Nobody noticed fallen hero
The alarm went off at half past six, and Edward Jerome Blackwood was instantly awake. Today was the day. It looked like any other grey February morning, but he knew better. The delivery had to be made, and it had to be on time. He needs to stay alert from early morning.
For such occasions, Edward slipped into his most natural skin: corduroy trousers; cashmere navy roll-neck, modern but restrained; polished Northampton oxfords, bearing a faint scuff.
A cup of English Breakfast with warm milk, a slice of toast, and he was almost set. He donned his loyal Slater, charcoal tweed. It made him almost invisible—it might look like it has seen several Novembers and a minor war, but it remained respectable.
Later in the day, he settled behind the wheel of his favourite Mercedes SL230 “Pagoda”, which instantly lifted his mood. He had recently purchased it through his namesake, Edward Hall Classics. It was finished in Champagne metallic with the factory option of a contrasting hardtop in Manganese Brown metallic. The hood was also dark brown fabric, and inside it was tan cloth—a detail he now quietly regretted. The car had been in perfect condition, with low mileage, and had clearly been garaged since new. It sped off in a blink, and the journey was as smooth as a gentle breeze.
He was heading towards Brighton station, where he was to meet his contact and hand over the payload. He always planned his missions meticulously, and he had about ten minutes before the train departed. The handover was to be the most casual and swift of affairs.
At the station, he first headed towards the lockers. The bag peeked out. It did not belong there. A passing porter gave it—and Edward—a wide berth. So potent, Edward thought to himself.
After another well-plotted minute, he was on the platform.
At the station, he first headed towards the lockers. The bag peeked out. It did not belong there. A passing porter gave it—and Edward—a wide berth. So potent, Edward thought to himself.
After another well-plotted minute, he was on the platform.
It was deserted.
As always, Southern Railway had departed in a manner only loosely connected to the timetable. According to the departure board, it was on time, which in railway parlance meant it had vanished ten minutes earlier.
Edward always planned for disasters. No time for getting rattled. Taking the bag home was simply out of the question. He needed to dispose of it, and fast. Twenty-two minutes to the beach.
He arrived at the seaside. Normally, Edward would have savoured the tranquillity of this beautiful place. Few people were around. The sea was calm, as if inviting one to sit and reflect
He took the opportunity and waited another quarter-hour for the sun to dip. He caught sight of the bag… It could have been his travel companion, so soft and, at the same time, reliable it felt.
He walked with ceremonial gravity to the waterline. He had never allowed himself sentimental feelings, but today's occasion pushed him beyond his limits. He almost mourned as he consigned the bag to the waves.
The Stilton, from Fortnum & Mason, was at the peak of its maturity—with a 200hp scent, ecclesiastical damp, notes of walnut and danger. A catastrophe if mislaid.
PS. A week later…
