Chapter 1: A Country Visit

The weather was warm. The sun was shining. The journey was tolerable. The train was at least on time; an unexpected occurrence. I fear, that in this second Victorian age, the standards of the first have not always been maintained in the matter of rail transport.

It is not often that I venture far from my consulting rooms in Highgate, but on this occasion I had allowed myself to be persuaded by one of my clients. I found myself heading away from Highgate in a carriage of the Chiltern & Buckingham Railway Company.

So far I'd had no reason to regret my decision. The journey out of town had taken me through sunlit suburbs, giving me a view across neat brick dwellings with their slate-covered roofs and their quiet suburban families within. At the end of my travels I was to meet with a client that had been one of the first to avail themselves of my services and one that, now, I almost consider a friend.

The railway carriage compartment had been empty for most of the journey, allowing me to compose my thoughts in advance of my planned meeting. However, my solitary contemplation was interrupted at the station before my final destination when two young ladies joined me, bursting into the compartment, loud with boisterous chatter.

In less time than it took for the engine to draw our carriage as far as the end of the platform they had exhibited all of the characteristics that I have dedicated my professional life to correcting. Their manner was flirtatious; their dress immodest; their discussions irritating beyond all belief; their behaviour, in as much as it is possible for the fairer sex, boorish and without consideration for those around them. They were of an age that often proves most problematical: too old for school, too young to be of any use as a marriage partner. I imagined they were avoiding a day working at some dismal office task or, equally likely, absenting themselves from one of those, sadly misnamed, colleges of further education.

It was all I could do to prevent myself reaching for my bag, taking out one of my floggers and introducing the pair to the benefits of decorum and restraint at that instant.

The two continued to chatter, debating the rights and wrongs of this latest celebrity scandal; the performance of this, as they remarked, talentless musician; the delights of another new beauty product. I found it remarkable that they could hold such passionate views on so many matters that seemed to me of such little consequence.

It was clear to me that the two of them found my appearance strange. The velvet suit, beloved of the blessed Oscar, is hardly the normal garb of a man of these times and the young have yet to develop the skill of observing without revealing the fact that they have observed. A shared, nervous giggle told me that they thought me odd, old fashioned and possibly a little disturbing.

The taller of the two girls rummaged in her shoulder bag and pulled out one of the new portable music players. It was the size of a cigarette box. She swung it around her neck on a strap that carried a store of miniature music cylinders like a bandolier of cartridges, pulled one of the cylinders from its sleeve and pushed it into the machine. She wound the clockwork mechanism that drove it. Each girl plugged the tubes of their miniature earphones into the box and the pair sat back in shared enjoyment of the sound, silently mouthing the lyrics of whatever popular song was being played and staring blankly at a spot on the wall of the compartment somewhere above my head. The staff in Mr Edison's laboratory had something to answer for, I felt.

Relieved by the cessation of their inane conversation, I closed my eyes, relaxed to the quiet pulsing of the locomotive's cylinders, and waited for our arrival at Benfield Abbas.

The station at Benfield Abbas is as so many around the northern edge of the capital. It is hectic in the morning and evening as it conveys those unfortunate enough to have to commute from the suburbs to and from their place of work, but is virtually deserted for the rest of the day. The station's sole denizens were the employees of the Chiltern & Buckingham Railway Company that were required to attend against the unlikely event of some peculiar individual, such as myself, requiring their assistance. I alighted. The signal at the platform's end clattered up, allowing the train to leave, carrying with it, to my great pleasure, my two compartment companions.

The porter made no attempt to assist me with my bag, instead taking pleasure in sucking the last remnants of nicotine from a thin hand-rolled cigarette while he leant against a brightly painted, newly polished, trolley that remained unsullied by luggage. The Station Master simply smiled as I progressed along the platform. The ticket clerk at the station's barrier, disappointed that I appeared to have a valid ticket for travel, checked that it had been issued correctly for that day's date and that I appeared to be using it in the manner for which it had been intended before reluctantly allowing me to leave his domain.

