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Chapter Text

When he arrived back in England, Biggles was surprised to be met by his uncle in service uniform with all his brass and ribbons.  Against the draggled crowd off the hospital train, he looked a miracle of clean crisp khaki.  Biggles straightened to attention, saluted instinctively, and felt worn and grubby by comparison.

“I should report,” he said hesitantly as they left the station, rather slowly in deference to his injured leg.

“All taken care of,” said the Brigadier briskly.  “Here’s my car.”  There was a uniformed driver waiting, and the door was whipped open.  Biggles got in awkwardly.

“I’ve been staying at your family home,” said his uncle as they turned into the traffic.  “Since I was transferred back from Paris to HQ in London, that is.”  He sat back comfortably.  “You’re on convalescent leave, of course.  I don’t know if you plan to spend the time here in town or go down to the country.”

“I’m not sure who’s around,” said Biggles.  “I’ll pop round the Club, I suppose.”  He looked out of the window.  “Though the country doesn’t sound bad.”

“Well, I have to stay in town, at least for the time being.”  His uncle looked at him closely.  “Take a few days before you decide, James; you look a mite peaked—the hospital, no doubt.  Or hospitals plural … both theirs and ours.  At least you’re back on your feet.  Nothing will do you more good than decent food and a proper bed.”  The car slowed as it neared an intersection, then turned the corner.  “Your aunt wrote us after you were shot down.  Lady Merioneth, that is; not my late wife’s sister.  She sent her condolences.  Premature, obviously; something garbled in transit, no doubt.  Her Algernon was in your outfit, wasn’t he?”  On Biggles’ nod, the Brigadier continued, “I’d say that he’s perfectly welcome to come and keep you company—and of course he is—but I doubt if he’s been demobilized yet.  In that respect your injury could even be considered fortuitous.”

Biggles, whose leg ached badly, could hardly agree.

“If you want, though,” the Brigadier added after a moment’s thought, “do feel free to invite a few chaps down to the estate.  I’m sure someone’s in town.”

However, Biggles’ first foray to the Royal Aero Club made it clear that, barring a few men from unfamiliar squadrons, there was little congenial company.  Ceasefire is not peace; and soldiers, sailors, and airmen were now simply on inactive service lest conflict break out again.  Over dinner, his uncle assured him that talks were ongoing.  Eventually treaties would be signed; and no doubt men would start returning home once it was clear that there would be no further trouble.  At the moment, though, if he couldn’t take command of his promised squadron, Biggles would have preferred to be back in France instead of idling in comfort.

“I remember,” said his uncle thoughtfully, “when you first arrived here, fresh off the India.  In care of the purser, though at your age you were pretty well able to take care of yourself while on board.”  He hesitated.  “It was the India, wasn’t it?”  He picked up his glass and sipped his wine.

Biggles nodded.

“Your father didn’t come with you.  Once your mother died….”  He shook his head.  “Ah, she was a beautiful woman.  He adored her.  He never would have returned to England at all, if you ask me, if it hadn’t been for the War.”  He neatly sliced a morsel of gammon.  “I met you at the station.  Had no difficulty recognizing you.  You look like her, you know.”

“I’m always glad to hear about my mother,” said Biggles sincerely.  “My father didn’t talk much about her.”

“Well, I’m sure he told you how they met,” said the Brigadier cheerfully.  “Your grandparents were alive then, of course.  Their parties were splendid; and your father was home for Christmas.  I’d call it love at first sight, if that didn’t sound ridiculously romantic.  He had his studies still to complete, of course.  I was back in England again by that time; so we both were able to attend the wedding.  My wife liked your mother.”  His face fell.  “I think we all assumed his career would be in Whitehall; I know I did.  But then, with only the warning of his posting, the two of them were packed and gone.  Dick and I were later told we could use the place as our own whenever we were in town; so I’ve kept up a skeleton staff.  It’s been handy, certainly, but hardly the same.  Well, except….”  He paused in reminiscence, and then recalled his audience.  “Ah, yes, sorry.  Their return when he was on long leave:  I dare say you have a child’s memories of it.”

