"The Knights of Aurora" is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright 2005 by John Ellison
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of author, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
WARNING: This story contains graphic depictions of sex between consenting adult males and/or teenage males. Please do not continue reading if you are offended by this genre of erotic literature, if you are underage or if this type of story is illegal where you live.
WARNING: This story contains scenes of violence, graphic and abusive language and graphic descriptions of male nudity. Discretion is advised.
My thanks to all who have written offering their comments and suggestions for my story. I enjoy hearing from readers and try to answer all e-mails.
Thanks to Peter, my sterling editor. Sometimes without him I would merely be sending along pap!
The Knights of Aurora
Chapter 3
The house was a maelstrom of noise and activity. On the upper floors, in the bedrooms, the under butler supervised the maids as they made beds, dusted, scoured the bathrooms and prepared the rooms for the very special guests due to arrive later in the morning. Another cleaning crew wiped, waxed, polished, vacuumed and scrubbed the dining room, drawing rooms and salons. In the basement kitchens the caterer was screaming at his partner, who was bellowing at the kitchen staff.
Outside the gardeners were putting the finishing touches on the plants and flowers that lined the terraces. On the back lawn tables and chairs were being set up and laid with china and crystal. Nearby a grim-faced cook coaxed the charcoal and apple wood chips laid on the grills of a massive portable barbecue to just the right flame. Footmen, laden with trays and bowls bustled in and out, yet another delivery truck growled into the mews and Major Meinertzhagen hurried about, ostensibly directing traffic, and getting in everyone's way. Pete Sheppard, the new Chief of Security and head of the newly named Protection Service, prowled the grounds, his dark eyes missing nothing, making certain that the sentries and guards were alert.
Michael Chan had a headache.
For much of his life, Michael Chan had eschewed his Chinese heritage. He never dressed in the "traditional" manner, avoided speaking Mandarin or Cantonese, had visited a plastic surgeon to have his almond shaped eyes reshaped and consciously projected the air of a well-raised, well-educated, proper English gentleman. He could not, however, ignore a part of his heritage that caused him to abhor with Oriental fierceness anything that approached "meanness" when entertaining guests.
When he had decided that he would entertain the new knights at his home, Michael had determined that nothing would be scrimped, nothing would be forgotten and everything would be done to make his guests' stay as pleasant as possible, every courtesy extended, every effort made to show the young men of Aurora that they were honoured and welcome friends and brothers.
This was easier said than done.
Michael's house was huge, and surrounded by gardens. There were more than enough bedrooms. The grounds could be used to advantage for entertaining. The furniture in the double drawing room, the morning room, and the dining room, could be reconfigured. Michael planned on a special ceremony before the young knights left his house. He also wanted a formal dinner to celebrate not only the Investiture but also the ennoblement and presentation of collars that he wished do tomorrow evening. He had consulted the Major, who was experienced in such things. The Major, together with Laurence Howard, Logan Hartsfield, and Patrick Tsang, whom he referred to grand as his "Staff", had come up with an ambitious program.
The Major and Laurence would meet the young men at the airport. In the mews the "hearses", a Phantom IV Rolls, two Phantom Vs, and three Daimler limousines, were being polished and buffed to perfection by the men assigned as chauffeurs. Mechanics had gone over every engine to ensure that there would be no embarrassing breakdowns.
Once the boys were settled in their bedrooms they would have lunch, a barbecue. After lunch they would be free to do whatever they wished. Shopping was suggested and Michael had arranged for envelopes of cash - not too much, for one did not care to be crass - to be placed alongside the bowls of fruit, boxes of chocolate and latest "best sellers" placed in every bedroom.
Dinner would be in Michael's restaurant, the Imperial City, which dominated the best part of Chinatown and offered, arguably, the best Chinese food in town. Michael had given the restaurant Chef strict instructions that only the finest dishes were to be served, including Shark's Fin soup, which was an acquired taste. Michael did not care for it. He thought the soup had the consistency of unset gelatine and tasted as if a very dead fish had been rinsed in the liquid. The maitre d' was to ensure that only the most professional of the waiters were to be on duty. As an afterthought he had also ordered Cousin Tommy Chan to make certain that there were no Tsangs lurking in the corners.
After dinner there would be a film. Joe Hobbes and Gabe Izard had been sent into the city for a suitable film - not too much sex, please.
The Major had let his imagination run wild. His home regiment had once stood duty at the Palace, and later at Balmoral, where he had danced a sedate "set" with the Countess of Snowden at the Ghillies' Ball. If the young men were considered to be "Royal", he would ensure that they would be received in the royal manner. His "Programme", neatly typed, was ambitious. The activities laid out grand, the dinner menus perfect. Unfortunately he had forgotten that the scheme was labour intensive, demanding scores of chefs, platoons of footmen, a butler and two under butlers, cleaning ladies unto the ninth generation, and a regiment of maids to keep the bedrooms and parlours neat.
Michael had read the ambitious programme, and shaken his head. They simply did not have the staff. The Major, who had been puffing on a vintage Uppmann at the time, had smiled and uttered three words: "The Silver Vaults," and blown a perfect, aromatic circle of cigar smoke.
