An excerpt from “Mistaken Identity” – a work in progress

The odds of any one of us having a doppelganger are quite high. Whether or not you got to meet them or be confronted by them was significantly lower. Except, of course, unless you are a celebrity.

It was a phenomenon remarkable only for the fact that, at times, certain high-profile people, notorious or not, had doubles if only to put off enemies or the general public. Sometimes we see people in the street who look like someone we knew and make the mistake of approaching them like a long-lost friend, only to discover an embarrassed individual desperately trying to get away from what they perceive as a stalker, or worse.

And then sometimes it is a picture that looms up on a TV screen, an almost exact likeness of you. At first, you are fascinated, and then, according to the circumstances and narrative that is attached to that picture, either flattered or horrified.

For me, one turned to the other when I saw an almost likeness of me flash up on the screen when I turned the TV on in my room. What looked to be my photo, with only minor differences, was in the corner of the screen, the newsreader speaking in rapid Italian, so fast I could only translate every second or third word.

But the one word I did recognise was murder. The photo of the man on the screen was the subject of an extensive manhunt. The crime, the murder of a woman in the very same hotel I was staying, and it was being played out live several floors above me. The gist of the story, the woman had been seen with and staying with the man who was my double, and, less than an hour ago, the body had been discovered by a chambermaid.

The killer, the announcer said, was believed to be still in the hotel because the woman had died shortly before she had been discovered.

I watched, at first fascinated by what I was seeing. I guess I should have been horrified, but at that moment it didn’t register that I might be mistaken for that man.

Not until another five minutes had passed, and I was watching the police in full riot gear, with a camera crew following behind, coming up a passage towards a room. Live action of the arrest of the suspected killer, the breathless commentator said.

Then, suddenly, there was a pounding on the door. On the TV screen, plain to see, was the number of my room. I looked through the peephole and saw an army of police officers. It didn’t take much to realise what had happened. The hotel staff identified me as the man in the photograph on the TV and called the police.

Horrified wasn’t what I was feeling right then.

It was fear.

My last memory was the door crashing open, the wood splintering, and men rushing into the room, screaming at me, waving guns, and when I put my hands up to defend myself, I heard a gunshot.

And in one very confused and probably near-death experience, I thought I saw my mother and thought what was she doing in Rome?

…

I was the archetypal nobody.

I lived in a small flat, I drove a nondescript car, had an average job in a low-profile travel agency, was single, and currently not involved in a relationship, had no children, and, according to my workmates, no life.

They were wrong. I was one of those people who preferred their own company; I had a cat, and travelled whenever I could. And I did have a ‘thing’ for Rosalie, one of the reasons why I stayed at the travel agency. I didn’t expect anything to come of it, but one could always hope.

I was both pleased and excited to be going to the conference. It was my first, and the glimpse I had seen of it had whetted my appetite for more information about the nuances of my profession.

Some would say that a travel agent wasn’t much of a job, but to me, it was every bit as demanding as being an accountant or a lawyer. You were providing a customer with a service, and arguably, more people needed a travel agent than a lawyer. At least that was what I told myself as I watched more and more people start using the internet, and our relevance slowly dissipating.

This conference was about countering that trend.

The trip over had been uneventful. I was met at the airport and taken to the hotel where the conference was being held with several other delegates who had arrived on the same plane. I had mingled with several other delegates at the pre-conference get-together, including one whose name was Maryanne.

She was an unusual young woman, not the sort that I usually met, because she was the one who was usually surrounded by all the boys, the life of the party. In normal circumstances, I would not have introduced myself to her, but she had approached me. Why did I think that may have been significant? All of this ran through my mind, culminating in the last event on the highlight reel, the door bursting open, men rushing into my room, and then one of the policemen opened fire.

I replayed that last scene again, trying to see the face of my assailant, but it was just a sea of men in battle dress, bulletproof vests and helmets, accompanied by screaming and yelling, some of which I identified as “Get on the floor”.

Then came the shot.

Why ask me to get on the floor if all they were going to do was shoot me? I was putting my hands up at the time, in surrender, not reaching for a weapon.

Then I saw the face again, hovering in the background like a ghost. My mother. Only the hair was different, and her clothes, and then the image was going, perhaps a figment of my imagination brought on by pain-killing drugs. I tried to imagine the scene again, but this time it played out without the image of my mother.

