K.J. BACKFORD
THE BLACKMAIL ENIGMA
Prolog.
On his Texas ranch, awakened by the dog barking out at the horse stable and the downstairs noise, Craig headed towards the stairs. Barefoot, he held on to the banister to descend quietly in the gloom. He stopped and listened. The sounds came from their large library. In the hall, through the open door, he saw a flashlight beam on the library floor. He shifted left. In the far corner of the room, against the faint lights coming through the windows, he could see a man’s silhouette bending over the desk. Craig carefully took a step further left and opened the door to the cubby with his shotgun. He slowly entered the room. The man dropped the flashlight, stepped back, and shot at Craig. In the dark, Craig shot back. The man sunk to the floor. Craig turned on the light and stood dumbfounded with the shotgun in his hand.
Have I killed the man?
Craig carefully walked closer and looked down. He bent over and felt for a pulse. Nothing. The man was dead.
Claire, his wife, entered, frightened by the sounds of the shots.
“He’s dead, Claire.”
✧ ✧ ✧
Hanna sat down at the desk and opened her laptop.
For a couple of years now, she had dabbled in a genealogical search of her extended family with roots in Scandinavia. Given her high-octane job demands, she hadn’t had much time to explore. Still, she discovered that a lot of her extended family had scattered around the world since the 1800s.
She brought up the document where she kept her genealogical notes and made a new entry.
A few weeks ago, I finally came across Claire Blake, a lady living on a ranch near Dallas, Texas. Claire descended from Agnes Olsen, the younger sister of Signe, my ancestor. We had a couple of wonderful chats on the phone. I, of course, wanted to know everything Claire had discovered about Signe. And good news! Claire has a letter written by Agnes to a friend about her sister Signe’s adventurous Sea Voyage to South Africa in the 1850s. Claire described the letter on a genealogical blog. That’s how I found her.
Besides a general portrayal of people’s lives during that period, the letter has an interesting tidbit – some gossip about prominent families of Cape Town, as Agnes called it. Among the heads of the families, Lord Alistair Tensbury owned a ship repair company there. I found that interesting because a descendant of the lord, Andrew Tensbury, leads the British Conservative Party in the current UK elections.
Then, that freak, horrible incident occurred at Claire’s ranch. Thankfully, the local district attorney didn’t charge Craig, but the incident probably traumatized the family.
Monday, Day 1
Chapter 1
“After my business meeting, I will be there on Wednesday,” said Hanna, “and we will be on our way to Africa from Stockholm, as you arranged.”
Hanna Arnol, a Silicon Valley company sales exec, was talking to her Swedish Uncle Noah about their upcoming trip to Senegal. She sat at the desk in her home office with the wide-open French doors facing the blooming jasmine in her backyard.
“Finally,” said Uncle Noah, sighing. “I’ve been waiting for this for a long time.”
“I know you have.”
“Oh, and about that Texas tragedy at Blake’s ranch.”
“Yeah. Claire and I haven’t spoken since that happened.”
“There is news about it from England.”
“England?”
“Yes, from the Cornelian Society. Remember Brock Tennyson is on their executive committee? They support the Labour Party.”
Brock Tennyson was her uncle’s old friend in London. When Hanna was young, she and her uncle often visited the Tennyson family in England.
“Yeah. But what does that society have to do with it?”
“The Cornelians had this man, a rabid Labour partisan. He had been looking for Tensbury ancestors on genealogical blogs. You know they are searching for all kinds of things on the Tensburys.”
“Yes, I am sure they are.”
“Well, just as you did, he came across Claire’s description of Agnes’ letter. He figured he must get the letter since it described Cape Town gossip about Alistair Tensbury.”
“Oh, my God! I can see what’s coming.”
“Yes. Without anybody’s knowledge, he took it upon himself to fly to Texas to steal the original. That’s who Craig Blake shot at the ranch.”
“Oh, my God!” repeated Hanna.
“Yes. Stupid and tragic.”
“Did Brock know about him finding Claire’s post?”
“No, nobody at the society knew.”
“How did you hear about this?”
“Brock told me.”
“How did the Texas police trace him to England?”
“They didn’t have to. This guy had all his papers on him. Passport and all.”
“Wow!”
“Yes, the shot he fired at the ranch was probably the first time he ever used the gun. The London police found all kinds of papers related to this trip and the Tensbury family in his flat.”
“Did he have a family?”