Michael had cringed. He knew - if the Major did not - that while the Chans had been resident in Canada for six generations, had contributed wealth and effort of selves to the general welfare of the community as a whole, built libraries and saved schools, they were still, to some minds, Chinamen.
Chinamen.
The epithet grated more than anyone could know. Michael's house was located in an enclave of wealth, privilege, and power, a small town of leafy squares and period houses set on large lots, a place where the servants drove Cadillacs. Michael had been inside only two of the houses: his parents', a rambling, Regency pile that stood directly to the south of his own home, and Clarence House, as the home of Caroline Leveson-Arundel was named.
The houses, Regency, Adam, Georgian, boasted imposing names such as Leveson House, Broadlands, Gatcombe Park, Highgrove, and so on. So far as Michael no Chinese had ever seen the inside of any of them, and the only Orientals who passed through the tall gates in the ornamental fences that surrounded each house were Japanese gardeners who tended the smooth, green lawns and neat, ordered flower beds.
Michael Chan was not a gardener, but the wide grounds outside the tall windows of his study boasted beds of prize-winning flowers, shrubs and plantings. The grandeur of Michael's gardens was such to cause horticulturalists the world over to salivate in envy. His roses, each bush bearing an illustrious name, had been nurtured from cuttings from the gardens and hothouses of Windsor, Versailles, palaces and humble plantings. None of his neighbours, save one, had ever seen the wonders that abounded in Michael's gardens. Michael Chan was, after all, one of those . . .
Chinamen.
Works of the Great Masters, Rembrandt, Van Gogh, Constable, Turner, the names were legion, adorned the rooms of his house. Every month or so Michael received requests from the Curators of the world's greatest museums, from London, from New York, from Tokyo, from Berlin and Madrid, all the great capitals of the world, begging the loan of this or that Master for inclusion in a planned exhibit. The great, unwashed public might gaze in awe at the masterpieces of the ages . . . None of his neighbours, save one, had ever seen the great paintings. Michael Chan was, after all, one of those . . .
Chinamen.
Harewood House, in London, boasted as having the most comprehensive collection of Chippendale furniture extant. The Regents of Harewood House had never seen the museum quality pieces that filled Michael Chan's house. The works of the great master, complemented by carvings by Grinling Gibbons, tapestries from the looms of Belgium and France, resting on Aubusson carpets, accented by gold and silver artefacts from the workrooms of Faberge, Paul Storr, de Lamerie, Cellini and countless others, were only seen by the maids who polished the glowing wood. None of his neighbours, save one, had ever seen the period rooms. Michael Chan was, after all, one of those . . .
Chinamen.
During the "Season", which ran from May until August, there was a luncheon, garden party, ball, dinner or late supper held every night. Young men, hired for the occasion, criss-crossed the squares and wide avenues delivering cream-coloured invitations, exquisitely engraved by Birks & Sons. Only one of the young men stopped at Michael Chan's house. Society, it seemed, stopped at the Regency house to the south. The lone invitation came from Caroline Arundel, mother to the handsome, rambunctious twins, Todd and Cory. Michael, resplendent in white tie, as the invitation ordered, made a point to attend.
The snubs grated. A lesser man would have bullied his way into Society. A lesser man would have found ways to wreak his vengeance. Michael Chan did not. He was, after all, one of those . . .
Chinamen.
The Major was more than aware of the social bigotry that existed in the ordered houses and manicured gardens of British Pacific Properties. That Michael could buy and sell most of the owners of those houses and gardens was galling. However, one must face reality. The Major had been trained to mount military campaigns against guerrillas and professional soldiers. One studied the enemy, hopefully identified his weaknesses, and then gathered ones forces to defeat him. Easy peasy, as the saying went.
At no time did the Major doubt his abilities, or his willingness to sleep with strange bedfellows. One must do what one must do to achieve a satisfactory end, whether in war, or a dinner party. After all, had not Churchill himself managed to swallow the antics of the obnoxious, odious de Gaulle, and win the war?
As Michael's right hand, Major Meinertzhagen was prepared to do just about anything to achieve his friend's ends. And this included swallowing the antics of the obnoxious, odious Maestro, social arbiter and caterer to the carriage trade, and co-owner of "The Silver Vaults".
The name of the firm was a misnomer. The Maestro had started out as a supplier of china, crystal and cutlery to the numerous caterers serving the carriage trade of Vancouver. His business expanded when he added silver pieces to his inventory. In very short order The Silver Vaults became known as a firm that could supply the finest of china, form a Minton-Dynasty service so exquisite that few could afford the cost of hiring it, to a slightly less expensive Faberge Verneuil service that had once adorned the table of a Grand Duke.
The Maestro expanded his services when he met his life partner, a lean, craggy red-haired Scot, whom everyone called "Ginger", because of the colour of his hair. Ginger was an irascible, French-trained chef who, between fits of petulance, produced sublime meals. In a business sense, it was a match made in heaven.
In time the reputation of The Silver Vaults was such that no one with any pretence of gentility used any other caterer. One went to The Silver Vaults, which could supply everything from table silver to waiters, for a wedding breakfast of 50, or a ball for 1,000. Everything would be superb, from the table settings to the food to the wines to the service.