I opened my eyes and took stock of my surroundings. What I felt in that exact moment couldn’t be described. I should most likely be dead, the result of a gunshot wound. I guess I should be thankful the shooter hadn’t aimed at anything vital, but that was the only item on the plus side.

I was in a hospital room with a policeman by the door. He was reading a newspaper and sitting uncomfortably on a small chair. He gave me a quick glance when he heard me move slightly, but didn’t acknowledge me with either a nod or a greeting, just went back to the paper.

If I still had a police guard, then I would still be considered a suspect. What was interesting was that I was not handcuffed to the bed. Perhaps that only happened in TV shows. Or maybe they knew I couldn’t run because my injuries were too serious. Or the guard would shoot me long before my feet hit the floor. I knew the police well enough now to know they would shoot first and ask questions later.

On the physical side, I had a large bandage over the top left corner of my chest, extending over my shoulder. A little poking and prodding determined the bullet had hit somewhere between the top of my rib cage and my shoulder. Nothing vital there, but my arm might be somewhat useless for a while, depending on what the bullet hit on the way in or through.

It didn’t feel like there were any broken or damaged bones.

That was the good news.

On the other side of the ledger, my mental state, there was only one word that could describe it. Terrified. I was looking at a murder charge and jail time, a lot of it. Murder usually had a long time in jail attached to it.

Whatever had happened, I didn’t do it. I know I didn’t do it, but I had to try to explain this to people who had already made up their minds. I searched my mind for evidence. It was there, but in the confused state brought on by the medication, all I could think about was jail, and the sort of company I was going to have.

I think death would have been preferable.

…

Half an hour later, maybe longer, I was drifting in and out of consciousness. A nurse, or what I thought was a nurse, came into the room. The guard stood, checked her ID card, and then stood by the door.

She came over and stood beside the bed. “How are you?” she asked, first in Italian, and when I pretended I didn’t understand, she asked the same question in accented English.

“Alive, I guess,” I said. “No one has come and told me what my condition is yet. You are my first visitor. Can you tell me?”

“Of course. You are very lucky to be alive. You will be fine and make a full recovery. The doctors here are excellent at their work.”

“What happens now?”

“I check you, and then you have another visitor. He is from the British Embassy, I think. But he will have to wait until I have finished my examination.”

I realised then she was a doctor, not a nurse.

…

My second visitor was a man, dressed in a suit, the sort of which I associated with the British Civil Service. He was not very old, which told me he was probably a recent graduate on his first posting, the junior officer who drew the short straw.

The guard checked his ID but again did not leave the room, sitting back down and going back to his newspaper.

My visitor introduced himself as Alex Jordan from the British Embassy in Rome, and he had been asked by the Ambassador to sort out what he labelled a tricky mess.

For starters, it was good to see that someone cared about what happened to me. But, equally, I knew the mantra, get into trouble overseas, and there is not much we can do to help you. So, after that lengthy introduction, I had to wonder why he was here.

I said, “They think I am an international criminal by the name of Jacob Westerbury, whose picture looks just like me, and apparently, for them, it is an open and shut case.” I could still hear the fragments of the yelling as the police burst through the door, at the same time telling me to get on the floor with my hands over my head.

“It’s not. They know they’ve got the wrong man, which is why I’m here. There is the issue of what had been described as excessive force, and the fact that you were shot had made it an all-around embarrassment for them.”

“Then why are you here? Shouldn’t they be here apologising?”

“That is why you have another visitor. I only took precedence because I insisted on speaking with you first. I have come, basically, to ask you for a favour. This situation has afforded us an opportunity. We would like you to sign the official document, which basically indemnifies them against any legal proceedings.”

Curious. What sort of opportunity was he talking about? Was this a matter that could get difficult and I could be charged by the Italian Government, even if I wasn’t guilty, or was it one of those hush-hush type deals, you do this for us, we’ll help you out with that? “What sort of opportunity?”

“We want to get our hands on Jacob Westerbury as much as they do. They’ve made a mistake, and we’d like to use that to get custody of him if or when he is arrested in this country. I’m sure you would also like this man brought into custody as soon as possible, so you will stop being confused with him. I can only imagine what it was like to be arrested in the manner you were. And I would not blame you if you wanted to get some compensation for what they’ve done. But. There are bigger issues in play here, and you would be doing this for your country.”