“Some,” said Biggles.  It had been cold, he remembered:  chronically cold.  There had been too many strange Uncles and Aunts with odd and ignorant notions that he mustn’t contradict.  Mercifully, he had not—unlike Algy—been subjected to the velvet pantaloons of the popular Fauntleroy suit; but there had been an extraordinary trip to a Christmas pantomime most of whose jokes had been a mystery to him.

“Really, you should have been left here with Charles and sent to prep school.  I said it then and I say it again.  Your health would have been the better for it—indeed, look at you now!—but your father wanted to take you back with them to India.”

“There are worse places to be raised,” said Biggles quietly.

His uncle snorted, leaned back in his chair, and gestured to the waiting maid.  “We saw quite a lot of your brother, though.  In the holidays.”

“I always enjoyed staying with you in Norfolk,” Biggles assured him.  He laid his own knife and fork on his plate; and it was silently whisked away.  Dessert was served.

“Now that the war is over, or as good as … what do you plan to do with the rest of your life?” asked his uncle, pausing in the midst of pouring cream over pudding.

It was an awkward question to which Biggles had no answer.  It wasn’t something he’d thought about for years.  In truth, for far too long he hadn’t thought he’d have a “rest of his life” to look forward to.  Resigned to death, he’d put such thoughts behind him.  He had focused on duty, not to let the side down but fight for his country until the end.  Of course, it was true that he literally had fought to the end; but he’d never thought it would be the war’s end.

“I haven’t made my mind up,” was the best answer he could come up with.

“With your record—excellent, my boy, very proud—”  The Brigadier nodded firmly.  “—do you hope to stay in the new Air Force?  I doubt you’ll get that squadron you were promised, at least not immediately; but I’ll pull strings if need be to get your majority confirmed.”  Spoon was thrust into figgy duff as he waited for a reply that didn’t come.  “Your father wanted you to follow the family tradition.  After all, he originally planned the same, till his health stopped him.  Nevertheless, you always said, very firmly, that you felt better suited to the Indian Civil Service.”  His uncle looked keenly at Biggles.  “Do you still want that?  Of course, you’d simply be doing as your father did … which is a tradition of its own, if you want to look at it that way.”

Biggles’ eyes fell.  His father’s death was still too recent and unexpected for the idea of following in his footsteps not to resonate.

“If that is what you still wish,” said his uncle gently, seeing his face, “you’ll need to write the Civil Service examination; and then you’ll attend university.”

Not having considered the matter, Biggles gave him a startled shrug.

“Whether Oxford or Cambridge, I’m not sure.  Perhaps your Uncle Dick could advise.  Though I’m sure you’d not,” the Brigadier twinkled, “be taking the same course of study.”  Almost merrily, he added, “Now there’s a man who defied family tradition with a vengeance.  Not that he’s done so badly with his choice, not at all; our mother was wrong when she thought it an unchancy life.  Traipsed half the empire, pretty well.  Brought some extraordinary things for the British Museum.”

Biggles leapt upon the change of subject, and regaled one uncle with memories of the other’s visits to India en route to expeditions to the Malay peninsula or Himalayas.  These reminiscences sparked tales of the three brothers’ boyhood adventures; and the two men occupied the rest of the evening with brandy and harmony.  The Brigadier did not again have the chance to bring up the question of Biggles’ future for, a few days later, he was called to back to Paris.

The solitary house was too large and too lonely.  Also there were far too many stairs for comfort—not that Biggles would ever complain, least of all to the servants, even the butler, Symes.  He dined in silence at a long and empty table.  His familiar batman was still in France; and an under housemaid in a white apron was hardly a substitute, for all that she made the bed and cleaned the sink at least as well.  There were only so many quiet hours he was willing to spend reading in the library; and his friends were still not yet back from France.  So the country beckoned; and Biggles spent his remaining months of convalescence in Norfolk.  As his limp improved, he cast away his stick, took the train back to town, and reported himself fit to return to duty.