The Maestro had also established a reputation of absolute despotism. He was, as one shaken client had exclaimed, as mean as a snake in shedding season. He brooked no interference, never forgave a slight, or forgot a lapse in social etiquette. One dared to depart from proper, traditional decorum in dining at one's peril, as one sad young woman learned.
Ginger, stoutly supported by his partner, produced a menu that was well thought out, balanced, and each succeeding dish complemented the other. The same held true with the accompanying wines. When a wine was offered it was to enhance the food being served. The Maestro had built up an extensive knowledge of wines and when his servers presented a decanter the diner was expected to know that the wine had been chosen with careful discernment. Upsetting the order of service was, so far as the Maestro was concerned, akin to upsetting the order of the planets. It simply was not done.
The Major had heard the story. The name of the young lady was never revealed but . . . It had happened at a gala dinner where the reigning doyenne of polite society (as viewed from the leafy enclave) wished to introduce her new daughter-in-law. The Maestro was commanded to provide the best of everything and, as Madame was one of his pets, he had pulled out all the stops. The table glittered with antique silver, his best linens, and crystal glasses engraved with the Coat of Arms of a now defunct Royal House. The flowers were the artwork of the best florist in the province. It had taken three days for the table to be set to the Maestro's exacting standards.
Ginger had produced a menu that rivalled anything yet seen. The staff, all young men, was liveried in new, brass-buttoned tailcoats bearing gold buttons adorned with the hostess' initials. The orchestra that was to play had been recruited from the ranks of the Vancouver Symphony.
The Maestro, resplendent in white tie and tails supervised the service. The first course was served without incident. The second course was eaten with appreciative comments. The main course, Beef Wellington made with aged Aberdeen Angus filets, was offered, and the wine stewards began to pour the accompanying wine, a rare Chateau Léoville Poyferré 1919. Smiling, which was a rarity, the Maestro watched as the diners sipped the red wine. His smile turned to a frown when the wine steward left the table and picked up a decanter of white wine, which was reserved for the pudding. The Maestro watched in horror as his whole carefully thought out dinner was ruined as the wine steward poured white wine into the glass of the guest of honour.
Horrified, the Maestro had retired to the kitchen for a restorative brandy and, when the wine steward entered, demanded an explanation. It seemed that Mademoiselle preferred white wine, thank you. Ginger, who was witness to the exchange, withdrew precipitously to the far end of the kitchen. Two waiters, who had been loitering, waiting to clear, quickly found other pressing duties in the dining room. The sous-chefs and carvers felt the sudden urge for a smoke break. The Maestro did not erupt. He had mellowed somewhat in his old age, helped along by several snifters of brandy. If Mademoiselle lacked the social acumen to know that one drank red wine with red meat, so be it.
Surprised, though thankful that his partner had not erupted, Ginger returned. What he did not know was that Mademoiselle was forever in the outer darkness. If she wanted white wine, she would have it. She would also never again have to consult the table seating for, plunked four square at her place at any dinner catered by the Maestro that she attended, would be a carafe of low-quality, non-vintage, white vin-ordinaire. Mademoiselle's parties also never had the éclat, or tone, enjoyed by her mother-in-law or her peers. It seemed that every time she rang The Silver Vaults the books were, alas, closed.
The Major's mention of The Silver Vaults had caused Michael to grimace, groan, and wave his hand dismissively. To his knowledge the firm had never done business with anyone the Maestro did not approve of. Just what the criteria were for the Maestro's brand of excellence no one knew. Michael had more money than he knew what to do with. This apparently cut no ice with Maestro. Money meant nothing. One was either on his "List" or one was not and while being struck from the list was capriciously easy, having one's name entered in the Maestro's ledger was not. A barge load of gold bars could not open a book that was firmly and irrevocably closed.
The Major disagreed for he knew, if Michael did not, that not too far away Michael had a secret, very powerful weapon. The Major had once studied the career of Field Marshall Sir Bernard Law Montgomery. The man, on the surface, was a slow old coach of a general, never moving an inch until he was satisfied that he had the men, the equipment, and the logistical support to win. Much like Napoleon, the Field Marshall believed in having a more than sufficient supply of "Big Guns".
Waving aside Michael's objections, the Major reached for the telephone. At the other end of the line was the biggest "gun" in British Properties.
Caroline Mary Randolph Leveson-Arundel could, but never would, trace her ancestry back to the first Randolph who had set foot in the New World, with the first shipload of colonists listed on the manifest as "Gentlemen". Her roots were deep in the aristocracy of Virginia and South Carolina, and in Nova Scotia where the family had found refuge. Staunch Tories, her branch of the family had followed the King after the American Revolution, gaining status and honour thereby. She numbered in her ancestry, when she remembered them, plantation owners, three Governors of Colonial Virginia, magistrates, militia officers, and a horse thief or two.