“No. No one. A loner. Fits the profile of people who do these types of crazy things.”
She could hear him taking a breath.
“I can’t wait to see you, Hanna,” he said with the tenderness she remembered from the times when she was coming for school holidays from Switzerland.
Poor Uncle Noah. I have neglected him terribly during the past year. Always so busy being busy. I should never have let myself become so occupied and not have time to connect. I should have visited him more often. He is the most important person in my life – my only family.
The trip! He was so insistent. He said I must join him on this trip to Senegal to see what Signe described.
Their ancestor Signe had kept the family-famous diary. It contained an exciting part about traveling down the coast of Africa in the 19th century. Hanna knew she had delayed this trip her uncle had wanted to take for many years. He literally begged her this time – which wasn’t in his nature.
“We have postponed it for so many years. I think it’s time to do this finally,” he had said, and she had relented.
Tuesday, Day 2
Chapter 2
The tall, gangly gentleman climbed into his black Bentley, smiling at his chauffeur, and settled in the plush seat. He was happy his business interests permitted him privileges such as this car. He leaned forward.
“Henry.”
“Yes, My Lord,” said Henry.
Henry’s eyes were glued to the road. It wasn’t a long drive to Westminster, but traffic was always a challenge. He was proud, driving this stately car and never forgot what he felt when he first saw it: Love at first sight.
“Did you see the article in The Times about my son?”
“No, My Lord.”
At a red light, Henry said, “Lord Tensbury, you must be mighty proud of your son.”
“Yes, I am, Henry. If Conservatives form the government, he would be the youngest prime minister in over two hundred years.”
Tensbury had silver-grey hair with a high forehead, and he looked to be in his late 60’s. Soft wrinkles around his mouth signified a cheerful nature. He considered himself a mindful and astute statesman. Sitting in the House of Lords for 12 years, ever since his dad died, had given him a keen sense of the political engine of the UK government. As a hereditary Lord his title could be traced back to the 19th century, and he took pride in that.
He pulled out his phone and opened the BBC app. The front page was about the election and talked about the Tory Platform. Further down, there was an article about his son Andrew’s speech from yesterday.
His eyes scanned the page further. He found a quote from his son.
There is something I want to dispel right here and now. The newspapers write about what they call my ‘aristocratic background.’ They assume that this makes me somehow out of touch with the ordinary people of our country.
I’m the youngest son of Lord Tensbury. My older brother, Samuel, will inherit the title, not I. I studied engineering and later worked in a solicitor’s firm. My origins are similar to yours – those of a man who works hard at what he does and aspires to serve this nation at all times. If elected, I’ll dedicate my every waking hour to fulfilling my responsibilities.
I’m proud of my heritage. My ancestor, Alistair Tensbury, came from humble beginnings. He entered the military as a commissioned officer, and in 1839, distinguished himself during the First Afghan War. In the battle of Ghazni, he took command of his unit after his commanding officer fell. He held back the enemy until reinforcements arrived. He went on to fight many battles during ten distinguished years in the military.
Later, his father-in-law left him some small investments in Africa, where he expanded the business. He built a thriving ship repair company in South Africa. He also became one of the largest exporters of Gum Arabic and other commodities from Senegal to Britain. As a result of his heroic exploits and business contributions, he was recommended for peerage, and Queen Victoria made him a Baron. Since that time, that title has been in my family.
“You know Henry, I never thought Andrew would end up in politics,” said Tensbury, pride dripping off every syllable of his words. “Always good at math and sciences, that boy. I remember, when he was little, he tried to build a functioning helicopter using an erector set. Did you ever play with erector sets when you were a child, Henry?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I still do sometimes, I must confess. At home, I have a desk filled with empire state buildings, a couple of British castles, and even Westminster.” He chuckled to himself. “But don’t tell anyone.”
“My lips are sealed, My Lord. And your older son. How is he doing?”
“Oh, Samuel? He’s teaching law at Oxford and making babies. Can you understand how anyone would have three kids and still one on the way?”
Henry didn’t answer.
They lumbered through the rush hour traffic, and finally, the car stopped. Henry got out and opened the door.
Tensbury rented space in a building on Cowley Street, which he had converted into an office. It suited him well because of its proximity to Westminster. Lords were assigned a desk in Westminster and received a pittance of public funds to employ a researcher or someone for administrative tasks. As a result, many of them, with their business interests, rented offices near the House and paid their own expenses. He had a flat on Maunsel St., not far from his office, so he could spend his working week in London and his weekends with his wife in his Kent ancestorial home.