Chapter Text

Biggles took the small stack of envelopes and leafed through them under the interested eyes of the squadron adjutant.

“That long one looks official.”

He shook his head.  “Just from the lawyer again.”

“Again!”

Biggles sat down, with a quick glance to summon the mess steward.  “Both my father and brother died in the War, you see.  I inherited….”  He hesitated then shrugged, a little embarrassed.  “Well, Charles pretty well lived up to his income.  And my father was a younger son:  the estates in Norfolk went to my uncle the Brigadier, and then to his sons after the influenza took him.  So there’s not much more than the family home in London.  It was left to my father—I think with the idea that, when he eventually retired, he would have a place to return to in London.”  He recalled, all too vividly, the lawyer’s dry, sensible voice pointing out that it now belonged to him.  “I’ll have a small Bell’s.  Light hand with the soda,” he said to the steward.

As he waited for his drink, he stuck his finger under the flap without bothering to fetch a letter opener.  His look of surprise brought the adjutant back to attention.  Biggles waved the letter at him.  “Nosey-parker, aren’t you?  Well, it’s not that interesting.  A couple of crates are in dock storage from India; and he wants to know whether I’ve made arrangements.”  He tapped the letter on his knee, looking a mite irritated.  “They’ll need to be delivered to the house, I suppose.  I’d better wire Mrs Symes and tell her to deal with it.”  At the adjutant’s raised brow, he added, “Housekeeper.  Widow now; was the butler's wife.”

Then his whisky came; he tipped the steward and set the rest of the letters aside unopened.  That evening, in his room, he read the one from Algy twice over with great interest.  The peacetime military having no particular appeal, he’d kicked around town for a bit, overspent his allowance and gone home to Merioneth, and was now amusing himself with tennis.  Don’t want to boast, he wrote, but I win most matches and could do with some real competition.  When I get my next quarter’s pay from the pater I may head for the Riviera or some such place.  Wales is Wales, if you get my drift.

Assuming that “Wales” was as unchallenging as life at the station, Biggles supposed he could.  He wondered sometimes why he’d ever wanted to command a squadron.  There was no action:  not what he called action.  Even when he took a plane up, all he did was lead his inexperienced pilots cross-country or practice formation flying.  And that was when he had the chance.  He’d never noticed at Maranique; but, thinking back, he realized that Major Mullen had not flown as many patrols as the other pilots, for all that he’d been a damned good scout.  Promotion was not all it was cracked up to be, that was the short of it.  The life of a Squadron Leader (as Majors were now called in the new air force) seemed to consist very largely of filling out and signing paperwork.

When Biggles next had a spot of leave due, he could have gone to Merioneth if Algy had been there, or to Buckinghamshire if Dickpa hadn’t been out of the country again.  Instead, he left the bumf and went up to London.  Apart from anything else, he had an appointment with the dentist to be measured for a bridge.  He could have stayed at the Royal Aero Club—indeed the idea was attractive—but instead wrote ahead telling Mrs Symes he’d stay at the house.  He was, after all, paying for its upkeep:  he might as well get the use of it.  Also, he ought to check those boxes.

He found that they were, as anticipated, his father’s personal effects, though there were rather more than the “couple” he’d assumed.  When the guv’nor had perversely decided—at his age!—that the defence of the empire required his personal presence in the European Theatre, he had obviously had to be replaced at his post.  Someone, probably one of the servants, had packed his property, quite likely under his direction.  Furniture had almost entirely stayed with the bungalow; but clothing, books, papers, bric-a-brac, and memorabilia of his years of service all lay within the trunks and crates, neatly stacked and packed.  Like as not, they’d been in storage in some back room before, finally, the new incumbent had sent them down to Bombay for shipping back to England.

