Irony of Destiny

By Benoy B. Chowdhury, Ph. D

IRONY OF DESTINY is a reality-based fictional work. The story begins at the outbreak of WWII and surreptitiously delves into post-war developments emanating from the circumstances of the war itself. David Ardmore had returned to England from the war not knowing he had an unborn child with Helga Stein from his chance encounter with her in Thuringen which became part of Soviet East Germany. Konrad, born to Helga, had excelled in his agricultural studies and was fiercely loyal to the East German State which had entangled him in espionage activities in England when he had come to visit his newly-acquainted father for the first time and to learn about advanced agricultural methods there. He had unaccountably disappeared from Boxbury farm in Chipping Norton in SW England. When detective Barton Smith had brought Konrad back from West Germany, where he had taken refuge, his life took on bouts of romance and intrigue. Naval Officer Edwin Marsh, a bungling and over-eager suitor for Lord Carrington’s daughter Emily’s affection, had taken a jaundiced view of her emotional dependence on her colleagues at the BBC and in particular, her infatuation with Konrad (renamed Craig), when he had worked in horticulture at the Manor House. Craig’s own sensitivities were awakened by Linda Baxter of the Public Relations Firm when he had taken over responsibilities for running his father’s equipment business. In the end, Craig found stability and happiness with Hedda Vogel whom he had known in the Youth Movement in East Germany.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Benoy B. Chowdhury, Ph. D
• Release date: Aug 31, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311624512

Benoy B. Chowdhury, Ph. D

Go to www.linkedin.com/pub/benoy-chowdhury-ph-d/65/871/4871

Book preview

Chapter One

At The Beginning

There is much that can be said about the tranquility of the English countryside. Much has already been said in various sources about some notable areas of the land, but the hidden gems here and there, still inspire renewed mention.

The market town of Chipping Norton in the Cotswolds in Oxfordshire certainly commands a fresh attention. The old tweed mill is long gone, but the architecturally beautiful Town Hall is still the centerpiece of this much loved citadel in the Southwest. The Romans had left their mark here, having been unable to march further into neighboring Wales. This event alone characterizes the spirit of this town, punctuated by the defiant and bold-looking hills that scatter along the horizon.

The Chippy’ as the locals fondly call this unpretentious town, has a connection to a post-war story that personifies this town even more than before.

The war in the nineteen hundred forties had not much affected this town except for its contribution of manpower to the war effort which had required organizational establishment of military recruitment centers here in chipping Norton. This is where the present story has its origin.

But, let us start with this day some twenty years after the war had ended.

A storm had passed over Chipping Norton that morning. It had dumped an unusual amount of rain along the meadows and the ponds. The pathway to the vicarage was still wet. Droplets of rain- water hung from the church roof overhang that glistened in the soft rays of the autumn sun.

It was late afternoon. The area was deserted. A weak breeze was blowing from time to time. It carried the fragrance of the wet leaves that had withered to a crimson color.

Constable Radigan was doing his rounds. He stopped by the vicarage, walked around and then moved on. The graveyard next to the church was deathly silent. A dirt road that circled around the church had a bus stop at the center, close to the paved road. The bus did not run often on Saturdays and no one was waiting there, but there stood a man facing the church with his hands clasped behind his back and staring intently at the distant horizon, as if in anticipation of something. The man had arrived from London that morning and had checked in at King’s Arms which was a notable hotel and pub in that area. He had some information on a small piece of paper tucked in his breast pocket. He pulled the paper out and looked at it with a cursory glance. He noted a time on the paper and looked at his watch.

Presently, an odd-looking car putting out a putt-putting sound came hurtling down the dirt road and stopped close to where the man was standing.

A head peered out of the car’s window. The head belonged to a well-dressed man wearing a tweed jacket and a tartan tie. In a booming voice he asked, I say, do you know where the hotel King’s Arms is? I am supposed to meet someone there.

The man on the ground walked closer to the car and said, You found him. I am Barton Smith. I believe I am the one you are looking for. You must be David Ardmore from Basingstoke. I was out for a walk and got a little sidetracked. I wanted to look at the church up close. It is such a beautiful structure! It certainly is. Oh yes, the hotel is just around the corner.

The driver seemed impatient and exclaimed, Well then, hop in. Let’s get going.

There was a sense of urgency in his voice, mixed with irritation. He hated himself for being lost, especially in his own backyard. But then, he had been away a long time from Chipping Norton.

They rode in silence.

When the hotel came into view, David Ardmore spoke again, You must be familiar with the situation and you know why I am here. Craig Ardmore, who mysteriously disappeared, is my son. My contact tells me you have been apprised of the circumstances.