I wondered what would happen if I didn’t agree to his proposal. I had to ask, “What if I don’t?”

His expression didn’t change. “I’m sure you are a sensible man, Mr Pargeter, who is more than willing to help his country whenever he can. They have agreed to take care of all your hospital expenses, refund the cost of the Conference, and travel. I’m sure I could also get them to pay for a few days at Capri or Sorrento, if you like, before you go home. What do you say?”

There was only one thing I could say. Wasn’t it treason if you went against your country’s wishes?

“I’m not an unreasonable man, Alex. Go do your deal, and I’ll sign the papers.”

“Good man.”

…

After Alex left, the doctor came back to announce the arrival of a woman, who had announced herself as the publicity officer from the Italian police. When she came into the room, she was not dressed in a uniform.

The doctor left after giving a brief report to the civilian at the door. I understood the gist of it: “The patient has recovered excellently, and the wounds are healing as expected. There is no cause for concern.”

That was a relief.

While the doctor was speaking to the civilian, I speculated on who she might be. She was young, not more than thirty, conservatively dressed, so an official of some kind, but not necessarily with the police. Did they have prosecutors? I was unfamiliar with the Italian legal system.

She had long, wavy black hair and the sort of sultry looks of an Italian movie star, and her presence made me more curious than fearful, though I couldn’t say why.

The woman then spoke to the guard, and he reluctantly got up and left the room, closing the door behind him. She checked the door and then came back towards me, standing at the end of the bed. Now alone, she said, “A few questions before we begin.” Her English was only slightly accented. “Your name is Jack Pargeter?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“You are in Rome to attend the Travel Agents Conference at the Hilton Hotel?”

“Yes.”

“You attended a preconference introduction on the evening of the 25th, after arriving from London at approximately 4:25 pm.”

“About that time, yes. I know it was about five when the bus came to collect me, and several others, to take us to the hotel.”

She smiled. It was then that I noticed she was reading from a small notepad.

“It was ten past five to be precise. The driver had been held up in traffic. We have several witnesses who saw you on the plane, on the bus, at the hotel, and with the aid of closed-circuit TV, we have established you are not the criminal Jacob Westerbury.”

She put her notebook back in her bag and then said, “My name is Vicenza Andretti, and I am with the prosecutor’s office. I am here to formally apologise for the situation that can only be described as a case of mistaken identity. I assure you, it is not the habit of our police officers to shoot people unless they have a very strong reason for doing so. I understand that in the confusion of the arrest, one of our officers accidentally discharged his weapon. We are undergoing a very thorough investigation into the circumstances of this event.”

I was not sure why, but between the time I had spoken to the embassy official and now, something about letting them off so easily was bugging me. I could see why they had sent her. It would be difficult to be angry or annoyed with her.

But I was annoyed.

“Do you often send a whole squad of trigger-happy riot police to arrest a single man?” It came out harsher than I intended.

“My men believed they were dealing with a dangerous criminal.”

“Do I look like a dangerous criminal?” And then I realised if it was mistaken identity, the answer would be yes.

She saw the look on my face and said quietly, “I think you know the answer to that question, Mr Pargeter.”

“Well, it was overkill.”

“As I said, we are very sorry for the circumstances you now find yourself in. You must understand that we honestly believed we were dealing with an armed and dangerous murderer, and we were acting within our mandate. My department will cover your medical expenses and any other amounts for the inconvenience this has caused you. I believe you were attending a conference at your hotel. I am very sorry, but given the medical circumstances you have, you will have to remain here for a few more days.”

“I guess, then, I should thank you for not killing me.”

Her expression told me that was not the best thing I could have said in the circumstances.

“I mean, I should thank you for the hospital and the care. But a question or two of my own. May I?”

She nodded.

“Did you catch this Jacob Westerbury character?”

“No. In the confusion created by your arrest, he escaped. Once we realised we had made a mistake and reviewed the closed-circuit TV, we tracked him leaving by a rear exit.”

“Are you sure it was one of your men who shot me?”

I watched as her expression changed to one of surprise.

“You don’t think it was one of my men?”

“Oddly enough, no. But don’t ask me why.”

“It is very interesting that you should say that, because in our initial investigation, it appeared none of our officers’ weapons had been discharged. A forensic investigation into the bullet tells us it was one that is used in our weapons, but…”

I could see their dilemma.