Biggles pried off the lid of the nearest crate.  Inside, he found bundles wrapped in waxed cloth, sewn to keep out the damp.  He pulled out his pocket knife and delicately cut a sufficient number of threads to unwrap the corner and find a short stack of books, bound together for transit.  He roughly estimated, and concluded that probably at least one more of the crates also held books.  His father had had a moderate but decent library, some on the shelves in his office and others in the family parlour.  His own early lesson books were doubtless also somewhere in the boxes, not that he needed them now.

The next crate held a set of Spode, each piece of bone china wrapped in tissue and bedded in straw.  He remembered it well.  Not from his nursery days, but dinners with his father in the last years before he was sent to school.  The set had lived in a glass-fronted cabinet in the dining room.  Many times, when he was little, he had gone surreptitiously in to admire the pictures of English game birds that graced the centres of the plates.  He had later shot some of them on his uncle’s estate. The plates’ fancy border, on the other hand, he had more or less taken for granted. Now, downstairs, a china cabinet displayed a different but equally elaborate set.  He had eaten off it many times when in town with his uncle; he had eaten off it last night.  He rather thought the London set was Royal Doulton, for what that was worth.  What to do now with two sets of china was rather a puzzle.

A trunk contained old clothes of his own (or his brother’s), with dear old toys that he’d long forgot but recalled on sight.  Another revealed a cache of long-outdated ladies’ dresses, each laid between linen with faded herbs to keep off moth.  His mother’s, he realized; and closed the lid, thoughtfully and reverently.

Lamps were packed in the third crate; crystal glasses and decanters in the next; more books; personal papers; a canteen of cutlery tucked under Benares brass; two small carpets, tightly rolled and sewn, like the books, inside waxed cloth.  As each box was opened and its familiar contents revealed, Biggles could almost think he smelt memories of home:  the distinctive spicy scent of cooking from the kitchens mingled with the floral displays refreshed regularly by the servants.  Perhaps some redolence lingered in the straw.

It occurred to him that, in a way, the London house and the Indian bungalow were not that different, for all that one of them organized its rooms vertically and the other lay spread.  Each had its private rooms for family and guests.  As a small child, he had shared with his brother.  Here in England, he still had the same bedroom that had been assigned to him on his arrival, where he had slept in the Christmas hols when the Brigadier had taken him to concerts and theatre to acquaint him with European culture.  The London house had a library:  his father had had a private office, where he too kept books, and where he met with friends like the shikari, Captain Lovell.  James had often joined them, provided he was quiet and did not interrupt; but his father never permitted him to venture into the hall where he met petitioners and held court session.  Once, Biggles remembered, when he had been quite small, he had gone exploring there on a day when his father had been off at a distant village; his ayah had come in a great panic to urge him away.

What difference did it truly make if the house were organized vertically or horizontally?  Here in London, the servants lived in the attics or worked belowstairs.  In India, the kitchens had been at the back, with a courtyard and outbuildings; and he had run freely past the cooks, through to the courtyard, and thence to the village to meet his friends.  Often in the summer, he had sat with his father drinking lemonade in the cool shade of the veranda; but only rarely had he left the bungalow by the tiled front entrance with its portico.  It was part of the public part of the house, where guests alighted from horse or carriage to be greeted by his father.

Now he thought about it, there was almost as splendid a portico to the townhouse.

“And a ballroom, if you please,” he mentioned to the adjutant a few days later.  “A small one, mind you.  What I’m to do with the place, I don’t know.  It’s far too large.”

“No-trumps,” said Canson, sitting catercorner.

Biggles looked down.  He had two hearts.

“Well, a ballroom has its uses,” said the adjutant.  “A good-sized house in town—very useful for an up-and-coming young officer.  What you need is a wife.”

Biggles snorted. “Pass.”

“No, seriously,” said the adjutant, inspecting his cards.  “Once you’re married, you’ll find a house is just what you need.  Space for a growing family, you see; and she’ll want to be near the shops.  Well—”  He reconsidered.  “—that’s not necessarily an advantage, I suppose.  Still, your family will be settled.  You won’t have to search for a new place if the squadron is moved … oh, say, up to Scotland or the like.  Now, don’t tell me that’s not a good thing!  Ask Canson, if you don’t believe me.”