If anything, her husband's pedigree was even more impressive. The Levesons and the Arundels were entrenched in the English Aristocracy and had a long history of service to the Crown, dating back to William, called The Conquer. Levesons and Arundels had served in every campaign, from the Norman Conquest and wars in France, through the Crusades, fighting as officers and gentlemen in the Army and Navy. There had been a Leveson at Waterloo, an Arundel at Isandhlwana and another at Rorke's Drift (where he managed to win a VC). Sometime during the middle of Victoria's reign the Arundels drifted from the Brigade of Guards to the Royal Navy. There had been three Arundels at Jutland (one of whom went down when HMS Invincible, a battle cruiser, blew up). Levesons figured on four war memorials in France.
As was the custom of the times scions of the Levesons and Arundels were sent out to take up the white man's burden. Two cousins settled in Vancouver, enjoying the mild climate and flourished.
The family had given much to England, and to Crown. In 1939 Caroline's husband, Albert Leveson-Arundel, and called "Bertie", age 16, had answered the call to the Colours, as had his brother Louis, age 15. Family connections in England gained them appointments as two very frightened Midshipmen in the Royal Navy. Both came home in one piece, and both earned some decent gongs.
In 1950 Bertie, once again called to duty, stopped at his club for a drink before crossing to Esquimalt to join his ship, HMCS Sioux. It was Ladies Day, and teatime. At one of the tables, pouring, was a young woman who quite took his breath away. They were introduced and, thanks to government dithering and dallying, managed a whirlwind courtship and when Bertie sailed he was a married man.
When Bertie returned from Korea the newlyweds were given a large plot in British Pacific Properties on which they built a solid, five-storey, brick house that was, in the Georgian manner, whitewashed. While impressive, the house was comfortable, and furnished with period pieces. The young Leveson-Arundels, because of their families, and their listings in Burkes, Debbrett's and the Almanach de Gotha, were welcomed with open arms.
The young Leveson-Arundels, given their breeding and money, family connections and natural grace, did not allow themselves to be drawn into the insular society where Rule Britannia was the theme song, and everything British, including prejudices, was fawningly aped. Caroline had no time for pretension. She also had no time for fancy dress, pointless balls, or interminable dinner parties where imagined rank determined one's seating below, or above the salt.
Caroline moved through life calmly, elegantly, and without side. She dressed well, but conservatively. Her home was comfortable and well run. She did not employ regiments of servants. She made do with a daily, a cook, and a chauffeur and more often than not when one knocked on her door she answered it herself.
In time Caroline became a mother and, as she had been, taught her twin sons their manners in the cradle. Although each boy had been christened - with appropriate Anglican ceremony at home - with a string of names, they were called, for simplicity, Todd (who was the first born, by seven minutes) and Cory. Both grew into strong, tall, handsome, blond, young men, well mannered, for the most part. They were typical boys growing up, always into something, the joy and bane of their parents' life.
As part of their upbringing both boys were taught never to cause offence, to respect their elders whenever possible and to never, under any circumstances, boast or brag. When it came time for them to attend school they were driven, once, to their new school, St. George's, a very public school in the Anglican Tradition situated across the street from the UBC Campus. Thereafter each morning they found four 25-cent coins on the hall credenza: bus fare and pin money. The Twins soon mastered the intricacies of the transit system and roamed the city; although Cory once complained that the only time he ever rode in anything other than a bus was when he was forced to attend church, a funeral, or a wedding.
While good manners and never causing offence were inbred, the Twins, from watching their mother, very quickly learned that at times, it was necessary to remind people that they had overstepped the boundary of good taste. The Twins learned that surest sign that something was wrong was their mother twirling her wedding band - plain gold - faster and faster. Caroline would never blurt out what distressed her. She would wait and when the time was right, always when the host or hostess called attention to the beauty of the table, the room, the house, she would nod ever so gently, smile enigmatically and deliver the coup de grace: "Very nice, but much too grand for us!"
Both Cory and Todd swore that their mother's seemingly casual remark caused more redecoration than all the fads and fancies since the beginning of time.
Caroline raised her sons not to judge people, or to apply labels. Each man was unique and as such her sons were never to belittle, or in any way treat contemptuously another person simply because he or she had different coloured skin, worshipped in different ways or dressed strangely. The Twins, who knew their mother well, never tested her determination that they would be proper young gentlemen - or else! The Twins, being intelligent young men, were wise enough to heed their mother's instructions and never test what the "or else!" might be.
As she preached, so she practiced. Caroline Leveson-Arundel met many people, and would never allow the endemic or fashionable bigotry to influence her opinions. A case in point was her friendship with Michael Chan.
Raised in a rural environment, gardens and flowers were very much a part of Caroline's life. She was partial to roses, but would plant any pretty flower, and subscribed to any magazine that announced the arrival of a new hybrid. She was aided in her gardening by her Aunt Mary Putnam Randolph, a fearless woman who bore a striking resemblance to the late Queen Mary, down to imitating her style of dress, including toque hats and a tightly furled umbrella.
If anything, Aunt Mary was even more a connoisseur of roses. She devoured the gardening page of the Vancouver Sun and when, after reading an article regaling the gardens of a certain Mr. Michael Chan, took it upon herself to ring his home and ask for a tour. Michael, dumbstruck, for no one from the Old Guard had ever expressed an interest in his gardens, had agreed and a date for tea was arranged.