“Have you any enemies that would want to shoot you, Mr Pargeter?”

That was absurd because I had no enemies, at least none that I knew of, much less anyone who would want me dead.

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Then it is strange, and will perhaps remain a mystery. I will let you know if anything more is revealed in our investigation.”

She took an envelope out of her briefcase and opened it, pulling out several sheets of paper.

I knew what it was. A verbal apology was one thing, but a signed waiver would cover them legally. They had sent a pretty girl to charm me. Perhaps using anyone else would not have worked. There was potential for a huge litigation payout here, and someone more ruthless would jump at the chance of making a few million out of the Italian Government.

“We need a signature on this document,” she said.

“Absolving you of any wrongdoing?”

“I have apologised. We will take whatever measures are required for your comfort after this event. We are accepting responsibility for our actions and are being reasonable.”

They were. I took the pen from her and signed the documents.

“You couldn’t add dinner with you on that list of benefits?” No harm in asking.

“I am unfortunately unavailable.”

I smiled. “It wasn’t a request for a date, just dinner. You can tell me about Rome, as only a resident can. Please.”

She looked me up and down, searching for the ulterior motive. When she couldn’t find one, she said, “We shall see once the hospital discharges you in a few days.”

“Then I’ll pencil you in?”

She looked at me quizzically. “What is this pencil me in?”

“It’s an English colloquialism. It means maybe. As when you write something in pencil, it is easy to erase it.”

A momentary frown, then recognition and a smile. “I shall remember that. Thank you for your time and cooperation, Mr Pargeter. Good morning.”

…

What I learned about writing – What is an acceptable age to stop writing

Pen Down? Never! Why There’s No ‘Acceptable Age’ to Stop Writing

It’s a question that might silently gnaw at writers, especially as the years accumulate: “Am I too old to be doing this? Is there an acceptable age to finally put the pen down?”

Let’s take a deep breath and shatter this myth right now.

The beautiful, liberating truth is: there isn’t one.

Unlike professional sports where physical peak defines a career, or industries that demand intense, rapid-fire innovation, writing thrives on something entirely different: life experience, wisdom, observation, and the enduring power of the human spirit. These are qualities that only deepen and enrich with time.

Why the Calendar Doesn’t Define Your Craft

The idea of an “acceptable age” to stop writing is a construct, a societal whisper that has no place in the world of storytelling. Here’s why you should ignore it:

Wisdom is Your Superpower: Youth brings fresh perspectives, but age brings the nuanced understanding that only comes from living through joy, sorrow, triumph, and failure. Every single year you live adds another layer to your understanding of human nature, making your characters richer, your plots more profound, and your themes more resonant.
A Richer Tapestry of Experience: Think of your life as a vast library. With every passing decade, you add new wings, new genres, new collections. This reservoir of lived experience is invaluable for a writer. You have more to draw from, more to reflect upon, and more unique insights to offer your readers.
Writing as Lifelong Learning: The act of writing keeps your mind sharp, your curiosity piqued, and your creative muscles toned. It’s a fantastic form of mental exercise that can genuinely contribute to well-being as we age. Why would you want to stop something that is so beneficial?
The Perspective of Time: Have you ever revisited an old memory and seen it in a completely new light? Age provides that distance and perspective, allowing you to craft narratives that explore complex emotions and historical events with greater clarity and depth. What felt overwhelming at 30 might become a powerful narrative at 70.
Technology is Your Ally: Worried about typing speed or hand cramps? Dictation software, ergonomic keyboards, larger screens, and assistive technologies mean that physical limitations are no longer insurmountable barriers. Adaptation, not cessation, is the key.

Legends Who Wrote On (and On!)

History is filled with writers who found their voice late, or continued to produce masterpieces well into their golden years:

Laura Ingalls Wilder: Didn’t publish her first “Little House” book until she was 65!
Frank McCourt: Won a Pulitzer for Angela’s Ashes in 1997 when he was 66.
Agatha Christie: Continued to write bestsellers and intricate mysteries well into her 80s.
Toni Morrison: Published acclaimed novels throughout her 70s and 80s, including God Help the Child at 84.
Harriet Doerr: Published her first novel, Stones for Ibarra, and won a National Book Award at 74.

These are not anomalies; they are testaments to the enduring power of the written word and the human capacity for creation.

So, When Is the Acceptable Age to Stop Writing?