Biggles turned his head and saw the young flying officer forcing a smile.  “Leave the poor chap out of it,” he said.  “Someone his age has no business getting married, anyway.  Which, come to think of it, is pretty well my age, too!”

“Ah, but you outrank him,” the adjutant pointed out.  “Majors should be married.  Squadron Leaders, I mean.”  With another glance down at his cards, he added, “My bid, I believe.”

At the end of the rubber, Biggles totted up the score sheet.  He did his sums twice to be sure, for money was at stake; and he and the adjutant had come out ahead again.  At month’s end, though, it was another man’s paperwork he was wondering about, for his mess bill seemed rather high.  It wasn’t the sort of thing about which one makes a fuss—like as not he’d stood a round or two and forgot the details—but a couple of the other chaps made not-quite-idle comments along the same lines.  In fact, there were murmurs Groupie was thinking of looking into it.

As for the house in London … well, probably, Biggles thought, he’d finish up selling it.  He had, after all, no plans to marry.

Chapter Text

The sitting room was not overly large but furnished with armchairs and sofa, sundry tables and lamps, and an elderly Persian rug.  It was a comfortable set-up, Algy declared.  While he didn’t offer to show the bedroom, he waved vaguely towards its door, settled his guest, and offered a drink.  Had they been dining at the club, Biggles would have cheerfully had wine with his meal; but the prospect of a boozy evening raised memories of his last weeks at Maranique.  The bottle of whisky was nearly full:  he doubted it would remain that way.

“Would you prefer a cup of tea?” asked Algy in somewhat puzzled tones; and, seeing his earnest, worried face, Biggles realized that his wingman was striving hard to be hospitable in the face of perverse unconventionality.

“That would be good,” he replied, wondering where it might come from.

One wall had a collection of framed photographs; and Biggles went over and had a look at them while Algy disappeared to what he styled a “kitchenette” whence shortly came the sounds of a kettle steaming.

“Only a gas plate,” said Algy returning, “but, of course, I dine out or with friends.   Bacon and eggs is about my limit when it comes to cooking.”  He joined Biggles.  “One does pick those things up,” he observed of the photographs.  “You’ll recognize a fair few faces.”

Indeed, though some were posed school photographs, quite a few were snaps of the squadron.  Who had taken them Biggles didn’t know:  not himself or Algy, that was certain; but some of the other pilots at Maranique had, at one time or another, had a camera.  No doubt Algy had begged prints.  There were many faces Biggles recognized:  his own among them, familiar from the shaving glass.  In the pictures, though, were others whose owners Biggles had almost forgot.  Not quite, but almost.  “So, how did you get this place?” he asked, turning away.

“Oh, through my father’s man of business, you know,” said Algy easily, “though I was shown a couple of others before picking this one.’

“And how did he find it,” Biggles persisted.

“An estate agent, I think,” said Algy vaguely.  “Chesterton’s or Edmund Cude or some such.”

They had been back in England for barely a few months; yet Algy had got himself settled, while Biggles had spent the time catching up with Dickpa at the country house, when he wasn’t getting his photograph in the newspapers after their long, nigh-on round-the-world flight.  Algy, Biggles thought, had done a remarkably good job of keeping his profile as low as could be, if only for the sake of Lord Merioneth’s sensibilities.  Then again, it might be that Algy’s father had himself had something to do with all that.

“I’m thinking of finding a flat for myself,” he said and added, with a wry smile, “Maybe I shouldn't have sold the family house before we left; but we thought the job would last longer, didn't we?  Seemed silly to keep the place empty when I'd been thinking of getting rid of it anyway.  Now we're back, though ... marvellous how the bill at the club mounts up when you’re staying long term.  Anyway, it’s really more a place to alight while visiting town; I was thinking of finding somewhere more permanent.  Unless we take on another job out of the country.”