Tensbury entered the anteroom where his office administrator worked. It was sophisticated yet somewhat modern. His staff was always early, and he could hear voices emanating from the offices down the hallway.
The door to his research assistant, Jack Fernsby, was closed. A fresh tea aroma seeped out from the small eating area off the anteroom.
“Good morning, Sir,” said his extremely efficient office administrator, who had worked here with him for a long time. “There’s an envelope waiting for you in your office. A courier from a new service brought it.”
“Good morning, Susie,” said Tensbury cheerfully. Reading about his son’s interview and the conversation with Henry had buoyed his spirits even higher than his usual upbeat nature.
“And how was your event last night?” a fresh cup of tea in Tensbury’s hand, happily teasing her a bit. She was single, and he and the office knew she had attended the opera last night with a new beau. Miss Reed’s series of gentlemen friends was legendary and a point of amusement in the office.
“Not my type,” answered Miss Reed, blushing.
It was always the same answer, and they had stopped keeping count of her soirees.
One of the business development managers, Chuck, was standing beside her desk, having a cup of tea, listening to the exchange. Chuck and Tensbury gave each other a friendly look.
“Good morning, My Lord,” said Chuck. “If your schedule permits, I would like us to take a look at that deal we are working on a little later today.”
“Right. Let’s do that.”
“This morning, I have an appointment with another potential client. I’m taking Oliver with me. He’s good with numbers.”
“So, a new potential client? Sounds promising. You’ll tell me about it when we meet.”
Tensbury tapped on Jack Fernsby’s door and stepped in. Jack was as much a trusted advisor as he was a parliamentary research assistant. For eight years, time and time again, Jack had proven himself essential with his quick wit and razor-sharp mind.
Jack met Lord Tensbury when Tensbury was visiting soldiers at Queen Elizabeth Hospital in Birmingham. Jack heard that Tensbury was a navy man and had seen some action in the Falklands conflict. For some reason, Jack and Tensbury had struck a bond.
“Soldier, what happened to you?” Tensbury asked, proffering his hand to the reclining dark-haired man with an angular face and somewhat blazing yellow-green eyes, laying on pillows with his leg in bandages.
“My Lord, I’m honored to meet you.” Everyone knew Lord Tensbury would be visiting the ward this morning.
“I took a bullet during a mission in Afghanistan and ended up with enough torn tendons and muscle that I’ll probably never walk without a limp again.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Thank you for your service to our country. What will you do when you get better?”
“I’ve been pondering that, Sir. I can’t return to SAS, so I’ll have to use my other skills. I have a law degree, so I’ll have to join a law firm.” Jack tried to sit up taller in the bed.
Tensbury motioned to Jack and said, “don’t sit up, I will sit down,” and he sat on the chair at Jack’s bed.
“I know that’s an unlikely background for someone like me, Sir.”
“It’s a very interesting background. Know what, give me a call once you’re released.” Lord Tensbury handed Jack his card, “We will chat about it.” The rest was history.
“Good morning, Jack,” said Tensbury.
Jack had two large computer screens on his desk and was typing feverishly.
“Are you working on the coal bill?”
Jack turned from his computer screens. “Good morning, My Lord, I started on it, but I’m still finishing off the environmental control bill, which of course, links to the coal one.”
“Let’s take a look at what you have later this afternoon. I have a meeting with Chuck, but we’ll fit it in.”
With that, Tensbury carefully closed Jack’s door.
Tensbury hated disturbing him. He knew Jack always kept his door closed when he worked. Casually dressed, contrary to others in the office, who always wore business clothes, he walked around in khakis and button-down shirts. He was conscientious and exacting, always addressing every little detail.
That’s what impressed Tensbury the most when he first started working with Jack. Tensbury assigned him more and more responsibilities focused on House of Lords issues. This gave Tensbury added time to concentrate on his company, Arrowstood. It was a challenge keeping the parliamentary commitments on track while also running his business. Luckily, he had good business development people to support him.