When the stories stop calling out to you. When your imagination runs dry. When the desire to connect, to share, to create, finally fades.

For most writers, that moment never truly arrives. The urge to tell stories is intrinsic, deeply woven into the fabric of who we are. It’s a fire that, if tended, can burn brightly for a lifetime.

Don’t let the calendar dictate your creative journey. Pick up that pen, open that laptop, and keep pouring your unique perspective onto the page. The world needs your stories, no matter how many candles are on your birthday cake.

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 139

Day 139 – Writing Exercise

The hall was the quietest it had been while the king was still alive.

…

There had been a hush all over the kingdom after the old king had died. He had lived for exactly 100 years, and right up until the last day, he had been wise and imposing.

Not once in his sixty-five-year reign had there been any talk of sedition or treason. He was fair and forceful to everyone, whatever station in life they came from.

It was more than could be said for his forebears, some of whom had been ‘terrible’. Ivan had been a particular example. Some had been ‘benevolent’ like George, his grandfather. He promised his Queen he would never be like his father before him, and he wasn’t.

When it came time for the eldest child, either male or female, to take over the role of Monarch of West Lexis, you were allowed to use your own name or pick one from a set.

Those sets included Ivan, George, Richard, John and Charles. For the girls, the names were Elizabeth, Jane, Anne, Margaret and Susannah.

In the most recent line of succession, there had been three boys, George, Walter and John, and three girls, Elizabeth, Susan and Frances. George was the eldest boy, and Elizabeth was the second eldest.

In an unusual accident whilst conducting the annual hunt, in which men went out into the woods to kill deer to stock up on meat for winter, it was the right of the eldest son to run the hunt.

He had been, it was said when the news of the fatality had been broadcast across the land, in the wrong place at the wrong time. And it had been the first time ever.

It had caused great sadness, and a hundred days of mourning had to pass before the new monarch was crowned. That had happened from the day after the old king was buried in the sacred graveyard of the monarchs, a place where only the Chancellor and his personal guard knew.

Once there, and buried, only then could his mortal soul continue on its journey to the final resting place of all monarchs, Valhalla.

…

Ludrig, Superintendent of the castle guard, was about to do the morning rounds, the day after it had been proclaimed that the hundred days of mourning were over.

The sun had come up through the mountains, a bright yellow, signifying not only a brilliant start to the next day, but a good omen, that the weight of the next monarchs would begin with the blessings of the Gods.

Life was beginning to return to the castle’s main corridors and rooms, with the castle workers moving on to clean and prepare for the coronation activities before the big day.

Ludrig’s job was to oversee those activities in conjunction with the Chancellor. He was on top of the East tower, the first to see the sun every morning, when the skies were clear.

It was this morning, and along with the second in command of the castle guard, Walther, they had stood together, swords facing the first rays until the light glinted on the metal, then swore their allegiance to the new monarch.

Elizabeth.

The king had reached Valhalla, the hundred days of mourning were complete, the people no longer had to wear black out of respect, and life could begin again.

The two men sheathed their swords. They were as much ceremonial as they were for battle, though no one could remember the last battle West Lexis had fought with anyone.

From the top of the castle, on a good day, one could see the main castle of East Lexia, quite a distance away. On a good day, like today.

“Wonder what they’re thinking?”

“That it’s time for celebrations. We have the three other Lexias dignitaries coming to the festivities, and the games are promising to be the best ever.

Ludrig was the current Joust champion and had just fallen short of winning the Knight, Grand Master title, a title he had held for the last five tournaments.

It was bound to happen eventually. He was getting old, despite being remarkably fit for his age.

“All of them are, Walther. And I have been working on the fault that caused the loss of the title last. Sir Samson will not get away with it again.”

“I heard he has a new bag of tricks available.”

“What new tricks? He talks big but doesn’t show us anything. He is, as he had always been, a windbag.
He won’t know what hit him.”

Or so Ludrig thought. It was Ludrig’s only failing, his ego that refused to believe he could never be bested.

Walther shrugged. That was in the future.

In the meantime, it was going to be non-stop preparations. Tournaments to be set up, names of the competitors to be collected, sport fields set up, banquets for both nobles and the commoners to be set you and food arranged.

The young queen was out of mourning and could now tour the country, and the sister countries for many discussions and political policy reviews, the way the country would be run and how it would interact with her sister countries.