“I’d rather not,” said Algy.  “Well, not as long a job as the last one, anyway.  I’m not planning on emigrating, if that’s your suggestion.”

“No,” said Biggles thoughtfully.  “No, if I went abroad permanently, it would probably be back to India; but I’ve been away so long I dare say I’ve forgot half my Hindi.  Let’s just say that our travels brought back memories, and leave it there.  But I’ll need—or we’ll need, if you’re still with me—some sort of income.  You have an allowance, I know; but it certainly won’t stretch to cover me, nor should it.”

“Ah, well.  I’m with you, wherever it is,” said Algy, responding to what seemed the meat of the speech.  “To the end, don’t you know?”  He looked slightly embarrassed at the declaration.

“Well, then.  I should go house-hunting, I suppose,” said Biggles.  He looked a bit at a loss when he added, “Who did you say were the agents for this place?”

A few months later Biggles was still resident at the Royal Aero Club.  As he walked out of the latest flat that Mr Fowler from Chesterton’s had shown him, he said, a little too politely and not for the first time, “I’m really looking for somewhere larger.”  Off the top of his head, he couldn’t recall if this was the eighth or dozenth flat he’d gone round to look at; but all of them had shared the same basic, fundamental flaw.  Each time, he had looked round trying to imagine taking out of storage the furniture he’d decided to keep when he’d sold the family house; but even when he estimated that the flat was large enough to take one of the carpets, even when—under pressure—he’d persuaded the estate agent that he wanted an actual separate dining room, each place still seemed cramped and confined.  Cozy in itself, perhaps (as Algy’s rooms were undoubtedly cozy).  Obviously larger than any quarters on station or his rooms at the Aero Club.  But still not what he was looking for.  How to get this across to the agent confounded him.  He’d tried to explain, of course; but, as he was not quite sure himself what he wanted—at least, not in the sort of detail that the agent seemed to need—the whole flat-hunting endeavour was turning into a time-consuming fiasco.  At this point, he was almost tempted to give up.  Except, of course, that James Bigglesworth had never been raised to simply “give up”.  Defeat was never an option.

Contrariwise, it was young Major Bigglesworth whom the estate agent, Mr Fowler, found frustrating.  World-weary with experience in the matter of flats for young upper-class gentlemen, he knew exactly what his client wanted.  After all, the Major—for Biggles had largely dropped the newfangled “Squadron Leader”—was related in some way to Captain the Honourable Algernon Lacey, who had snapped up his own set of rooms almost sight unseen.  Major Bigglesworth, on the other hand, had proven remarkably hard to please.  He appeared a mere lad (at least until one looked into his eyes, which had seen too much); but the insistence on “larger” was confounding.

An idea occurred to him.  “If you really do want larger,” said Mr Fowler sweetly, “there’s a place in Mount Street that might suit you.  As it happens, it is vacant, and I have the key.  We can go round straight away if you like.”  And to himself he thought:  I’ll give you “larger”—and then maybe we’ll see what you damned well don’t want!

A taxi took them across downtown London to Mayfair, where they debouched at the entrance to a multi-storey brick-built Victorian building.  A short flight of stone steps led up to an impressive brass-bound door that, from its gleam, must surely be polished daily.  They were greeted by a porter who seemed quite familiar with the estate agent and his errand.  Biggles took in the entrance lobby at a glance.  It was both rather splendid and quite outdated.  The floor was chequered with tile; and there was elaborate crown moulding.  The style of the brass chandelier suggested gas-lighting in the not-too-distant past.  Mahogany panelled the interior of the lift; and round it wound an elegant staircase with marble steps and a polished brass rail.

“It’s on the first floor,” said Mr Fowler.  “Shall we take the lift?  Or would you rather walk up?”

“Walk, I think,” Biggles replied.  The lift looked as if it dated back to some time in the Victorian era; and the late queen had reigned for decades.

