In the Lion's Den

Prologue

Essex, February of 1919 - Marcus Sinclair

Marcus Sinclair was running out of time. If he did not get the boy to fulfil the contract by August 31st, all the diligent work he had put into crafting his scheme would be futile. He would lose an enormous sum of money in exchange for nothing, and the title he had so carefully concocted to be able to secure for his descendants would be lost forever.

So when he saw the stamp on the single letter his butler presented to him on a silver tray that morning, he felt a kind of agitation that diverted quite a lot from his usual bitter and unimpressed state of mind.

India.

As quickly and carefully as his arthritic fingers allowed, he opened the envelope. The document was clearly marked by time and humid climate, but it was legible and sealed and indeed provided him with the final piece of evidence he needed for his plan to set into motion.

He left his breakfast unfinished, and took to the study, telling his butler not to let anyone interrupt him. He needed to concentrate now, take the right next step.

It had taken him years to come to this point. The first obstacle had been to find the boy. He had officially declared to regard him as dead of course, but that had served as a cover for thorough investigations. Those had been mostly futile until that clumsy maid had been fired and then rehired when giving him the decisive clue.

Finding records of the boy in the ranks of the British Army had not been too much of a challenge, and as much as he detested everything to do with the military, he had to grudgingly admit some strange pride in the boy's accomplishments there.

Finding something that would coerce the boy into complying with the contract proved to be more difficult. His records were clean, the career exceptional for a soldier in the ranks, no personal scandal anywhere to be found, various accomplishments during the war. Even the relationship to his colonel's family that struck Sinclair as somewhat odd seemed to receive no negative commenting whatsoever.

But Sinclair knew how to dig up dirt and he was thorough. And while the colonel thought he could depend on people's loyalty because he was a great leader, fair, intelligent and beloved by all, and probably had instilled the same nonsense in the boy, Sinclair knew better.

They had no idea how many people in the army were ready to backstab a colleague seemingly beloved by everyone. Sinclair on the other hand knew, because he knew the minds of man not beloved by everyone. Anyone, to be clear. He knew how it was to be left behind in the second row and concoct plans of revenge from there.

And so he had found it, the secret that would destroy the boy and his colonel with him, in case of non-complicance. The evidence had finally arrived. It would be his last resort. The contract was not airtight of course, but there were other methods of escalation to be explored before. There was, for example, the young nurse, daughter to the colonel, to be considered. And there was the fact that he had the boy's peace-time addresses and the club he'd attend with the Colonel in London.

But for now, Marcus Sinclair simply pushed the unsigned copy of the contract in an envelope, together with the summons MacArthur had sent for the boy to come to Scotland in March. Then he enclosed a handwritten note:

Your time is due.

9th of August 1919,

2 o clock,

St. Mary and St. Edwards.

He did not give the letter to his butler, but set out himself to the post office to make sure it was posted correctly, already planning his next move for any possible way the boy would react.