He was in charge of the Queen’s escort and had to prepare for that too. It was going to be a very busy schedule.

“Time passes far too quickly for my liking.”

“Better get to it then.”

The last rays of the sun that lowered up onto the sky before it came out from behind the hills had dissipated, and the yellow orb glowed in a clear blue sky. The omen was predicting peace, happiness, and prosperity for all.

The separated in the guard house below, Ludwig to report to the Queen, Walther to the barracks to begin drilling the men. The lazy days were over.

…

It was a 500-year-old story, how the four kingdoms of Lexia came into existence. Far, far back in the almost forgotten mists of time, there used to be one single kingdom. Lexia.

And had not a miracle occurred, there would still be one kingdom.

Or, as some would say, very quietly, it was exactly the opposite.

But whether a miracle or a judgement from the Gods, the Queen of Lexia gave birth to four children on the same day, and under Lexia’s Royal charter, the eldest child was the rightful heir.

That meant the firstborn.

That edict remained in place until the King was on his deathbed, and the Queen, along with the then Chancellor, got the King to sign a decree that all children would become Monarchs in their own right, and that Lexia would be divided into four equal kingdoms, North, South, East, and West. All the same size, each with a central castle, and an equal share of the country’s wealth.

And so it was done.

It had worked for 200 or more years before a dispute broke out between two of the kingdoms, a battle ensued, and then was quelled by the other two, with the surrender terms negotiated, life returned to normal.

Only for one kingdom, or more importantly, the Monarch, it didn’t.

David Montgomery, King of East Lexia, was discontent with how his kingdom was made to pay for the battle he didn’t start, 300 years ago, and it had festered since through the generations.

But he did know that it was the King of West Lexia, back then, who had something to do with the settlement terms, and had managed to get away with stealing a very valuable set of jewels that belonged to West Lexia.

It was one of the original four that Lexia, when united, used for coronations. Each of the four had been granted a set each.

There was a story somewhere in the mists of time that was the true and correct account of the Jewels of the Moonbeam, said to be part of the astrological connection to the Gods. And as far as Mongonery was concerned, West Lexia had them, and he wanted them back.

And with the coronation of the new Queen of West Lexia, it was time for the truth to come out.

…

It was early, the first day of the pre-coronation festivities, starting with the grand tour of West Lexia.

Not that Elizabeth hadn’t been out and about during the mourning period, after all, she was still the Queen, and had only to be officially recognised by government and the church.

At long last, and thankfully, she would not have to wear black. Only those who chose to would.

Her personal maid, Nathalie, had set out a purple dress, relatively plain in design, but spoke of elegance and majesty. With her Princess tiara and the sapphire necklace that was inherited from her mother on the day of succession, it would let everyone know that Elizabeth was their Queen.

Nathalie had worked hard to progress to be the Queen’s personal handmaid. It had been her goal from the moment she started as a maid in the castle. She knew one day her mistress would become Queen, and had persevered through all the tantrums and youthful exuberance and their relationship that once started very rocky, had matured into one of mutual respect.

As one of her talents, the ability to converse, listen, and understand what she was either hearing or discussing, Nathalie always had her ears open, taking in everything around her.

Her mistress never once asked to be a spy, but was genuinely surprised that Nathalie was always well across Castle affairs, and had stories she could tell, but she had learned early that discretion was a wise master. Sometimes, just part of a story was not the whole story.

There was always a scandal, however, and Elizabeth loved scandal, especially if it involved her brothers and sisters and nobility, simply because of their hypocrisy. Elizabeth herself had secrets, but she made sure that she was very discreet.

Elizabeth summoned Nathalie when it was time to get ready for the Chancellor’s morning visit, starting the conversation with the same question, “What is the gossip this morning?”

Nathalie had already laid out all her mistress’s clothing ready for the mistress to approve or disapprove, which didn’t happen very often, ready to put on, piece by piece. Sometimes it could be a laborious job.

“Your Royal Highness.” She curtsied. “Outside the castle, there are rumours of incursions by bandits from the south.”

“We have those all the time. Since the famine, it has been difficult for all of us, and some people think it is easier to steal than to try to mitigate the effects by doing something about it. We built a dam, and now have the water to grow crops during famine. As for the incursions, we will put a stop to them.”

She had spoken to the Chancellor, and he was drawing up a proclamation. All thieves who were caught and found guilty were not going to enjoy the same accommodations her father extended to them.