With a nod to the porter, who returned to his post, they began to mount the stairs.  “It’s unfurnished, as you say you prefer,” said Mr Fowler as they went.  “I should say, though, that it is a leasehold property.   Of course, that may not be quite what you want.”  He paused but, when Biggles did not reply, continued smoothly, “Rather more than the usual mansion flat.  You will certainly find this considerably larger than anything you have been shown till now.”

The staircase crossed behind the lift and continued up.  On the first floor landing, Mr Fowler reached into his pocket for his keyring, and unlocked the right-hand door.  From the inside hall, doors led off on both sides.  “The drawing room,” he said, turning the knob as he spoke.  “Or do you prefer ‘living-room’?”

Biggles stopped in the middle of the room, and looked round.  It was considerably larger than Algy’s sitting room.  With furniture, it would not look quite so spacious; but there was no doubt that one of the smaller Persian carpets that had been in the family home would fit quite nicely in here.  So would a selection of armchairs.  He crossed to the fireplace, with its tiled hearth.  Not at all frou-frou, he noted:  the lines were clean, the moulding of the dark polished wood reasonably simple.  It was the sort of fireplace a man could sit by comfortably, with a book or friends.  Perhaps he might centre a clock on the broad mantel, flank it with a pair of his father’s Benares vases, and put up a few photographs of his own.  He walked over to the tall windows and looked out.  Below him lay Mount Street.  Cars were passing; there were pedestrians walking on the other side of the road; and, when he peered down, he could see the tops of two bowler hats, their wearers passing on the pavement below.  The ceiling of the flat was quite high and also, he recalled, that of the lobby below.  He was well above street level.  There was traffic noise (and would be at night, as well), but no worse than at the Royal Aero Club; and, though passing cars would sound much louder in the relative quiet of the night, it would be nothing compared to the noise of the guns in France.  He had slept through that well enough.

“There’s a separate dining room,” said Mr Fowler.

It was much smaller than the one at the family’s old house.  (This was not a criticism.)  If, Biggles thought, the many leaves were taken out of the table—with one or two kept aside for when he entertained—then the suite of dining room furniture that he had in storage would probably fit quite well.  He mentally placed the sideboard against the far wall, the china cabinet over … there, perhaps.  Whether it would hold the Spode or Doulton, or something more up to date was a matter to decide if he liked the look of the rest of the place.

“Bedrooms?” he asked.

“Upstairs,” said Mr Fowler.  Biggles had assumed that bedrooms lay behind the doors on the other side of the hall.  Instead, he learned that the flat occupied two floors—or, rather, half each of two floors.  On entrance, he had been ushered too quickly through the small foyer of the flat; now backtracking, he found a broad oaken staircase, which turned at a landing and continued to a hall upstairs.  Two doors matched those of the drawing and dining rooms, and led to a pair of bedrooms. These were commensurate in size, and also had large windows looking out onto Mount Street.  A master bedroom, obviously; but also a guest room, which would be very useful if, for example, Dickpa decided to come up to town, perhaps to consult at the Museum.  Biggles stood, looking down thoughtfully at the passersby, considering the need for thick curtains to cut the glow of streetlights.  The furniture from his own bedroom at the family house would more than fit.  “Bathroom?” he asked, turning to Mr Fowler.

“Across the hall,” was the reply.  Biggles inspected the claw-footed tub and peeked next door at the water closet.  There was, however, one remaining door discreetly at the end of the hall.

“Oh, that leads to the servants’ quarters,” said Mr Fowler dismissively.

A good officer, however, takes care of his men; and Biggles insisted on going through to the rear of the building to see the service areas of the flat.  To his astonishment, Mr Fowler found himself showing his client the housekeeper’s suite and the tiny rooms for other male and female staff (for the nineteenth-century Sir must have his man and Madam her maid); even their bathroom and water closet, separate from those of the family.  “Laundry is sent out,” he said, with which Biggles was familiar, since Algy had the same arrangement; but he then had to explain, in a puzzling degree of detail, the not quite up-to-date appointments of the small kitchen, with its minuscule scullery and pantry.  As he showed his client round, it dawned on the estate agent, all too slowly, that there was a context—one which he had not hitherto considered—in which this all might make sense … if his initial assumptions had been mistaken.  Perhaps his client’s oft-repeated “larger” did not merely mean accommodation for a valet, or even a small bedroom and kitchen for a respectable (or not-so-respectable) housekeeper.

