Henry St John

Henry St John rose at half past five, as he had done every weekday morning for more than twenty years. He swung his long legs out of the wide bed, the sheets still cool against his skin, and stood. At six foot three he filled the tall Georgian window for a moment, looking out over the dark lawns that rolled down towards the sea. Fairlight Quay lay quiet below the cliff, a scatter of lights along the harbour wall. He turned away and walked barefoot across the polished boards to the adjoining gym.

The room was spare and purposeful: mirrored walls, a heavy rack of free weights, a rowing machine, and a treadmill that faced the same grey view of the Channel. He was fifty-two, yet the body that stepped onto the mat was lean and powerfully built. Broad shoulders tapered to a narrow waist; the muscle across his chest and arms was dense rather than bulky, the result of disciplined years rather than vanity. Black hair, silvered heavily at the temples, was cropped short. His eyes, unusual and intensely amber, met their own reflection without sentiment.

He began with mobility work, then moved to the weights. Squats first, deep and controlled, the bar resting across his shoulders. Bench press followed, then weighted pull-ups, Romanian deadlifts, and a final brutal set of farmer’s carries that left the tendons in his forearms burning. Twenty minutes on the rower finished it, the flywheel hissing steadily while the sky beyond the glass lightened from indigo to pearl. By the time he racked the last plate, his skin shone with sweat and the familiar, welcome ache of effort had settled into his muscles. The routine had become as essential as breathing. Softness crept in only where it was permitted.

A long shower scoured away the salt and heat. He dried himself with a thick white towel, then dressed with the same unhurried precision he brought to everything. The suit was bespoke, deep charcoal, the cloth so finely woven it caught the light only when he moved. The jacket settled across his shoulders without a crease; the waistcoat fastened neatly over a crisp white shirt. A muted burgundy silk tie, secured with a simple platinum tie bar, provided the only suggestion of colour. The trousers broke cleanly over polished black cap-toe Oxfords. Nothing carried an obvious designer logo. It did not need to.

He draped the overcoat over one arm, a beautifully tailored length of the same deep charcoal wool that fell almost to his knees. Exquisitely cut, entirely unremarkable at first glance: the sort of coat worn by a man who valued quality over recognition. Briefcase in hand, he went downstairs.

The breakfast room faced east. Hilda had already laid the table: scrambled eggs, smoked salmon, a pot of strong black coffee. He switched on the television, volume low, and sat. National headlines scrolled past while he ate. He was reaching for the remote, ready to cut the local interest segment as he always did, when a single word snagged his attention.

Amnesiac.

He paused, the remote still raised.

Eric Truman of Clearview SouthEast TV smiled gently across from a young woman seated in a hospital chair. A notebook rested on the journalist’s knee more out of habit than necessity.

“Good morning. I’m Eric Truman with Clearview SouthEast TV and I’m in the beautiful seaside village of Fairlight Quay. Today I’m joined by a young woman who was admitted to St Ephraim’s Hospital several months ago following a serious road traffic collision.”

Henry’s attention settled on the screen.

Eric turned towards the woman.

“Firstly, thank you for agreeing to speak to us.”

She gave a small nod. Light brown hair fell in soft waves past her shoulders. Her eyes, the same quiet shade, remained lowered for a moment before she lifted them.

“Can I ask... how are you feeling today?”

“A little tired.”

“But otherwise?”

“I think... all right.”

Eric smiled encouragingly. Henry watched without expression. Behind his amber eyes, something had begun quietly arranging itself.

“The doctors have told us you’ve made a remarkable physical recovery.”

“I’ve been very lucky.”

“They also tell me that you still haven’t recovered your memory.”

She lowered her eyes again.

“No.”

“Do you remember your name?”

A small shake of the head.

“No.”

“Do you remember where you live?”

“No.”

“Do you remember any family?”

Again the quiet negative.

“I’m sorry.”

“There’s no need to apologise.”

A faint, embarrassed smile crossed her face anyway. Henry took a slow sip of coffee. The smile was genuine, almost apologetic for existing.

Eric continued gently.

“If someone at home recognises you tonight, what would you like to say to them?”

For the first time she hesitated. Her hands, small and pale against the dark fabric of the hospital chair, tightened fractionally.

“I... I don’t know.”

Another apologetic smile.

“I don’t know who I’m meant to be.”

Eric’s expression remained kind. Henry’s expression did not change. Intelligent. Shy. Carefully spoken. Every answer measured before it left her lips. Perhaps most interesting of all... she seemed remarkably willing to accept another person’s lead.

“We’ve also agreed to ask one question in French, just in case anyone watching across the Channel recognises you.”

Eric turned slightly towards her.

“Si quelqu’un vous reconnaît dans le nord de la France, que voudriez-vous lui dire ?”

She blinked once. Then, almost automatically, she replied,

“Contactez la police du Sussex ?”

The final word rose into a question, as though she were checking she had understood correctly. Her accent was soft, unforced.

Eric smiled.

“Oui.”

Silence settled for a moment before the journalist spoke again.

“If anyone watching believes they recognise this young woman, or has any information that could help identify her, please contact Sussex Police using the details on your screen.”

The camera lingered on her face for a second longer. Then the red light died and the studio returned.

Henry switched the television off.

He sat very still, the last of the coffee cooling in its cup. The quiet of the breakfast room pressed in around him.

He set the cup down with a soft click.

“Hilda.”

She appeared in the doorway almost at once: tall, willowy, elegant even in the simple dark dress she favoured for mornings. White hair was drawn back into a neat chignon, her posture still carrying the ghost of the corps de ballet she had left more than thirty years earlier. She had worked for him for more than twenty-five years and knew the cadence of his voice as well as her own.

“I’m going to be out late tonight, so I won’t need dinner.”

Hilda was accustomed to last-minute changes of plan.

“I can leave something ready to heat in the fridge for you?”

“No. It’s all right, Hilda. I’m going to be very late.”

She blinked once, the only outward sign of surprise. In all the years she had kept his house, he had never declined a prepared meal. Something was different today.

“As you wish, Mr St John.”

She withdrew as quietly as she had come.

Henry finished the coffee, collected his briefcase and coat, and went down to the garage. The space was climate-controlled and meticulously ordered. Among the collection, modern performance cars and a handful of carefully maintained classics, sat the Aston Martin DB5 he drove only on days when rain was impossible. Today’s forecast promised light mist later, so he chose instead the DB12 in British Racing Green with tan leather. He settled into the driver’s seat, placed the briefcase and coat on the passenger seat, and instructed the car to call Cooper McNeill.

It took several rings before Cooper answered, his voice thick with sleep.

“Good morning, sir.”

Henry smiled faintly.

“I haven’t woken you, have I?”

A short laugh.

“Yes, sir... but I’d normally be getting up about now anyway.”

Henry suppressed a quiet laugh.

“Get the Elizabeth Churchill file out and meet me at St Ephraim’s Hospital just outside Fairlight Quay as soon as possible.”

“All of the files, sir?”

Cooper’s voice barely contained the horror behind the idea.

Henry considered for a moment.

“No. Just the outline file and the latest correspondence.”