There were other interesting snippets of conversation between the two, always in hushed tones because there was no telling who was listening, as the layers went on.

“Was there anything else?” They were up to the top layer, a sash, the tiara, jewellery, and shoes. This morning it was taking a long time.

“Have you heard of the Jewels of the Moonbeam?”

She stopped suddenly and gripped the arm of the girl. “Where did you hear that?”

Nathalie immediately went on the defensive, thinking she had gone too far, that it was a top secret subject, and should have inferred that from the fact she hadn’t heard very much and initially wasn’t going to say anything.

Now she had stepped over that line and couldn’t worm her way out.

“Two … two soldiers walking down the street,” Nathalie stammered breathlessly, now almost terrified.

Elizabeth immediately realised she had scared her maid, obviously fearing the worst. The Royal Children had a reputation for quick tempers and appalling behaviour, and whilst her earlier years were difficult, she had matured.

She immediately softened her look and let her go, and gently caressed the red welt forming above her wrist. “I am sorry, Nathalie, I don’t know what came over me. It’s a touchy subject for all of the Royal families.”

“Then I shall not mention it again.”

“No. No. We keep no secrets between us, Nathalie. I would like to know anything you hear. But please don’t tell anyone else. But this, you overheard two soldiers? Would you recognise them again?”

Nathalie looked surprised. “No. They all look the same to me.”

Elizabeth had to admit she was right. Except for a small flag on the sleeves, one kingdom could not really be identified by another. But she knew, instinctively, that they were not soldiers from her kingdom.

“Can you remember if they said anything else?”

“That was all I heard. They were too far away, and I wasn’t going to follow them. You know what soldiers do to servant girls.”

She did, and that was something else she had to address with the Chancellor.

As for the Jewels, she had only just heard from the Chancellor that they would have to visit the castle strongroom where family valuables were kept, along with the Kingdom’s fortune, to try on the Coronation jewellery, also known as West Lexia’s Jewels of the Moonbeam.

It was the first time she had ever heard of them.

“You must not repeat anything you heard about those Jewels. They are a secret within a very small circle of this Kingdom. You will never mention them again. Am I clear?”

“I shall not, your Majesty. You have my word of honour.”

“Excellent. I know I can rely on you.”

They went back to finishing dressing. Nathalie had to get home. She had told one other person, her mother, and she was not one to hold her tongue at the best of times.

…

Walther had been summoned to the castle and the Queen’s chambers. She needed escorting. He brought three men, the leaders of each of the three groups that made up the guard.

It had been, he believed, the luck of the draw, his name with three others tossed into the box and to be drawn for who would be second in command.

Each of the four men was equally qualified, but Ludrig had been particularly pleased that he had drawn Walther’s name.

Walther had been his protege; he had taught him well, and unlike some of the others, was willing to learn and not improvise.

He was also intelligent and could improvise when it mattered, like in the middle of mock battles. It made him an excellent choice for the Queen’s private guard. It helped that she liked him, unlike his two predecessors, both of whom treated her like an errant child.

Both ended up languishing at a border guard post.

Walther believed in punctuality and respect for the uniform. Each of his men was in ceremonial dress, but also armed, ready for anything.

A formidable force to be reckoned with.

And as they made their way from the guard’s mess to the Queen’s chambers, it was a reminder to the people that the guard were visible, available, and ready to protect the Queen and her people.

The cry, “Make way for the Queen’s guard,” was treated with the respect and reverence it deserved.

Outside the main chamber, the three guardsmen formed a line. No one would pass unless bidden.

Walther entered when requested.

She was ready, taking two of her personal maids with her. Walther would walk with her, half a step behind, the maids, one guard on either side of the maids and one at the rear.

Destination: the Treasury.

Ludrig had set up checkpoints and had men on guard. It was the first real exercise since her accession. Practice was over.

The path from the chamber required leaving the main castle and taking a path to one of the structures at the rear of the main castle, one of the granary, the middle, the church, or the other, the treasury.

In the treasury was a vault, and in the vault were the Kingdom’s most valuable treasures. The treasury was also where the Kingdom’s coins were struck, and they were currently creating a set of coins commemorating the coronation of the new Queen.

As far as Walther was concerned, his Queen was there to inspect the new coinage.

