untouched.
I sighed and glanced across at my wife. She had refused to wear a raincoat and was, instead, huddled inside a long black coat and an exquisite faux fur hat. I glanced down. Her legs were hidden behind sheer black nylon and her feet and calves encased in elegant, black leather boots. Without looking in my direction she inched the skirt up with the fingers of her right hand to reveal an expanse of stockinged leg, with a firm, creamy thigh and the delicate black strap of a suspender belt. She peered round at me over her fur collar, the glint of mischief in her eye. “And, Hannay. And! If you behave yourself at the funeral, there might be a little treat for you afterwards.”
She slid her gloved hand up my thigh. I smiled. “But you're up the duff, Lady Hannay.”
She bridled immediately. The hand was withdrawn. “So, I'm no longer a sex object. Is that it? Just a fat, udder swinging, baby machine. Is that it?”
“Well, I don’t know about the swinging udders. You'd have to demonstrate - after the funeral that is.”
She laughed and leaned across to turn off the irritating wipers. “See. It’s stopped raining. Told you.”
She was right. Annoyingly. A misty winter sun was half visible behind the thinning cloud. We were on the A38 in Devon now, looking out for the A385 which would eventually lead us to St Michael's church in the village of Blackawton in Devon's South Hams where today, Sir Ian Hamilton was being buried in his family's vault.
“Turn left, John – A3122.”
St Michael's church was a remarkable Gothic edifice with a hulk of a tower – late fifteenth century I guessed. The bells began their toll and a flock of Jackdaws, my favourite birds, fled from the tower in their couples and forgathered in the graveyard to natter about the unwelcome disturbance of their peace. I waved at Uncle Marcus and Aunt Mary across the graveyard and, even amidst a sea of khaki and campaign medals, it was simple to pick out Robbi’s brother Dave, massive in the full, number one uniform of a Regimental Sergeant Major. He walked towards us, smiling grimly, medals bouncing on his chest. Robbi ran a few steps forward to hug and kiss him. I saw heads turning to watch her and delighted once more in her beauty. She took his arm and walked back to join me as I limped forward. In my charcoal grey pin stripe and walking stick, I felt distinctly out of place and age among the senior officers. Dave straightened to attention as a tall, thin, faintly familiar General whose chest was only slightly less bemedalled than Dave’s, acknowledged his salute.
“Afternoon, Mr Lord. Good to see you again. Thought you might be here.”
He turned and glanced back at Dave with a sardonic smile. “Lieutenant Hannay appears to have forgotten me.”
But I did remember that sardonic smile. I held out a hand. “Well, you have to admit that you were a mere colonel then, sir. May I present my wife, and Mr Lord’s sister too by the way, Lady Roberta Hannay. Robbi, General Ruari Stuart.”
He touched his cap with his swagger stick and nodded at her approvingly. “Lady Hannay. Pleasure.”
Robbi wanted to know more. “Did you know John when he was in the army, General? He scarcely ever mentions that time of his life and when he does it’s just to say that he was the most useless Lieutenant in the history of his regiment.”
“Your husband, Lady Hannay, was the most extraordinary contradiction Sandhurst has probably ever seen. He passed out so far above the rest of the year that someone even suggested that he must have cheated. But... Ah...”
“But what? Oh, come on, General, you can’t leave it like that.” She grabbed his arm and laughed up at him mischievously.
A passing senior officer was jealous. “Yes, come on Stuart? Or do you know the secret of Sir John’s army past, Mr Lord?”
Dave smiled in turn. “Not me, Sir. My brother–in–law is a mystery to me too. She’s the only one who seems to understand him.”
The second General turned to Robbi who was still smiling. “Very well, Lady Hannay, what do you think is the answer to the mystery?”
“Oh, that's easy. I just wanted to hear someone else say it so John would look embarrassed and start looking for the exit.”
She batted her eyelashes at me as I tried to disguise the backward step into an attempt to lean on my stick.
“He would have passed every exam without even trying. He would have been excellent at pointless manly things and a total disaster when it came to leading his men. He’d have been scared to death they’d get hurt through some mistake of his, so he would do all sorts of ridiculously dangerous recces on his own. Don’t get me wrong, I'm sure he would have got good results, but this would not, I’m sure, have impressed his superior officers in any way at all. Oh, and he’s the world’s worst shot.”
Both Generals were laughing. “You’re a marksman then, Lady Hannay?”
“Well, I’m better than my brother, but way,