Part One

I.

Emma Peel leaned against a wall of snow and took a deep breath. The sound of skates cutting into ice filled the air, as did the puffs of breath from various laughing people circling the frozen pond with various levels of proficiency. Emma relaxed and wiggled cold toes inside her skates. An elegantly clad skater glided toward her and stopped at her side with a spray of ice chips. It was CIA agent Munsey, whom she and John Steed had met in the United States a couple of months ago, during a Hallowe’en weekend.

‘’Come on, Mrs. Peel,’’ he said, grinning. ‘’You’re not tired already.’’

‘’A certain part of my anatomy is quite sore,’’ Emma told him with a laugh. ‘’I’ve fallen down more times than I can count.’’

‘’Not that many times,’’ Munsey protested. ‘’And it’s only because you’re trying to do tricks. Split jumps - they’re not easy to do. I can’t believe this is your first time on ice skates. You’re a natural. ’’

‘’I can go straight ahead without a problem,’’ Emma admitted. ‘’I can go to the left and I can go to the right. But trying to do something with a bit of panache, that’s a killer.’’

‘’ You just need to keep practicing.’’

Emma sighed. She didn’t mind learning new skills, or even new sports. In fact she embraced the challenge more often than not. But she was not really a cold weather aficionado - and when she was out in the cold weather she’d rather be on a pair of skis rocketing down a mountain than going round and round a frozen pond. Hence her attempt to liven up the proceedings by trying the split jumps and pirouettes that she’d seen ice skaters do on the telly. But she wasn’t having much success.

She shook her head decidedly. ‘’I’m through for the day. But don’t let me stop you. Carry on.’’

Munsey twisted around to relax against the wall of snow as well.

‘’It’s nice, this,’’ he said. ‘’Christmas day. People having fun with their new presents. Ooh...that must have hurt.’’

A young girl had tripped over her skates and went sliding along the ice. She got up, brushing snow from her chin with a laugh, and continued on.

‘’What is this Boxing Day, though?’’ Munsey demanded presently. ‘’Is there going to be boxing on television tomorrow?’’

Emma laughed. ‘’Ever heard of the Feast of St. Stephen?’’

‘’Uh, no.’’

‘’He was the first Christian martyr. His feast day was celebrated on December 26 throughout Europe for a long time. It was the custom to open the alms boxes and distribute the contents to the poor.’’

‘’Always nice to give money to the poor one day a year. What did they do for money the rest of the time?’’

‘’Don’t get sociological on me, Munsey,’’ Emma warned him. ‘’Anyway, it soon became common practice for apprentices of tradesmen to take boxes around to their master’s customers to secure tips for their services of the previous year. Hence the name, Boxing Day.’’

‘’I see.’’ said Munsey. His eyes lit up. ‘’I also see someone distributing hot chocolate. Would you like a cup?’’

‘’Yes, please.’’

II.

Emma walked out of the bathroom toweling her hair dry. After she had accomplished this to her satisfaction she wrapped the towel up into a turban and then climbed into the four poster bed. She piled pillows up behind her back, took up her book - a biography of Caroline Herschel - from the nightstand, and began to read.

The telephone rang.

Emma glanced at the clock on the nightstand before she picked up the receiver. Then, ‘’Hello, Steed.’’ she said cheerfully.

‘’Hello, Mrs. Peel. What a pleasure to hear your voice.’’

Emma smiled. Steed sounded exhausted. ‘’Have you been having fun?’’ she queried.

‘’Of course.’’ Steed said sincerely. ‘’There’s nothing quite like celebrating Christmas in a house full of nephews and nieces of a certain age. But their parents are annoyed with me. I guess I’ll have to give them quieter gifts next year.’’

‘’Books, Steed. Books, books, books.’’

‘’That’s the ticket, I’m afraid,’’ Steed said. ‘’Though then, they’d want me to read to them.’’

‘’You’d be a great book reader, Steed. I’m sure you could put all kinds of vocal inflection into your voice. And your accents are marvelous.’’

‘’You flatter me, Mrs. Peel. So...’’ his voice suddenly became very casual. ‘’How’re things going there? Mr. Munsey enjoying his first English Christmas?’’

‘’He seems to be. Chestnuts roasting on an open fire, Christmas goose, Christmas crackers, plum pudding...would you believe he actually thought a plum pudding was made out of plums?’’

‘’Tch, tch, these Americans.’’

Emma laughed throatily. ‘’Yorkshire pudding had him totally bewildered, too. ‘Why do you call it pudding?’’ he kept asking. He was so funny. And we went ice skating today.’’

‘’Remarkable, Mrs. Peel. I didn’t know you could ice skate.’’

Emma shifted her position gingerly on the bed. ‘’I can’t.’’ she said. ‘’Though it wasn’t for lack of trying. So, when will you be arriving?’’

‘’I’ll be leaving here early. If things go as I expect, I’ll be rolling up there about noon.’’

‘’Lovely,’’ said Emma Peel. ‘’You’ll be just in time to help us build a snow man.’’

‘’A snowman?’’ Steed said delightedly. ‘’Am I leaving one house of children only to enter another?’’

‘’Ha, ha,’’ said Emma. ‘’’It’s the annual snowman contest, that’s all. Best designed snowman wins a prize.’’

‘’In that case we must certainly build a snow woman,’’ Steed commented. ‘’Modeled after you. All right, Mrs. Peel, see you tomorrow.’’

‘’Tomorrow, Steed.’’

Emma hung up the receiver with a fond smile, which slowly faded into one of pensiveness. In some ways it was a pity. Steed adored children, and they him. He would have been a terrific father. He had that child-like streak in him. But in his dangerous profession, he walked with death daily (almost as frequently as with women), and he had early on decided he did not want to take the chance of leaving behind dependents with no one to depend on. So he’d had a vasectomy. Had himself ‘fixed,’ as he liked to call it. These trips to his relatives for birthdays and holidays were a source of such joy to him. Where would Steed be now, she wondered, if the War had not turned him into what he was?