A large mahogany desk dominated Tensbury’s office. Behind it stood his comfortable, forest green, leather chair, armrests somewhat worn from the pressure of his long arms. His wife thought it was time to change the chair, but it had become part of him. Tall windows afforded ample light, even during dreary London spring mornings like today. He had had this office for over ten years, and he felt very comfortable there. It was large enough, and a group of his staff could congregate for an impromptu meeting around the small table in the corner. The company used the conference room mainly when they had clients over. He liked to keep his door open so his staff could easily join him when they needed to.
After entering his office, hanging up his coat, and putting his briefcase by his desk, he sat down and opened the envelope brought by the courier.
He pulled out the short note – his face blanched. He read the note again, put his elbows on his desk, head in his hands, and exhaled. Any previous enchantment expired.
“Jack, please come here,” he said, after dialing Jack’s extension.
Jack entered and closed the door.
Tensbury looked up and said, “I’m being blackmailed. I mean, blackmailed, without actually being blackmailed.”
Chapter 3
Tensbury handed Jack the note. “A courier delivered it this morning.”
Jack read it. Then, he read it one more time.
Dear Lord Tensbury,
Recently a person approached me, asking for details about my ancestor’s friendship with Alistair Tensbury. She said she is working on a book on the English and American cotton trade in the mid-1800s. In particular, she asked if I have any documents or notes from that time. I’m assuming she is looking for some damaging information to change your son’s chances in the upcoming election.
For some time now, I have notes, which I found among my ancestor’s old things. It is about an unfortunate event both of our ancestors engaged in. In fact, “unfortunate” doesn’t begin to describe this horrible event. It happened in West Africa in the late 1850s. I have no intention to disclose this information to those who want to tarnish your family reputation.
I have my own family challenges. My young daughter is very ill, and I’m scrambling to find a way to pay for her medical treatment. She has a rare cancer. Unfortunately, my insurance won’t cover it. She is in Germany, where they have the experimental treatment for this cancer. The doctors believe the treatment will save her from becoming disabled for the rest of her life. I know you are a man of some means and may want to help my girl, if nothing else, then in memory of our ancestors’ friendship. This treatment is around $250K. If you don’t think my request is appropriate between people who don’t even know each other, I’ll understand.
If you can help, I need the funds next week. Sorry for the rush. We just found out the timing of the necessary treatment.
If you check your email now, you’ll see a message from me. Please respond within a couple of days.
If your answer is Yes, I would like to meet at 1:30 PM on Wednesday, a week from tomorrow. A good place is the lounge of the DoubleTree by Hilton Hotel London – Westminster. Come alone. I’ll recognize you.
I know this communication is rather sensitive. So, I arranged for a temporary email account, which I’ll dispose of, together with all the messages. Please delete my message and your response on your side.
Please let me know whether you can help me. If you can, when we meet, it will be a good opportunity for me to give you the original papers related to the terrible affair. I’ll be glad to get rid of these notes. I don’t want them in my family. If anyone were to publish this story without the originals, one could easily claim it to be a fabrication.
Thank you.
Jack lifted his eyes.
“Bloody hell!”
Tensbury said nothing.
“So, what are you going to do about this, Sir?”
“No, what are WE going to do about this. I need your help on this one. I need your support thinking this through!” Tensbury’s beseeching voice was unusual for him, different from his usually forceful modulation.
Tensbury felt a sense of desperation of the sort he hadn’t remembered ever experiencing. If someone would release any significant negative information about his son prior to the election, it may sway the outcome. He knew the electorate was that fickle. He loved his son, but this was greater than that. It potentially impacted the future of British politics and thus the direction of the country. Tensbury was fiercely patriotic. The idea that some external force would affect the government of his country was abhorrent to him. Jack’s cool head in times of stress had helped Tensbury out over and over again. There was no one else he could trust with this matter.
“Check your email, Sir. Did he send a message as the note says?”
Tensbury logged into his computer and pulled up his email application.
“I see it. ‘Please answer Yes, or No’ is all it says. Of course, I need to respond, ‘Yes.’ Nothing like this should jeopardize our Party’s victory or Andrew’s election.”
Tensbury saw Jack looking at the email over his shoulder.
“Don’t you think we should try to figure this out before you answer, Sir? We should take a couple of days to try to think this through.”
Tensbury sensed blood draining out of his face, he felt shocked. His usual decisive personage – gone, but he took his hands off the computer keys.
Jack returned to his seat with his cup of tea in his hands. They both sat, each in turn, sipping his tea.