“Major Bigglesworth,” he ventured at last, “am I perhaps right in thinking that you may be considering matrimony?  Are you looking for a house for your forthcoming family?  Would it not be more appropriate for me to arrange a time for your fiancée to see the property?  These parts of the flat would more properly be her responsibility.  She surely would prefer to see them for herself.”

The only reply he got, however, was “How do the servants access this part of the flat?  I assume they don’t come in through that fancy Mount Street entrance, past the porter and up in the lift.”

“No, there’s a rear door at the back of the building.”  It was reached by a staircase much narrower and plainer than the one from the front lobby; the walls were painted dull green.  Major Bigglesworth at least did not insist on walking all the way down.

“I suppose you want to see the nursery, too,” said Mr Fowler, flush with new assumptions.

“Of course,” said Biggles immediately.  There was, he learned, an internal back stair.  Downstairs under the servants’ quarters were a day nursery and a night nursery, each rather larger than the rooms assigned to the housekeeper.  “When the children are older,” he was told, “you can use one as a room for the boys and the other for the girls when they’re home from school for the holidays.  Also,” and the estate agent opened the door to a cubbyhole under the stair, “there’s a small place here for the nursery maid so she is always near the children; and,” leading Biggles back out, “as you can see, a kitchenette so that she can fill a hot water bottle or … or anything like that … without having to go upstairs.  There’s a bathroom and W.C. down here, as well.”

“Quite a maze,” Biggles observed.  “Though I suppose one would quickly get used to it.”  He rather thought the implied size of staff was more than a little excessive:  Algy’s father’s man, after all, had simply arranged for a daily cleaning woman.   Perhaps he might see if Mrs Symes would consider returning to work for him.

“How do we get out of here?” he asked.  “Not go back upstairs again, surely?”

“No, no,” Mr Fowler assured him.  There was, in fact, a door off the main hall; and Biggles found himself once again facing the drawing room.

“I’ll take it,” he said.

“You haven’t even asked the price,” the estate agent protested.

Biggles had no doubt that an elderly flat in unfashionable Mayfair, large though it was, would not cost more than the sale of the family home had brought him.  The money was still in his bank:  expecting to live off his pay, he’d not transferred so much as a penny to British Guiana.  It had caused some problems when the job fell through; but that was then and this was now.  His share of the pearls alone had been more than enough to live off.

“What does it cost, then?” he asked.

“It’s bloody enormous!” Algy exclaimed the first time he came round.

“I find it comfortable,” Biggles protested.  “It’s going to feel like home in no time, wait and see.”

“You could sleep half the squadron here,” Algy proclaimed.  “Not that it resembles the old quarters at Maranique very much.”  He grinned.  “I’ve no complaints about my allowance; but it wouldn’t rent a place this size, that’s certain.  You’ll rattle around like a single pea in a rather large pod.  Or—”  He paused as a thought struck him.  “—were you planning on departing your singularity?  Marriage in the offing?  Should I offer my congratulations?”

“Hardly!” Biggles snorted.

Algy looked around the room and shook his head.  “You’re going to regret this, you know.”

“We’ll see,” was all Biggles replied.

FLOORPLANS

The floorplans below are NOT drawn exactly to scale, being mere sketches.  Nor, of course, are they canon:  WEJ gives only tantalizing hints about the Mount Street flat, and even then there are inconsistencies.  You should take it that, in the fullness of time, the nursery rooms are redecorated (and perhaps internal walls shifted) to become a breakfast-room and the bedrooms used by Ginger and Bertie.

The red arrows indicate the route that Biggles takes in the story as Mr Fowler shows him round the flat.

Lower Floor:

Upper Floor: