Page 224 of Feathers in the Wind
I shook my head. ‘You couldn’t have come at a worse time. He’s in Northampton police station. Come in.’ I gestured and stood aside to allow the man to enter.
I poured him a whisky and sat on the sofa. He took one of the armchairs and listened patiently while I told him of the afternoon’s events.
‘Oh dear,’ he said. ‘I feared that might happen. Indeed that was the very reason I wished to speak to him.’
I looked up. ‘Whatever it is you have to say to him, you can tell me.’
He paused. ‘I know who your Nathaniel Preston is.’
The breath stopped in my chest and I just stared at him before blurting out, ‘What do you mean?’
A little smile played at the corners of the Colonel’s lips. ‘My dear, if I were to tell you that he is my great grandfather, you would think me a little mad.’ He paused and his shrewd eyes narrowed. ‘Or perhaps not. I think we both know he is Colonel Nathaniel Preston who reportedly died at the battle of Chesham Bridge, is he not?’
‘Maybe…’
The Colonel’s moustache twitched and one eyebrow rose. ‘Good, then we can stop dancing around the edges of this conversation. Of course Nathaniel has no identity because he was not born in this century.’
I said nothing for a long, long moment.
‘It’s all very well us knowing that, Colonel, but it doesn’t help him...or his son.’
‘Ah, his son. That would be Christian?’
I nodded. ‘What do you know about Christian?’
‘According to the family records, he was sent to London for medical treatment and never returned. Many years later his brother went in search of some trace of his twin but with no success. It was assumed he had died. Records were not well kept.’
I cleared my throat.
‘Christian’s in Northampton hospital, having just undergone major heart surgery and Nat is in jail.’ My voice quivered. ‘I don’t know what to do…’
The Colonel patted my hand. ‘Now, now young lady. I agree that complicates matters somewhat but I think I have a solution to our friend’s problem, if you will permit me to assist?’
Chapter 12 - THE KEEPING OF RECORDS IN BECHUANALAND
‘Papa!’
At the sound of my son’s voice I sit bolt upright, my heart beating in my chest.
‘Papa...’ His cry is plaintive, desperate. A cry of pain.
I run my hands through my hair, grinding my teeth in frustration. There is nothing I can do for him. Four gray walls covered in strange symbols and crude drawings and one locked door stand between us.
‘Hush!’ I tell him. ‘I cannot come to you now. There are kind people looking after you but I will come as soon as I can.’
Through his tears I hear the words ‘home’ and ‘Natty’ and my heart constricts. The price for his life has been a heavy one.
I rise to my feet and bang on the iron door. The man in the blue uniform opens the little grate and peers inside. He looks irritated by my disturbing him at this hour.
‘My son is in the hospital,’ I tell him. ‘I need to know he is all right.’
‘Listen, mate, its two o’clock in the morning. There’s nothing I can do.’
He begins to close the cover on the grate. ‘Wait,’ I say urgently. ‘Do you have children?’
He hesitates. I know he does.
I press the advantage. ‘My boy is two years old and has a problem with his heart. He has just had major surgery. I...’ Here I hesitate, unsure how to put my fear into words he will understand. ‘I have a bad feeling and I need to know he is all right.’