She, on the other hand, had never liked children, let alone wanted any of her own. The Christmas season was a time to bundle up against the cold, drink cocoa and relax with a good book in front of a roaring fire, with soft music on the stereo and complete silence everywhere else in the house.....Children were necessary for the future, of course, so it was good for people who actually wanted them to have them. Emma shook her head at that phenomena, and returned to her book.

III.

The manor house at which Emma Peel and Munsey were staying was called Chimneys. It deserved its name - there were enough chimney stacks scattered on top of the two vast wings and the central stories to keep a squadron of sweeps busy for a week. Its owners ran the house as a money making proposition. Over Christmas and Boxing Day families came to enjoy a real English Christmas. At other times of the year the rooms were rented out as meeting places for businesses...and even for politicians.

Munsey was part of a group of Americans who were enjoying the Twelve Nights of Christmas, and Emma was a journalist who was writing an article on the American’s fascination with the Mother Country. Steed, when he arrived, would be God knew what. He always liked to surprise her.

Emma blinked open her eyes and glanced at her bedside clock. Six a.m. She should be going jogging now - with the rest of the Americans. But frozen bars of sunshine were splintering off her pillow. Emma pulled the covers over her head and went back to sleep. Winters did terrible things to her willpower.

Emma woke again at seven. ‘’Bloody middle of the night,’’ she murmured, and rolled out of bed.

‘’Missed you this morning,’’ Munsey commented cheerfully over the breakfast table. ‘’We had a pretty good run. There’s nothing like a good jog with the sun rising in front of you.’’

‘’Oh, well...’’ Emma said vaguely. ‘’You Americans and your jogging. Forty years from now America will be the fittest nation on the planet, I’m sure.’’

Munsey grinned. ‘’I wouldn’t be surprised.’’ He glanced down at her plate, espying the kippers, ‘’Especially when you Brits eat food like that,’’ he mumbled below his breath, and turned his attention determinedly to eggs and bacon.

IV.

The Russian trade delegation arrived at Chimneys that morning in two limousines, shepherded by a gleaming white Volvo bearing the Russian’s British ‘minders’ - the sponsors of the delegation. Seconds afterwards the British trade delegation, in two limousines, pulled up behind them.

At that precise second several men and women, shouting Americanisms and throwing snowballs at each other, came laughingly on the scene stage left and exited stage right, sparing not a glance for the automobiles.

A butler and a rank of liveried footmen came out into the drive. Everyone (except the respective chauffeurs) exited the cars and followed the butler and footmen, now laden with luggage, back into the house.

‘’Why are we here, Sergei?’’ hissed limousine driver (and KGB agent) Piotr Pushkin to his counterpart from the other limousine, Alexis Alexandrevich. ‘’This place is simply crawling with Americans!’’

‘’It is all perfectly innocent,’’ Alexis said calmly. ‘’They are part of some kind of holiday package which brings people over here every year. Celebrating the decadent Christmas holiday. Peace on earth, goodwill toward men.’’

Piotr snickered. ‘’That is what their Christian hymns say, isn’t it? So at variance with their Christian practice.’’

Alexis waved this away. No one practiced what they preached, as far as he was concerned.

The two limousines which had conveyed the British trade delegation drove away. The driver of the white Volvo exited that car, lit a cigarette, and took a deep drag. He gave the Russian drivers a disinterested look and leaned against the bonnet.

Piotr watched him out of the corner of his eye - the man straightened up with a smirk on his face and tossed away the cigarette. Piotr turned and saw a beautiful auburn haired woman following in the wake of the Americans, twiddling with a camera. The British driver trotted after her and took her arm. Piotr was too far away to hear what they were saying, but the meaning was clear. The driver was asking her out on a date, the woman was refusing. From her gesture at the car it was clear she wasn’t interested in a mere chauffeur. He rocked back and forth, hips moving suggestively, and she slapped him. Then with a swirl of her auburn hair she walked away. The Britisher looked after her, meanwhile feeling in his coat pocket for a cigarette. He lit it, then turned and walked back toward the three cars. He must have felt Piotr watching him because he glanced at Piotr...then came up to them.

‘’How’d you like that then?’’ he said in a Cockney accent, blinking heavily lidded eyes at them. ‘’Who did I fight for in the war, that’s what I’d like to know. Me and my mates fighting and dying so them nobs could look down their noses at us.’’

‘’It is the same in Russia, my friend,’’ Piotr told him unsympathetically. ‘’It is the same everywhere.’’

‘’Izzat so?’’ said the Britisher, blinking away smoke. ‘’I wouldn’t think you Bolshies would put up with that. What were you fighting that Revolution for, eh?’’

Piotr glanced at Alexei. ‘’We are not Bolsheviks,’’ Piotr said. ‘’We are Communists.’’

‘’Communists...shmommunists. What were we fighting for but to be able to ask a pretty bit of skirt out on a date and not be told we weren’t good enough for her?’’ He threw the cigarette away. ‘’Well, follow me if you want, to the stables in back of the house. That’s where they keep the cars. Then we get to enter through the servant’s door. How’s that for a turnup, eh?’’

Piotr and Alexei shrugged stolidly. They followed the discontented driver in their limousines to the rear of the mansion, where there were plenty of stables converted into garages. Their own suitcases in hand, they followed him into the ‘below stairs’ kitchen, where a tuxedo clad man informed them of their quarters.

Safely in his room, John Steed straightened hunched shoulders and lit another cigarette. So far, so good.

Go to Requiem Part Two.