Tensbury’s hand was shaking slightly. Usually, he was quick with prudent recognition of the right course of action. He always kept a clear mind, managing all the legislative bills and their consequences in his head. He thought that of all the years he worked with Jack, he had never been in such a state. He was almost sure Jack would do all he could to help him get out of this mess.
Jack held the note. “It’s interesting how what’s actually an extortion note can be interpreted as totally innocent. But, if you decide not to ‘help,’ this person may become more agreeable with the lady who ‘is working on a book.’ Who would be doing this, and why now?”
“I understand the ‘why now.’ He said so in his note, ‘I’m assuming she’s looking for some negative information to upset your son’s chances in the upcoming election.’ The note gives me till next Wednesday, a week from tomorrow. The election is the day after, on Thursday. But who, is another question. I’m not sure I buy this ‘My young daughter is very ill’ bit.”
Tensbury pressed on his temples. He had a splitting headache.
Jack put down his tea and, surreptitiously, shifted his legs.
“Whoever this is, the person is making sure this note will be seen only by you and that there’s no way to trace it. I’m also fairly sure this person uses one of those email services which doesn’t require the owner’s identity. Just in case, I’ll send the email domain to my friend who knows this subject. The note’s author also arranged that you wouldn’t know the courier, right? It was someone we haven’t seen before. Is that what Ms. Reed said?”
“Yes,” Tensbury switched back to the primary matter of the note. “The time period the note refers to is my ancestor Alistair Tensbury’s time. He’s the one who was bestowed peerage by Queen Victoria in 1859. You know, Jack, I suggested to Andrew to talk about Alistair’s achievements and his roots as an average man. In hindsight, it was a bad idea.”
“Let’s see. I’m sure Labour is looking for dirt on your son. They may know something about your ancestor, but not enough for a good story. With elections this close, I don’t think this extortion event is a fluke. I tend to think Labour is behind this one. Fishing to see if you’ll look into this professed debacle while they watch your moves. Trying to draw you out in some way. I don’t know, Sir, but this game is getting dirtier every time. First, the stupid, tragic shooting in Texas, which was definitely about nothing. Now this note. I wouldn’t put it past Labour to do something like this. I think we need to find the source of this affair before it gets out of control. Just waiting till the specified date and paying out the money doesn’t guarantee that this is the end of it. I suggest we put some effort into finding out what this is all about. Try to stop it, or at least prepare Andrew to address it before it gets out. Soften the blow.”
Jack stopped, took a deep breath, and stared out the window.
Then he turned, his face red, “It makes me angry. The scope of the thing is daunting. If the implied information became known…” He stopped and added, “It’s bad… Also, why is the letter addressed to you and not to Andrew?”
“Whoever wrote it knows that I have the money, and I’m passionate about my son winning. In fact, they might think I could believe that this is a frantic parent who has run out of options. Besides, my son’s campaign is very public. A lot of people are around his headquarters. Someone else, such as his assistant, might see this message.”
“Wait, I just remembered something which may relate to this.”
Tensbury brightened a bit, picked up a note pad on his desk, and handed it to Jack. A note on the pad said ‘Noah Arnol.’ It also had a phone number and a URL.
“So, a couple of days ago, I received a call from a gentleman who has an oceanographic blog. He sounded Scandinavian. He said he had some interesting information about my ancestors. I meant to call him. I think we need to start with Mr. Arnol. Seems strange to receive a call like that out of the blue, before today’s note, don’t you think?”
Tensbury squinted. The sun was rising, and the light from the large window was bothering his eyes.
“Did you look him up online?”
“No. Frankly, yesterday I didn’t think much about this. Now it’s different. I don’t believe in this type of coincidence.”
“Sir, you don’t mind if I check him out right now, do you?”
Tensbury knew that under ordinary circumstances, Jack would have gone to his own office to look into something, but not now. They needed to discuss whatever he could find.
Tensbury shook his head. “Go ahead.”
Jack opened his laptop, which he always carried around in the office.
“Here’s the blog,” said Jack. “It seems to cover 19th century maritime history. And here’s some information on Noah Arnol. He was a professor of Classical History at Stockholm University until he retired. He lives in Djursholm, and it says it’s one of the more affluent suburbs in Stockholm. It looks like he co-wrote some of his research papers on Classical Rome with a man named Dr. Brock Tennyson. I see references going back for many years.”
Tensbury had moved around his desk and was looking at Jack’s screen.
