Beloved Beast. Karyn Gerrard

born in nineteen ten, which makes him thirty-three. His sons are both under the age of seven. Marcus was born in nineteen nineteen, which makes him twenty-four.”

      God, his father must have been elderly when Marcus was born. “My youngest brother did not join the war effort? Though I am not surprised, the Maddens were always a selfish lot. Seems they still are.”

      Fred cleared his throat. “Actually, old chap, The Honorable Marcus Madden did sign up. Became a commando in the Royal Navy. Lost part of his leg at Dieppe last year.”

      Luke groaned and slumped in his chair. Now he felt like a first-class heel. “Brave lad,” he murmured.

      “By all accounts, he was following in your notorious footsteps, a decadent playboy who lived for his own pleasure. A lot of drunkenness, gambling, women, that sort of thing. But he straightened himself out and served his country with honor. I hear through channels he may receive the Order of Britain.” Fred flipped the paper and continued on. “As to your sister, Lydia, I am sorry to say she died three years ago and is buried alongside her husband in Scotland. By all accounts she had a contented life. Their children and grandchildren thrive. I’d go into details; however, time is of the essence.”

      “Yes. Later perhaps,” Luke murmured. Surprisingly, sadness settled deep inside him at hearing his younger sister had died. They were never close, but Luke was gratified she had a happy life away from their miserable father.

      Fred closed the folder. “Of course.”

      “Your father’s experiment notes. They are still in your safe? Have you read them?” Luke asked.

      “I glanced at them, nothing more. He wrote out two copies in longhand. The effort that must have taken,” Fred marveled.

      “Give me one of the copies. It will provide something to read at night while in Charlwood.”

      Fred arched an eyebrow. “Do you think that wise?”

      Luke tapped the small piece of plastic covering the left side of his damaged skull. “Photographic memory. I’ll retain it all and I will burn the pages as I read them. We will still have the one copy here in your safe.”

      “As you wish. Now to get Miss Browning out of London. Shall we say, ‘Operation Miss Marple?’ You’ll need to leave your motor keys.” Luke reached in his trouser pockets and slid them across the desk. Fred stood, opened the cabinet behind him and tossed Luke a different set of keys. “The black Ford Anglia in parking space six. It’s full of petrol and supplied with maps. Communication will be by telegraph boy.” Fred crouched down by his safe, spun the lock, reached in, and passed Luke a thick folder. “Let’s bring Miss Browning in here and I will fill you both in on the details.”

      If nothing else, the next two weeks should prove to be interesting. Yet, a feeling of foreboding rolled through him. Luke exhaled. Charlwood. And all the memories and ghosts accompanying it.

      The time had come to meet the past head on.