Outside the booking hall, a single, steamer taxi sat waiting, puffs of smoke emitting from its chimney, sighs of steam declaring its disappointment with life spilling from beneath its chassis. The driver leaned out as I appeared. "You for the Priory?" he called.

I nodded. He got down from his cab to help me with my bag.

"Said I should look out for a skinny looking party. Stringy beard, too, they said. That's you right enough."

He heaved the bag up onto the rack at the back of the cab and strapped it in place.

"It's not far but it's hardly a good road," he said by way of explanation for the secure strapping of my luggage. He wasn't to know that I am always at my happiest when things are well secured.

My driver's assessment of the route turned out to be an accurate one. The Stanley steam taxi, heavy by virtue of its robust boiler and well-engineered mechanisms, found it difficult to negotiate the rutted tracks of the outskirts of Benfield Abbas with other than ill grace. The final half-mile, along a partly paved lane between ash trees and signposted to Benfield Priory, was a severe test of the vehicle's suspension and of the passenger's determination to reach his destination.

Benfield Priory showed little of its ecclesiastical past. A ruined arch in need of its own Gothic revival stood beside the road. It looked as though it was trying to prove that Benfield had once been a foundation of importance whereas, in reality, it had only ever been a minor house of a minor order. Apart from the arch, the only evidence remaining of its former status was the building that was once the Abbot's lodging and now formed the home of my host and one-time client, Harwell Tusker.

I was aware of Tusker's progress in the world. He had grown from a simple shop keeper in Southwark to his present position as the man who could acquire whatever his customers – and they were many and wealthy – desired. As with all of my clients, his success had directly benefitted myself. The contractual terms under which I supply my services see to that. Our relationship was in the early days of my professional career when I had yet to recognise the full value of my skills. Had I done so, I could have benefitted far more than I have from Tusker's scaling of the heights of London's social and professional scenes. Even so, the growth in his wealth had, through my share, provided me with the means to establish and develop my own enterprise.

His wife had, of course, been instrumental in Harwell's success. My achievement had been in helping his wife to take that role. It was not one that she had felt naturally inclined towards and, indeed, it had required some compulsion on her husband's part for her to undertake that which I required of her. But, considering that I was still developing my theories at that time, all had turned out well.

I should, perhaps, explain the services that I provide. In my youth I was fortunate to study with some of the great explorers of the human psyche. The Fritz Freleng College at Hamelin in Northern Germany brought together the great analysts of human behaviour. As a student there, I had the opportunity to observe treatments used to help with unbalanced minds. During my tenure, the idea occurred to me that, while such methods could certainly help the sick, they might equally be applied to bring about desired changes in behaviour among the well. Furthermore, certain dark aspects of human nature, especially in the fairer sex, could be taken advantage of for the benefit of the individual and those around them. In time, I refined my processes of behavioural adjustment, recognising that a market existed for the development of the skills and attitudes of their life partner amongst those that wished to climb society's rungs. It was on this sphere of work that I had settled. The behavioural adjustment of Harwell Tusker's wife had been one of my earliest projects. I had also hit on the idea of basing my fees on the future earnings of my clients, demonstrating to them that their success was of primary importance to me. The two ideas resulted in a business that had proved both profitable and a fascinating life's work.

I was received into the Priory in a most efficient and welcoming manner. Its elegant, well-appointed and equally well-maintained surroundings all spoke of Mrs Tusker's dedication to providing her husband with a home that reflected and reinforced his status in society. Once brought inside by the butler, attended on with tea by the parlour maid, and delivered of my luggage by others of the household staff, it was Mrs Amelia Tusker herself that arrived to greet me.

Politeness required that no mention would be made of the time that she had spent in my care. Neither the force with which she had needed to be brought to Highgate nor the lusty arousal generated by her treatment there could be the subject of conversation between us. Instead, she enquired how things were with my business; how my journey had been; whether – she remembered my fondness for the aesthetic artists – I had seen the latest works by Leighton and Whistler. Our discussions were the model of civilized conversation and a complete demonstration of her skills as a hostess. I was quite unaware of the passing of time and entirely failed to register the absence of my host until he appeared, a good half hour after my arrival.