Very much a lady of the old school, Aunt Mary would not stir from her crumbling old pile of a house in Victoria without being accompanied by either another lady, or a male relative. Ordinarily she would call upon her best friend, Mabell Airlie. Unfortunately, on the appointed day, Mabell was incapacitated and unavailable. Undaunted, Aunt Mary called upon one of her nephews, Blake Putnam Randolph who, while a trifle young, had testicles and a hat. Blake's youth, and her lack of a motor car, led Aunt Mary to ring her niece, Caroline, who not only shared her interest in roses, but had a decent, if elderly, Daimler.
Michael, who had never met Mrs. Randolph or Caroline Leveson-Arundel, had no idea what was expected of him. He knew that his gardens would more than pass muster. What worried him was what would follow after the tour. The ladies would expect tea. The Major, who had weathered more than one afternoon tea, formal and otherwise, suggested that Michael just be himself.
At the appointed time the ladies, and their escort, appeared. The gardens were toured and quite to Michael's surprise, very real compliments extended. After the tour there was tea on the broad terrace behind the house. Michael had worried about this. He lived well, but not regally and his china and silver, purchased with the house, might not pass muster. The tea things, a set decorated with small blue birds seemed not quite up to the standards of such important guests. His silver tea service, while made in the reign of William IV, was slightly battered. The food, delicate smoked salmon, watercress and egg sandwiches, Balmoral scones, Scottish shortbread and a large chocolate cake, served with Devonshire clotted cream, was fortunately not above the somewhat limited abilities of his cook.
Later, in the privacy of her bedroom, Caroline had confided to Bertie that she had not really known what to expect. Michael had been a perfect gentleman in every respect, quite unlike the servile Oriental that she had, unfairly, expected. Bertie, who had had dealings with Michael Chan, and before him, Uncle Henry Chan, had smiled.
In the event, as she left Michael's house, Caroline had delivered to an unknowing Michael the ultimate cachet. She had, she told him, enjoyed herself very much. The Major, who had been hovering about, had overhead and recognized the compliment for what it was: Michael not only had a friend at Court, the lady was the Court!
Caroline continued to visit Michael's gardens and was the happy recipient of cuttings from his newest acquisitions. They enjoyed the roses, and the conversation, and met more or less monthly.
The only two flies in the ointment, albeit golden haired, devilishly handsome flies, were the Twins. They had conceived a dislike for Major Meinertzhagen who had been at his pompous, supercilious best when they first accompanied their mother to Michael's house. Too polite to acknowledge the Major's snideness, the Twins plotted their revenge, which took the form of ExLax, Irish Cream liqueur, and the Major's turned back. The Major was not hospitalized but thereafter regarded the Twins as little better than pestilential flies, and sometimes not even that.
Not so Michael Chan. He recognized in the young boys something the Major, usually a fine judge of character, had missed. The Twins were young boys, true, but they enjoyed life. They had had a happy childhood, and were enjoying their adolescence. They viewed life with a keen sense of humour, a dry, piercing shrewdness, and vitality. The Twins were survivors, and Michael who had been denied the happiness of a normal childhood, looked affectionately at them and forgave them their schoolboy transgressions, although relations were somewhat strained when the Twins inveigled two of the footmen into playing a game of touch football (having grown bored with sipping tea and listening to their elders discussing this cutting and that bloom).
The game was noisy, as all games involving the Twins were and as the day was warm, they lost little time in stripping off their jackets, starched white shirts and ties, and cajoled the footmen into at least removing their tailcoats and loosening their ties.
For reasons best known to the Twins, they never played on the same side. Perhaps it was brotherly rivalry; perhaps it was just a boyish desire to prove that the one was better than the other. No matter. The Twins played to win and their friendly game of touch soon turned into a serious battle of contact. They growled, grumbled and called each other every vile name they could think of, howling at their teammate at a missed play, snarling at each other like young lion cubs.
On the terrace the Major's muttered grumbling about "street urchins" and servants "not knowing their place" had been silenced by a fierce look from Michael, who smiled benignly at the antics taking place on his emerald, smooth lawn. His smile turned to a slight frown when the ball came sailing past his nose, crashed through the window of the morning room, and shattered a Sevres vase.
The Twins immediately apologized. It did not matter that the ball had been thrown by one of the footmen. They had organized the match and they would assume all responsibility. Appalled at her sons' carelessness, but secretly pleased at their quick and unequivocal assumption of responsibility, immediately offered a replacement from her own collections. Michael gently declined her offer. He admitted that he had never cared for the thing. Caroline, however, insisted that "the thing" be paid for. Her stern look at her sons led them to immediately offer recompense. They would pay for the damage, from their weekly allowance.
While the Twins would not know for several years, Michael Chan was actively involved in an order of knights, a secret order that was devoted to furthering the civil rights of an oppressed and despised minority: gay men. Although it was never spoken of, the Major, who occasionally passed the time in what passed for "Polite Society", sipping tea and listening to the gossip, had confided the Arundel boys rode, as he put it quaintly, a different bus.
Although he knew that the Twins would be in his debt for more hundreds of years than they could ever possibly live, Michael had accepted their offer of $1.00 each, per week, to pay for a replacement vase. Later he had entered their names in a small, leather bound book he kept, names of young men and boys who would, when the time was right, be approached with a view of considering them as candidates for the Order he would come to devote his life to.