There is something I am still not clear about, said Barton Smith, I understand Craig was born in Germany and had lived there with his mother till he was twenty. When did he come over to England?

David Ardmore was impatient by nature and he was not prepared to answer a barrage of questions right then. He got out of the car and said, It is a long story, but let’s go inside first. Let me spruce-up first and then we can continue our discussions over dinner.

***

The bright red color of the setting sun was now disappearing over the horizon and it had cast a surly shadow at the water’s edge across the meadowlands directly opposite the hotel. The mallards crisscrossed the skies and crackled a devious sound that pierced the silence of the early evening. A steady stream of swallows flew westward.

The evenings were always gentle there at that time of the year.

David Ardmore became nostalgic as he looked out of the window in his room. He was revisiting his birthplace. He had been away a long time!

He remembered the childhood he had spent here in Chipping Norton. His school days were uneventful and he had never spent much time thinking about his future. He only knew he would certainly be a dairy farmer. Growing up on his father’s farm, cow pastures were his playground. He had sometimes fancied himself as a tractor man. The few farm machinery his father had on the farm fascinated him.

He had often watched the big tractor chugging along in an uncertain movement with a clanking sound. The laborious movement of the tractor had filled him with irritation and he had wished he could tinker with it to make it go faster.

Now in his hotel room he chuckled to himself as he thought back again when he realized it was the Army that had made his mechanical ambitions come true.

He clearly remembered the day when he had joined the army. It was his twenty-first birthday. He along with the others had to present themselves to the recruiters. They were not given much information. All they knew was that a war was on and they had to go and defend the country.

He had ended up with the 3rd British Division on the Invasion Day, but had spent his time in the army, servicing Spitfires as part of the Repair and Salvage Unit. The army had recognized his mechanical aptitude and had provided him with an appropriate training. The D-Day invasion forces had included mechanized divisions and maintenance personnel from the 27th Armored Brigade.

He also mused on all that had passed since then. He now owned a farm machinery company in Basingstoke. He truly was a tractor man now. There was so much he could reminisce about, but he hurried himself and dressed for dinner.

***

Barton Smith was somewhat casually dressed and appeared relaxed at the dinner table. He did not quite know what his place should be in dealing with the man who had brought him to Chipping Norton to discuss the case of the disappearance of his son. His own planned vacation was disrupted when his detective agency had received a call from someone representing David Ardmore.

That someone was a business associate named Robert Farnsworth, who had suggested to David Ardmore that a consultation with Barton Smith might be useful.

***

Barton Smith Detective Agency had a reputation for delving into the uncommon which included mysterious disappearance of people, many of which had remained unsolved since the end of the war. It often entailed tracing someone long displaced by the war.

***

At that point, the detective had only sketchy information. Back in London, he was not sure he would even be interested in taking on the case, but he was persuaded to come to Chipping Norton for a meeting with David Ardmore. But why meet in Chipping Norton when they could have had their discussions in London itself, he wondered. Or perhaps Basingstoke would offer a closer venue, he reasoned. Now was the time to find out.

He posed his question indirectly with some acidity in his voice, I do not usually commit to a case before an agreement has been entered into. I am totally in the dark at this point. What have you in mind?

David Ardmore was not expecting this swift reaction from Barton Smith. His response was terse, Now, now, curb your temper. You must know you are being well compensated for your time and expense. My colleague Robert Farnsworth has spoken highly of you and I expect you to be up to the job. You will be provided with all the incentives you will need. I will not mince any words. I will come straight to the point. My son is a relative stranger to me. It is only in the last couple of years that I have laid my eyes on him, first in Basingstoke and then right here in Chipping Norton and it is here where he had disappeared from. You will do well to start your work right here. More later. Let us enjoy our dinner.

Ardmore opened his mouth again, This beef is excellent. There is no better food than the roast beef of Merry England, what?

Then as an afterthought he said, This area of Oxfordshire provides good grazing for cattle. No such thing in Coventry, I suppose. David Ardmore knew Barton Smith had grown up in Coventry.

Smith replied rhetorically, No, the cathedral is all there is there and it makes up for lack of anything else.

David Ardmore had a patronizing attitude toward younger men, as was typical of his generation, without his even realizing it.

At dinner’s end they retired to the lounge for some serious talk.

