Adam Dumphy
Near the end of the first year of WWI a woman presented herself to the American Embassy at Sofija, the Americans still neutrals, then doing the routine diplomatic duties of the warring nations.
She was short and blonde and would have been a beauty except for a raw scar across her forehead and down on to her cheek and the ravages to be expected from far advanced pregnancy in a starving, war time country.
She insisted she was Xenia, Princess of Illyria and heir to the throne. She had escaped from the Communist massacre of her family while at their summer villa on the Black Sea and traveled across country to Bulgravia. If true she was then also the second cousin of both the British King and the Russian Czar.
Disbelieved she conceived her own proofs. She wrote out a series of questions about the Royals of Victoria’s far-flung progeny. Then she wrote out the answers and promptly disappeared.
In time it was determined that both questions and answers revealed a very detailed and intimate knowledge of the Royals. A knowledge that could only be known by a highly placed member of the family.
In this the second of the series Ranulf who knew Xenia as a child is assigned to locate her and vet her as to her identity. The Lady Audra is sent along to fend off any extraneous perils such languorous Balkan spies or whatever ogres might be conjured up by Rannie’s exuberant imagination and adventuresome spirit. They meet several of each.
In private Adam Dumphy is frequently heard to say, “Who can account for the English.” Not that he accounts them ‘no-accounts’. On the contrary he admires them extravagantly. It is just that he feels that some of their beliefs and customs are, well.... unaccountable.
For example he feels that the British time honored belief that a rat in the cask makes for the best cider. Of course he admits that in the US we did once consider that it took rattlesnake heads in a barrel of cowboy whiskey to produce just the right ‘bouquet’. An up grade on the British belief surely but hardly one to boast about.
Then he might mention the British custom of hanging woodcock in the sun until the meat is ready to fall off the bones before cooking. Of course here we have college freshman who swallow gold fish and apparently otherwise normal persons who eat sushi.
Or he will quote the fact that to the Brit at home the domestic cat dozing before the fireplace is man’s second-best friend. While abroad he gobbles down his second-best friend voraciously when sautéed in wine and garlic.
He feels then that we really have no right to be critical of the Brits but still it is such fun to laugh at them. And after all they poke fun at themselves (Wodehouse and Waugh) and they did so first. So it must be, “jolly well cricket, old chap, doncher know” for us to do it too.
In this book he does it again and again
The Captain who boarded what was once the boat train from Calais two nights later was still in khaki but now more or less clean. After a weekend at the family flat in London he emerged natty and respectable in full Regimentals and reported in at 0800 sharp to the War Office. At War there were no orders for him or any interest in him at all. He sat for two hours until an orderly directed him to Transient Officers Disbursement. There he sat two more hours until a messenger, a pert, blonde girl directed him to Intelligence. With the added intelligence that her name was Jessica, she was single, warm-hearted and could be reached evenings at WW 435.
Intelligence had never heard of him and did not expect to, suggesting he return to France. After a three hours sit a civilian admitted he was heard of and directed him to report to 2133 Grosvenor Square at 0900 the next morning in civilian dress.
Returning to his flat and as exhausted as if it was a day spent at the front he decided against Jessica just now and went early to bed.
2133 Grosvenor Square was, he found, the offices of the Cross World Transport Ltd., housed in an entire floor of a most respectable granite block building in the lesser business section of London.
Certain now that he was misled or a colossal error had been made but dutiful he hiked the stairs to find a secretary expecting him. And two minutes later he was seated in the private office of Sir Percival H. Umphry.
Sir Umphry was not unknown to Rannie. Every one in England had heard of this great, burly bear of a man who peered out at the world through thick glasses giving the impression of a perfect Teddy. Beneath the benign exterior was intelligence, cool nerve, and originality to the point of disrespect for conventions, that had parlayed the family''s two coal colliers into a fleet of thirty-two tramp steamers in just one lifetime. And by now there was no part of the world but knew the house jack of two red castles under a coronet to be seen flying over their vessels.
In the process he had accumulated a title, several millions in pounds sterling, several millions in enemies and several sincere admirers.
He rose as Rannie entered, “Very good to see you again, Milord.”
By that Ranulf realized that at some time or place they must have met before but for the life of him could not recall it.
“Please be seated or rather let me draw up another chair as we are expected a second party, a lady actually.”
He rose ponderously to put word to act but Rannie being younger and closer intervened. It was while he was struggling to move the chair about the edge of the desk that the lady entered.