As expected, people turned out to see their Queen along the short path in the open. Walther saw no hostility, but it wasn’t exactly as joyous as he thought it might be.

In fact, if someone had asked him what the general mood of the people was, it would be subdued, maybe even a little disappointed. But alongside that, he noticed something else: men loitering.

They did not look like labourers or artisans; they were men who looked like they had military training, dressed in labourers’ clothes to hide behind.

That was far more worrisome and a matter to take up with Ludrig after this detail.

At the Treasury, they left the three-man guard at the entrance to the Treasury, and he joined the Queen, her two maids and the Chancellor who had just appeared from inside the main building.

From the entrance, they went to the vault. The treasury guard was the only person who had a key, and by the time they reached the vault, the head of the guard, Smithton, arrived breathless.

And late.

Elizabeth was unimpressed.

The Chancellor apologised and said he would take care of the matter. The atmosphere was quite tense.

If it were up to Walther, he would have taken the guard and locked him up.

The vault was opened, and only the Queen and the Chancellor went in.

…

The vault was quite large and had various rooms within it for the treasures: one for gold, one for silver, one for spare utensils used throughout the castle, and another for gemstones.

And in the corner, a pedestal with a special box which held the Kingdom’s Jewels of the Moonbeam.

They were the most significant treasure in the Kingdom, used only for the Coronation of the new monarch. Elizabeth had requested to see them.

“The necklace was one of four created at the time of the great split, each given a different colour, red, blue, green and amber. Ours is the blue set.”

The Chancellor took out a special key and unlocked the box, as Elizabeth moved closer.

He lifted the lid.

Both gasped. The box was empty.

The Jewels were gone.

“Where is it?” Elizabeth asked.

“It was here the last time I looked. I check once a month.”

“Can we have the coronation without it?”

“No. The charter forbids it.”

Elizabeth went back to Walther. “Seal off the castle. No one out but let people come in. Turn out the guard. I want this whole castle searched from top to bottom.” She gave him a drawing of the necklace the Chancellor had given her.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“And if anyone tries to leave or gives you any trouble, lock them up.”

He nodded, then left.

…

Charles Heath 2026

The story behind the story – Echoes from the Past

The novel ‘Echoes from the Past’ started out as a short story I wrote about 30 years ago, titled ‘The Birthday’.

My idea was to take a normal person out of their comfort zone and led on a short but very frightening journey to a place where a surprise birthday party had been arranged.

Thus, the very large man with a scar and a red tie was created.

So was the friend with the limousine who worked as a pilot.

So were the two women, Wendy and Angelina, who were Flight Attendants that the pilot friend asked to join the conspiracy.

I was going to rework the short story, then about ten pages long, into something a little more.

And like all rewrites, especially those I have anything to do with, it turned into a novel.

There was motivation. I had told some colleagues at the place where I worked at the time that I liked writing, and they wanted a sample. I was going to give them the re-worked short story. Instead, I gave them ‘Echoes from the past’

Originally, it was not set anywhere in particular.

But when considering a location, I had, at the time, recently been to New York in December, and visited Brooklyn and Queens, as well as a lot of New York itself. We were there for New Year’s, and it was an experience I’ll never forget.

One evening, we were out late and finished up in Brooklyn Heights, near the waterfront, and there was rain and snow; it was cold and wet, and apartment buildings were shimmering in the street light, and I thought, “This is the place where my main character will live”.

It had a very spooky atmosphere, the sort where ghosts would not be unexpected. I felt more than one shiver go up and down my spine in the few minutes I was there.

I had taken notes, as I always do, of everywhere we went, so I had a ready supply of locations I could use, changing the names in some cases.

Fifth Avenue near the Rockefeller Centre is amazing at first light, and late at night with the Seasonal decorations and lights.

The original main character was a shy man with few friends, hence not expecting the surprise party. I enhanced that shyness into purposely lonely because of an issue from his past that leaves him always looking over his shoulder and ready to move on at the slightest hint of trouble. No friends, no relationships, just a very low profile.

Then I thought, what if he breaks the cardinal rule and begins a relationship?

But it is also as much an exploration of a damaged soul as it is the search for a normal life, without having any idea what normal was, and how the understanding of one person can sometimes make all the difference in what we may think or feel.

And, of course, I wanted a happy ending.

Except for the bad guys.

…

Get it here: https://amzn.to/2CYKxu4