While Michael would not presume on his friendship, or his amused admiration for the Arundel twins, the Major could. A telephone call to Caroline Arundel had resulted in the arrival, in splintery Ford Shooting Break, of the Maestro, Ginger, two florists, and an effete young man who took notes. The Maestro, with visions of Caroline Arundel's spinning wedding ring, had listened, read the Major's Programme, and murmured, "You will be pleased."
The next morning the trucks, and the people began to arrive. Footmen carrying garment bags arrived and set to work polishing Michael's modest - the opinion of the Maestro - collection of silver. The cook was returned to the Imperial Garden Restaurant for the duration and Ginger now reigned supreme in the kitchens. Cleaning ladies, armed with mops, brooms, dustpans, and a stern antiseptic soap, waxed washed and scrubbed, starting with the Under Croft (and disrupting Joel, who pitched a fit and locked the door against them). Bedrooms were aired, mattresses turned, and bathrooms scrubbed. When the ladies were finished the house shone.
As Michael planned a special dinner, and as he correctly assumed the young knights had no dinner clothes, Mr. Leung, the tailor, was called for. He had been to Aurora to measure the cadets for their steward's jackets and trousers, and had the measurements of many of them. He and his assistant were waiting in the morning room and would measure those they had missed.
Michael sought the sanctuary of his office in vain. His serious work, co-ordinating with The Gunner and Terry Hsiang in Toronto, trying to monitor his vast business network, and basically keep out of the way from the feuding and bickering that seemed to fill his house, was constantly interrupted. Joel Chiang, his cousin, one-time lover (when they were boys), bane, and now computer expert, popped in and out, alternately bitching about the noise and organized confusion, and chortling about his latest discoveries as he played with his passion, a very expensive Cray computer, that frightened Michael more than a little for the heretofore secret knowledge it could unearth. Joe Hobbes and Gabe Izard wandered in with updates on their part in The Gunner's and Michael's plan to topple the nation-wide nest of paedophiles.
Then there was the Major, who constantly interrupted, requesting final approval of this item of food for the gala dinner, offering china plates for use at the dinner, and now, incomprehensibly, wanting to know which table linen Michael felt would be best used.
Michael was a patient man, but enough was enough. He was about to lash out and tell the Major pointedly that he was in charge of the arrangements when Laurence Howard, the Major's protégé entered. He placed a folded piece of paper in front of Michael.
Glaring at the paper, Michael then glared at Laurence. "Another problem?" he demanded.
Shrugging, Laurence pointed to the paper. "A cable . . ." he paused and then added, "From Hong Kong."
Michael's business dealings included the Hong Kong Triads, a vicious, unforgiving set of rogues. He had, more or less, been expecting something from them and frowned. Carefully, he opened the paper and read the cable.
Couched in vague, polite and diplomatic terms, the cable noted the arrival, unexpectedly and without explanation, of the entire Chinese staff that Michael had unceremoniously stuffed into the first available flight to the island city. The cable also noted the absence of one Captain K'ang, the man hand-picked to lead the once "Internal Security Force" that patrolled the grounds and manned the gate of Michael's estate. The import of the cable could be translated as "What the hell is going on?"
Michael reflected that he could, in truth, say that he had no idea where the hapless Captain was. The last Michael had seen of the man he was being hustled into a nondescript four-door by Cousin Tommy Chan and four scowling Tsangs. As for the others, the Triads had sent them all, over Michael's objections, and all of them were up to their necks in Captain K'ang's treachery.
As he read the cable, Michael was not at all worried. He could in very short order put paid to the whining of his Triad cousins by returning to them the treachery they had visited on him. He had not wanted K'ang, or the other Chinese men sent to him. The Triad lords had insisted. He would remind the thugs who ruled the Hong Kong underworld that they had recommended highly every man sent out to Canada. They had urged him, in effusive and fulsome terms to accept K'ang, and disregard his Taiwanese origins. He was a victim of his place of birth, nothing more, and completely loyal. That thought elicited a snort of contempt. K'ang had been loyal all right, loyal first to the Triads, and then to the Taiwanese Military Intelligence. Michael would take great joy in reminding his erstwhile "brothers" of that tidy fact! He would also remind them that the very fabric of his - and by definition - their business enterprises had been compromised and who knew what K'ang had reported to his real masters in Taipei!
Satisfied that he could deal with Hong Kong, Michael was about to reach for his pot of ink and writing brush - he would reply in writing, in Mandarin, a small gesture of his independence and a small slight, for the cable was in English - when the telephone rang.
Both the Major and Laurence looked at Michael. The ringing telephone, which was a special, dedicated line, had a number known only to three people: Michael, the Major and The Gunner. Both men watched as Michael picked up the telephone, listened, and then handed the receiver to Laurence.
"It is the Chancellor," said Michael somewhat needlessly. "He has a problem which, it would seem, only you can solve, Laurence."