“I know who Brock Tennyson is,” said Tensbury. “He’s part of the Cornelian Society. It’s a group here in London that gives various levels of support to the Labour Party. I think he’s the chair of the executive committee. Saw an article not long ago…”
He returned to his chair.
“Jack, that’s the link,” he said, emphatically, as he sat down. “If the Labour Party is somehow involved in this scheme, they would want to do it at arm’s length. So, it would make sense to go through someone else. Plausible deniability, and so forth. They could be using Arnol as a vehicle to get to me. He calls me, says he has some information for me, tries to draw me out…”
“Not unreasonable, Sir,” Jack said. “However, it might be a bit farfetched. Looks like the man is wealthy. Why would he engage in this sort of thing?”
“Precisely! He doesn’t need the money. Perhaps he roots for the British Labour Party and wants them to stay in power. Sweden leans way left. Maybe he’s helping his friend Tennyson. So, they come up with this idea, then they do some research and set up bait. They know my ancestor had the African business. They concoct this ransom thing just to unsettle me, hoping this, in turn, will put Andrew at a disadvantage.”
“Come to think of it, Sir, I don’t imagine a reputable man like Noah Arnol would get involved in a blackmail scheme. Why would he implicate himself like this? If there isn’t any sick girl, then this is pure extortion. He would go to jail if caught. Doesn’t make sense.”
Tensbury digested what Jack said.
“You are right. Let’s look at it from another angle. Perhaps he has been solicited by Labour to do the research work, but they haven’t involved him directly?” Tensbury paused. “You know, this could also be initiated indirectly by one of the other groups that support Labour.”
“Yes. There are quite a few of them.” Jack nodded.
“That makes much more sense. Could be one of those. One of those groups could have started the political fishing all on their own, waiting to let Labour know if they find a real story. The long-time Labour affiliates will probably not engage in any out of the ordinary activities. But those who are new to the game could. It all depends on who finances one of them, and more importantly, who runs it. Someone inside such an affiliate may have concocted this blackmail scheme.
“Alternatively, if the blackmailer is who that person says he or she is, the ‘she’ who contacted the blackmailer may be from such an affiliate. And let me tell you, this type of entity won’t stop. They’ll keep trying.”
“Sir, it might be a good idea to tell your son to tone down the ancestral narrative. At least while we are waiting for this to play out.”
Tensbury nodded and picked up the phone. He dialed his son’s number. It went to voice mail, and he left a message to return his call.
Tensbury picked up his teacup and put it right back down since it was empty.
He started picking non-existent lint off his trousers. A bad habit he had been trying to quell for years.
“Let’s just sort out the possible scenarios,” said Jack.
“On the one hand, it could be that this is just some poor sod with a sick daughter. He picked you because he has some information that shows something not quite honorable in both your and his ancestors’ past. He knew you would be vulnerable right now before the election. At the same time, coincidentally, a rich man in Sweden, with a hobby in nautical history, finds some interesting data about your ancestors, which he’s excited to share with you.”
Jack got up and started a slow walk from side to side in front of Tensbury desk.
“Or, on the other hand, it’s possible that the Labour Party is involved, fishing, trying to build a negative story about your ancestor. They want to release it right before the election. They need a story that will play against your son’s narrative about Alistair Tensbury and may swing the outcome.” Jack stopped.
“What information do you have about Alistair Tensbury during that period, Sir?”
“As I said earlier, Alistair started out as a military man and did some heroic acts while in the armed forces. Then he built quite a business empire in Africa. This is all public knowledge, you know. Anyone can look it up. But cooking up a story with some event as the note mentions – one needs facts.”
“The Africa business may have gotten them started. Now they just hope that there’s something dreadful during his time in Africa. I know it was a rough and tumble time back then.” Jack took both of their cups, left Tensbury’s office, and returned with fresh tea.
“Let’s just say they have something. What might it be?” asked Jack.
He sat down.
Tensbury noticed that, for the first time in their relationship, Jack had sometimes begun omitting to say ‘Sir’ when addressing him.
It must be because we are now delving into my personal affairs rather than parliamentary things.
Tensbury, exacerbated, “I have no idea, Jack. No idea at all.”
I HOPE YOU ENJOYED THIS EXCERPT!
Thank you so much for reading the first three chapters of The Blackmail Enigma. I can’t wait for you to read the rest of the book and let me know what you think. If you would like to get a copy of the book, either in eBook format, Paperback or Audiobook, here is the link:
