The Forgotten Holocaust. Scott Mariani

he said with a sour chuckle, and poured out two measures in a pair of chunky cut-glass tumblers.

      ‘I shouldn’t. Whisky always goes right to my head. But what the hell.’

      ‘That’s the spirit,’ he said. ‘This will warm the cockles of your heart.’

      ‘I always wondered which bit of the human heart the cockles were,’ she mused, accepting the tumbler. ‘Next time I meet a cardiologist, I must remember to ask. Cheers.’

      ‘Cheers.’ They clinked. The fireplace had a brass surround with a single padded seat on either side. They sat opposite one another, in the glow of the crackling flames.

      At her first sip, Kristen spluttered. ‘Jesus.’

      ‘It’s cask strength,’ he said. ‘Fifty-five per cent proof.’

      ‘The strong stuff.’

      ‘You get used to it.’

      ‘I wouldn’t want to get too used to it,’ she laughed, then took another sip. ‘I can feel those cockles warming up already.’

      Ben was beginning to appreciate the company now. It felt good to have someone to relate to again after long weeks of being very alone. He was glad he hadn’t turned Kristen away when she’d approached him on the beach.

      ‘So what is it you do, Ben?’

      ‘Right now, nothing.’

      ‘You certainly are the mysterious one. No family, no home, no future plans, and now no occupation either.’

      It was his instinct to be evasive when being questioned. ‘Let’s just say I’m kind of between things,’ he said. ‘Considering my options.’

      ‘What did you do before? Or would I be prying?’

      He knew there was a limit to the whole Mr Mystery bit. Any more, and he risked putting out alarming signals. He didn’t want to come over as a weirdo or a serial killer. It was time to open up a little with her. ‘I was in the military for a while. Then I left to start up in business for myself.’

      ‘You don’t strike me as the businessman type,’ she said, laughing.

      ‘It was a particular kind of business.’ His tumbler was empty again. He refilled it once more and topped hers up too. She was drinking much less quickly than he was.

      ‘Now you really have me intrigued. Remember you’re dealing with a nosy journalist.’ She grinned, pointing a jokey finger at him. ‘I can get information out of a stone.’

      ‘Really?’

      ‘Famous for it.’

      ‘Fair enough. I helped people.’

      ‘People?’

      ‘People in trouble. And people whose loved ones were in trouble.’

      ‘Now we’re really getting somewhere. Helped them how?’

      ‘By bringing the loved ones home safely,’ he replied.

      ‘You’re talking about missing persons?’

      ‘Kidnap cases, mostly.’

      ‘Wouldn’t the police normally deal with that kind of thing?’

      ‘In theory,’ he said. ‘But when clients begin to see how badly things can get botched up by going down that road, they’ll often turn to the freelancers.’

      ‘That’s what you were, a freelancer?’

      ‘The term was “crisis response consultant”. I worked alone.’

      ‘And did what exactly?’

      ‘Whatever was required,’ he said.

      She sipped a little more whisky, getting acclimatised to the burn now, staring at him intently over the rim of her glass. ‘Sounds like a risky business.’

      ‘It had its moments. I was trained for it.’ He reached for another log from the neat stack by the fire, and lobbed it into the flames. The blaze crackled up with a shower of orange sparks.

      ‘Sounds like you enjoyed the danger,’ Kristen said. ‘Some people are attracted to it. Even thrive on it.’

      ‘Funny. That’s what Brooke said, too.’

      ‘Brooke?’

      ‘My fiancée. I should say, ex-fiancée. We split up a couple of months ago.’

      ‘Oh. I’m sorry.’

      ‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘Well, no, it isn’t.’

      ‘I know how it goes, believe me.’

      ‘You too?’

      She nodded. ‘We’d been together three years. I thought it would last forever, you know?’

      ‘That’s what I thought, too,’ he said. ‘That Brooke and I were for life. Sometimes things just don’t work out the way you planned.’

      ‘You never know what life’s going to set in your path,’ she said, with a one-sided smile.

      ‘I miss her. There’s not an hour I don’t think about her.’

      ‘What’s she like?’ Kristen asked.

      Ben paused a long time before replying. ‘What can I say? She was the morning of my day.’

      ‘My God,’ Kristen coughed.

      He looked at her. ‘What?’

      ‘I can only wish that, one day, a man will say something that beautiful about me. I think I just met the last of the real romantics.’

      He smiled darkly. ‘I’ve been called a lot of things, but that’s a new one.’

      ‘Here, give me another drop of that stuff, will you?’ she said, proffering her empty glass.

      Ben found it strange that he should be confiding like this in a stranger. Whisky and loneliness made for a powerful cocktail. A little too powerful. He hadn’t eaten much that day, and with all the Guinness inside him already, he was feeling uncharacte‌ristically light-headed. He poured another measure for Kristen. He knew he needed to stop topping up his own drink, but topped it up anyway.

      ‘So what about this book of yours that you’re thinking of giving up on?’ he asked.

      She shrugged. ‘Seemed like a good idea at the time. Nobody’s ever done a proper biography of Lady Stamford before. I’ve spent the last eight months travelling back and forth researching everything about her life, both here in Ireland and after she returned to England. Which is what I’ll be doing myself tomorrow.’

      Ben looked at her and found himself smiling. She was attractive, she was warm and engaging. Under any other circumstances, a man might have felt a pang of disappointment that she’d be gone the next day. A new female attachment was the last thing Ben was looking for at this point in his life, but he was still sorry that he was going to lose an interesting companion. He shoved all those thoughts to the back of his mind.

      ‘Eight months is a lot of time to spend on research, just to give up on it,’ he said. ‘What happened, did you lose interest?’

      ‘Not at all. Lady Stamford’s is a fascinating story.’

      ‘Tell me some of it.’

      ‘You really want to know?’

      ‘I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t.’

      Kristen shrugged. ‘She was born Elizabeth Manners in Bath in 1824. Just turned nineteen when she met her soon-to-be husband, Lord Edgar Stamford. He was only two years older than her, but already well known as a botanist and chemist. He’d inherited the family fortune very young. Massively rich, dashing and handsome, whisked her off her feet and brought her to Ireland. It wasn’t