Day One

An hour or so later, I rolled down Whitehall Garden to the back corner where a relatively unassuming gatehouse concealed the grandeur of Vere House; taking a sharpish turn to line up with the narrow arch, I encountered a pair of very tall young men in rather opulent uniforms of claret serge and gold braid crossing wicked-looking halberds festooned with red and gold ribbons. Above the arch, a gaily coloured all-weather sort of tapestry sporting the arms of Herzoslovakia obscured the stone St. Clair escutcheon, though the "VERE HOUSE" inscribed below remained for the guidance of post and deliveries.

The young sentries stared stonily at me an uncomfortably long moment, then stepped smartly to each side with their halberds raised to allow me passage. I drove very carefully through the dark tunnel of the arch, then into the small courtyard, just big enough to turn a car (or a coach-and-four) in a tight circle around a pretty ornamental fountain. On the left was another dark archway leading to the garages, and the right contained a completely useless little arcade with some statues standing around in elaborately casual poses against the blank wall of the house next door. Front center was of course the main house, five bays wide and rising three storeys of decreasing height surmounted by a pediment and balustrade with more statues standing about waiting for a tram that wasn't coming. The house continued with an extension to the left, overlooking the motor court, added on to the house in the middle of the 18th century.

Pulling into the courtyard gave me an unexpected pang of sorrow: I hadn't been to Vere House since Mummy's funeral, eight years before, and the intervening time had not dissipated the sense of tragedy that had stained the house on that day. The Herzoslovakian flag, though festively coloured, didn't make enough of a difference to erase the sight of black buntings that had hung over each balcony in my memory.

I didn't have a lot of time to wallow in sorrow, as another liveried gent, a little older and less ostentatiously braided than the sentries on the gatehouse, came out onto the porch to greet me.

"Welcome, Lord Foxbridge," the man said in a charming Slavic accent.

"Is it alright to leave my motor here?" I asked, ascending the steps.

"Of course, my lord, we are not expecting any other visitors today. Won't you step this way?" 

I duly stepped and followed the man into the house, looking around with interest at what changed had been made since I last entered this house. It had been let furnished but it was furnished as town home rather than an embassy; but they didn't do much but move a few pieces of furniture around and add a massive painting of their king and queen in the main hall

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