Without any reference to anything in particular, David Ardmore started talking, There is this question of how all this came about. Mind you, it goes a while back. The war was coming to an end. As hostilities were winding down, following the invasion and encampment of artillery units under air- cover, there were sporadic flare ups. We advanced from France into Belgium from the southern flank. There was a great concentration of enemy forces there that produced an encirclement of the advancing units and a fierce battle ensued. It exacted a heavy toll on both sides. I was among the so-called rear guards and actually came into the tail end of the battle. There was a break in the weather. Warm air had blown in from the south. A feeling of euphoria had descended upon us.

His voice wavered as he said, At the end, we pushed forward without any tactical formation, resulting in detachment and isolation on our side. As we skirted the ruins all around, we built and fixed pontoons and swam part of the way. Our progress over a great distance northeastward was uninterrupted. We did not see even one able-bodied man. In one area, a couple of farmhouses were totally empty and barren. We found ourselves going in different directions in search of shelter.

It was clear now that David Ardmore was struggling to remember the past. Suddenly, words started flowing out of his month without any apparent effort on his part, I soon discovered I was alone in a forest area of Thüringen. A relatively intact house stood in front of me. It was dark and rainy. I scouted my way all around the house and made sure there was no danger waiting for me anywhere. To my surprise, I found a young woman scurrying to hide herself, as I momentarily came upon her. A faint light from a lamp shone dimly on her face as she moved sideways. I saw a curious mix of fear and anger in her eyes. My word! She had the most beautiful eyes I had ever seen.

Barton Smith had listened impatiently, though not without fascination. He now interrupted and asked, Where is all this going to? Is Craig Ardmore in this story somewhere?

All in good time, David Ardmore responded, You must have all the background information for you to be able to solve the mystery. He waited for any reaction from the detective. When none was forthcoming, he continued, The young woman stood transfixed. I assured her I meant no harm. It appeared to me then that she wanted to make the best of the situation. She spoke English fairly well and I understood most of what she said. She indicated that her grandmother was also with her somewhere in the house. Through her long- winding narration I furthermore understood that her father was long gone and had not returned from the war. Her mother had not survived the onslaught from the skies. All of that had happened where they had lived. She did mention the name of the town but the name did not mean anything to me. I would not have remembered it anyway.

There was no response from Barton Smith. He had learned by now not to provide his host with any further opportunity to flare up. His blank expression irritated David Ardmore, Just for your information, they had this house for vacationing and her grandmother, who had lived nearby, had most prudently suggested that the two of them take shelter there, away from the danger and chaos. She herself had coordinated civil defense in the old town till there was nothing more to coordinate.

By now, Barton Smith was visibly exasperated. He retorted, What has all this got to do with Craig’s disappearance? He was right here in Chipping Norton, not in Germany.

David Ardmore replied rather authoritatively, Half of your job will be to gather all the necessary information. The other half will be to extract clues from them. Without the background information I am providing, you will still be as much in the dark as you are now. I am relying on you to ferret out the information you will need to solve the mystery. There was…

But then, one other thing, Barton Smith intervened, why did the young lady engage in chummy conversation, considering the circumstances?

David Ardmore responded firmly, That is a question I had asked myself at that time. I had struggled with it all through the conversation. Don’t forget, I was up to here in war tragedies and I was numb to any rationale. I had no answer to anything that was happening all around me. At that point, in that forest house, I only had a sense of relief and wanted to put my weary head down for a night’s sleep.

David Ardmore appeared drained and spoke haltingly, Strange things happen, not just in fiction, but in real life. I looked at her and was mesmerized by her extraordinarily sympathetic eyes. It was stupendous that it appeared to me that instead of my feeling sorry for her plight, she was projecting her dormant feelings for a battle-weary soldier, just as she might have felt for those on their side. I must have presented a sorry picture of myself and must have appeared vulnerable to her. The better side of her instincts seemed to dominate her actions. She led me inside by her hand. We came upon her grandmother. Shocked but not frightened, she looked at me impassively and assessed the situation immediately. Quite unperturbed, she only raised her eyebrows and went on her way. David Ardmore stopped abruptly and started talking again with a fresh breath, Helga Stein, I had learned the young lady’s name by then, was exactly my age. Her life experience must have been as limited as mine, especially because a conscious part of it was spent in turmoil, in uncertain times. A fleeting ray of hope seemed precious at that moment. I grasped her hand the way a child clings on to its mother’s hand when threatened with separation. I knew I wanted to cling to her and savor the security I felt at that moment. I was no longer a soldier in pursuit of revenge. If I had known that feeling before, I had not paid any attention to it. I was certain it was a feeling I had never experienced before. I must have transmitted that feeling to Helga through my touch. She let lose all the emotions she had bottled up and put her head down on my shoulder. We were not enemies anymore.