Mystified, Laurence took the receiver and spoke, "Laurence here." Laurence's smooth face seemed to change slightly as he listened. Then, much to Michael and The Major's curiosity, he said, "Well, Steve, it depends. I know of the case, and I know that Noel had one. He bought it in Hong Kong." There was a lengthy pause and then Laurence continued, "Each case is supposed to be different. You must press the brass screws that hold the metal corners together in a certain sequence. Try the centre screw first, then the top, then the bottom."
This sequence apparently did not work, for Laurence frowned. "Well, try top, bottom and centre." He paused as loud grumbling carried down the wire. "My dear Chancellor, I am trying to be of assistance. I can only . . ." He paused and his eyes widened. "Oh, good. Yes, I'm sure he'll be very interested." Then, much to Michael and the Major's surprise, Laurence snatched up the cable, turned it over and picked up the pen from the antique desk set that sat on Michael's desk.
The Major's eyebrows rose, matching Michael's as Laurence scratched away, listing names. When he was finished writing, Laurence glanced at Michael. "Noel is dead," he said flatly. "What?" Michael stared blankly at the Major and then at Laurence. "When? Where?"
"In Toronto, sometime yesterday morning or the evening before," responded Laurence. "He was found in some flophouse. The police are investigating."
"Then why . . ." began Michael.
"Apparently the indigenous residents of the hotel managed to find the time to loot the room before the police arrived," replied Laurence dryly. He heard The Gunner's voice and pressed the receiver to his ear again. "Yes . . . oh, good. What did you find?"
Laurence listened, his face growing paler with every word he heard. Finally he nodded and handed the receiver back to Michael. "Dear sweet God," he muttered.
Outwardly calm, Michael hung up the telephone and asked quietly. "Bad news?" His heart was beating and dread seemed to fill his soul. Whatever it was that The Gunner had reported had to be important. Steve Winslow was not given to hyperbole or to panicking. He picked up the cable and his face paled.
Laurence saw the look on Michael's face as he sat in a nearby chair. "It is not good, Michael." Taking a deep breath, Laurence turned to the Major. "Noel was found dead - shot in the head - in a grotty hotel room. When the police arrived they did what the police always do, gather evidence and round up the usual suspects."
"Get to the point, lad," growled the Major. He craned his neck, trying to read the list of names.
"One of the police officers investigating is a part of The Gunner's group," began Laurence in explanation. "He was called out as the crime occurred in his precinct, or division, or whatever it is the local police call their administrative areas in Toronto . . ."
Michael's suspicions, in light of recent events, were immediately aroused. He raised his hand slightly, silencing the Laurence. "Shot in the head?" "Apparently so," replied Laurence, wondering what had piqued Michael's probing question. What he did not know was that Michael had enemies, powerful enemies, who would suborn and pervert servants, children, anyone who could give them information that would lead them to a weakness in Michael's defences.
Chief amongst Michael's enemies were the Triads in Hong King. They were deeply involved in the heroin trade, and had tons of "product" ready to be shipped. Michael consistently and vehemently refused to allow the ports of Vancouver and Victoria to be used as a conduit for the trade.
The Triads would have loved to bring Michael down. However, because of Michael's ties to government officials, both in Hong Kong and in Canada, they trod warily. Michael had many "friends", many of them powerful. He was also affianced to a daughter of the Soongs, the most powerful family in Chinese Underworld. The leaders of the Triads might chafe and mutter their displeasure, but they could not do anything, at least not overtly. Still, they had their own friends and . . .
Michael was no fool and he sifted and analysed any clue, no matter how minute, that was whispered in his ear. "The evidence technicians, they are investigating?"
Laurence looked puzzled. "I suppose they will be, it is normal procedure to dust for finger prints, take photographs and such." He glanced at the Major, who seemed to be as much in the dark as Laurence.
"I would be most interested in the calibre of the cartridge," said Michael.
"The calibre?" asked Laurence.
A small smile creased Michael's normally bland and expressionless face. "We must consider every aspect of this . . . event," he said slowly. "Noel left us in anger. He was with us for a long time and certainly was aware that there are people who would pay well for information about me, and my security arrangements." Michael shrugged expressively. "I must ask myself just what was Noel doing in Toronto? Did he make contact with certain people? There are many questions that I wish to have answers for."
Laurence could understand Michael's caution. Still . . . "But the calibre of the weapon?" he asked.
The Major stirred and explained. "If Noel met with a messy end, the calibre is important. The standard weapon on the streets is the so-called 'Saturday Night Special', which usually fires a .38 calibre bullet. If Noel met his demise through such a weapon one can assume he was the victim of a drug deal gone bad, or a refusal to pay for whatever services were offered."
"However," interjected Michael grimly, "if the bullet was a smaller calibre, a .22, or a .25, or even a .32, we must look deeper." He looked directly at Laurence. "A professional hit man uses such a concealable weapon, usually shooting the victim at the back of the head. If this is the case, then we must know everything the police discover."
"Noel was shot in the forehead, apparently with a pistol from several feet away but from within the room," Laurence informed his listeners.
The Major glanced at Michael. "Ruling out our friends in Hong Kong?"
"Perhaps." Michael was intent on knowing everything about Noel's death.
"There are many weapons of every calibre out there," Laurence pointed out. "What if . . ."