The long dramatic narration, interspersed with pauses, seemed to intrigue Barton Smith. He responded only with the words, Please continue. I need to know more.

Ardmore eagerly obliged, We slept that night in each other’s arms in blissful consciousness in a room Helga called her own, in utter defiance, in the face of a feeling of so much loss. I must have been in a stupor and slept fitfully. I woke up with sounds of sporadic gunfire coming from a distance. I knew they were finally here and the area was being overrun. I knew it was time for me to leave. I worried about the safety of Helga and her grandmother, but I also knew that the house was so isolated and hidden, it would not be in direct line of gunfire. Then I wondered if I would ever see Helga again, poor demented soul! May be I could write to her. I needed her address. I could not imagine that the house would have any kind of mailing address. So I left my address in Chipping Norton with Helga and she promised she would get in touch with me wherever she would be.

What happened then? asked the sleepy detective.

I plodded along mechanically. I had no idea how I would rejoin the men I was separated from. Then, by morning’s light, I saw isolated pockets of populations scampering in awe and fear. For them the war was over.

David Ardmore now paused once again. He had realized he had been just going on and on monotonously. The yawn on Barton Smith’s face was unmistakable. It had been a long day! He wondered how much the detective had actually taken in. He decided to postpone the rest to the following day.

The night was dark but the stars shone brightly in the sky and a faint streak of light blazed across it.

As they said goodnight to each other, a night owl somewhere in the dark made its presence known and it sounded ominous.

***

Next morning, the sky brightened to a silvery hue as David Ardmore was out for his morning walk – his daily constitution. He felt contended and wondered if there was anything more pleasant than this on this side of heaven. Yet, he had to think of the situation he was in. A cataclysmic aberration in his mind had beclouded his thinking, of late. He was not sure anymore if he was coherent in his recollections of the past. He started sorting out the events in his mind, as they had happened. He knew he had to be easily understood to avoid undue confusion and questioning by the detective.

Then he recalled, it had been a troubling time for him when he had returned to civilian life in Chipping Norton. His father was no longer there. He had to set out to attend to the business of the farm in faltering steps. He had measured his success by the degree to which he could escape the agony of his memories. The foolish notion that he would hear from Helga had kept chiseling at him.

Thinking back now he realized it has been a long time since then.

***

When Barton Smith joined David Ardmore for breakfast, he acted more like a detective, So am I to understand that your son was born to Helga in Germany? What were the circumstances in which you came to know about it? Did you see her again after you had left her at the forest house? And of course, the question still remains, how did your son end up in Chipping Norton?

Although David Ardmore had prepared himself for questioning by Barton Smith, he still felt fatigued in thinking back to that time. His answers were slow and ponderous, Some six months after I had returned to Chipping Norton, a letter came from Helga in which she informed me in a matter-of-fact way that she was carrying my child. The letter was postmarked in Chemnitz (the name was politicized in the interim under the name ‘Karl Marx Stadt’) in Eastern Germany. She did not give her address. It was of some concern to me that she apparently did not want the matter pursued further. The question in my mind was, why she had informed me of it at all. What compelling feeling made her contact me? This question had kept me thinking of her for years without any letup.

The moment seemed right for Barton Smith to repeat his question, Did you see Helga at any point after this?

No, I did not see her again. This was before the political division of Germany. It was simply not easy to find an individual in the unsettling days of mass movement of people at that time. It was an uncertain time for me too. Farming activities were at a low point both during and after the war. I was making some headway when an opportunity came for me to divest myself of the farm and raise a good amount of capital. It was a lucky coincidence that I was able to buy into a franchised farm equipment dealership and a service shop at about the same time.

From his past experience, the detective knew of the vulnerability of distressed souls. He felt certain the troubled man in front of him was trying to justify his actions and perhaps regretting it now. He had to be certain. He still needed facts and kept asking questions to which the grieving father responded firmly, When the business opportunity came along, I would have to be a damn fool not to have availed myself of it. At the same time, I considered myself a dastardly failure in giving up my father’s farm. While I battled my conscience, I also suffered from a feeling of inadequacy when I had learned of a child of mine who I would probably never know. Did I regret anything in my past? No, it was too late for regret. Regret would be absurd at that point.

All through this time, as David Ardmore spoke, it was clear to Barton Smith that Ardmore was struggling to search through his recollections and was just babbling along with a distinct pain in his tone. His anguish was palpable. There was something very appealing in the way he articulated his feelings and it all sounded genuine.

***

Barton Smith was a hardnosed private investigator. Human sentiments did not mean anything more to him than as a means of connecting cause and effects. His deductive abilities were