Michael held up his hand. "Contact the Chancellor. I wish to see every scrap of technical evidence and laboratory reports. When I have seen them, I will decide."
"The Chancellor has already found some interesting 'scraps'," advised Laurence.
"Explain, please," directed Michael.
"Amongst the things that Noel had with him was the leather carryon bag, a bag with brass fittings. It has a false bottom." Laurence shook his head. "Noel was ever so proud of the thing. He purchased it in Hong Kong. I could never understand why, for he never had anything worthwhile to hide in it!"
"It would seem otherwise," suggested Michael.
"Yes," agreed Laurence. "The room was vandalized, the few pieces of luggage Noel had with him were ripped open. I assume whoever did it was looking for hidden valuables, so much so that the police could only identify him by his name in the hotel register."
"Wallet, passport, everything?" asked The Major.
"Yes," Laurence replied. "They apparently took everything that was not nailed down, even his clothing."
"Animals," snarled the Major.
The police investigator friend described the scene," continued Laurence, "and The Gunner recognized a few things."
"Noel's name for one," observed the Major. "And this mysterious carryon bag."
"Quite so," replied Laurence. "The Gunner had seen the same bags in Saigon when he was there. He was aware of the secret compartment and asked his policeman friend if it had been opened. When the policeman said no, The Gunner prevailed on his friend to let him examine the case."
"Hence the telephone call," said Michael. "The Gunner managed to open the case?" he asked Laurence.
"Yes. It was just a matter of finding the correct brass corner that held the locking mechanism, and then which sequence of screws being pressed that would open it." Laurence looked a little pleased. "The bags are all different, and each has eight corners, quite ingenious really, but The Gunner . . ."
"Found the right one and opened the bag," finished the Major impatiently.
"Yes."
"And found?" asked Michael.
"Photographic negatives, a lists of names." Laurence pointed at the hurriedly written list confronting Michael. "And two keys taped to small bits of cardboard." Laurence looked directly at Michael. "The Gunner is sending everything to you."
Michael regarded the list as if it were some particularly horrible road kill. "You know who these people are?" he asked tightly.
Laurence nodded. He noticed that Michael had gone pale. "Knights of the Order," he said flatly. "I understand that the photographic evidence is somewhat, graphic," Laurence continued with typical British understatement. Then he blurted, "It would appear that this thing is deeper than we thought."
Shaking his head, Michael slid the list of names toward the Major. "Some are dead." He was trying to keep his temper under control. He looked at the Major, who nodded. "I should have seen it," murmured Michael sadly.
"Perhaps you did not want to see it," commiserated the Major.
"Perhaps I did not want to see it because I could not bring myself to believe it!" returned Michael angrily. "I could not, would not believe that a Knight could be involved . . ."
"You were not alone," said the Major sharply. He turned and spoke to Laurence, explaining as he tapped the list of names, "The Gunner is certain?" he asked. At Laurence's nod, the Major continued. "Ten of the names . . . they voted against the election of Stephen Winslow as Chancellor. At the time we . . ." he nodded toward Michael, " . . . thought that they had been bribed. Obviously their involvement with Simpson, Willoughby and Logan went much deeper!"
Rubbing his chin reflectively, Laurence said, "There were . . . rumours. Noel was employed in the old Grand Master's house, and servants gossip. Mind, Noel never said anything to me when he came down from Coquitlam."
"There was nothing we could prove, and as you say, it was all gossip and innuendo," remarked Michael, almost absently. "It would not have been to Noel's advantage to divulge to anyone what he had seen, or heard."
"The beggar was well paid?" suggested the Major with a frown.
"Obviously," replied Michael. He sighed heavily. "It is apparent that there were orgies held, orgies in which Knights of the Order participated, orgies involving young boys." He looked to Laurence for confirmation, who nodded. "We know that Simpson, and the others, have been involved in this ring of paedophiles for years. We were foolish to assume that they were the only ones."
Rising, Michael turned to stand at the tall floor-to-ceiling window. He looked out over the gardens, thinking. The others remained silent. Finally, Michael spoke, his voice firm.
"Joel is to practice his black magic with that infernal machine of his. He is to find out everything there is to know about the ten men on that list who are still alive." His voice turned icy. "Everything!"
The Major nodded and Michael continued. "Joe and Gabe are to review all the photographs and papers The Gunner sends us. They are to work with Cousin Tommy and plan . . ."
Just what Michael wanted planned went unsaid. A cold chill ran down Laurence's spine. Cousin Tommy meant the Tsangs and the Tsangs . . .
" . . . Major, you will continue with your tasks. I wish our new Knights to be greeted. You will send the hearses?"
"Everything is arranged," replied the Major quietly. "Pete Sheppard has assigned their minders. The Maestro has the domestic arrangements in hand."
"You will meet the young men," instructed Michael. "Also Patrick. His social skills are somewhat lacking."
Glancing at his watch, the Major said, "We will leave shortly."
Michael reached out and the Major returned the cable. "Laurence, when you have finished with Joel, return. We must placate our friends in Hong Kong."
Michael's voice was deceptively calm, but his actions betrayed him. His fist closed around the cable, crumbling the paper. "When will it end?" he asked no one in particular. "Will this treachery ever end?"