peerin’ into shop windows. An’ whatever you do, don’ t try an’ lose ‘em —that ’s Rule Number One. ‘Cause, when you do need to slip ‘em, it ’s gotta seem like by accident, an ’ all nice an’ slow. An’ I’ ll stage-manage that, there’ s a taxi-driver I know who’ ll fix it … An’ anyway, your job today is to draw ‘em off to let me get off. So you just walk round to the Lady ’s flat for your Sunday lunch like always. An ’ phone me tonight at seven— from a public pay-box. Okay? ’
Not okay. Because now, with the Sunday streets emptied by rain, and the Sunday pubs filled, the temptation to look over his shoulder at every corner was like an itch in his brain. And all the little antique shops, the contents of whose windows had never much interested him before, seemed full of intriguing objects … which he mustn’t stop and look at, just in case someone might think he was trying to be clever. And as there probably wasn’t anyone, that made him feel like a right prick.
But then … if Reg Buller was right …
He decided to concentrate on it, partly to help him to forget that itch and its accompanying incipient paranoia, and partly because Reg Buller usually was right, when it came to such mundane matters. Which cleared the way in turn for the consideration of the more important matters with which Jenny would hit him during her version of Sunday lunch— yuk!
Because Jenny, too, had been right this time—and not in any mundane matter, either: her little shell-like ears (sensitive appendages, always attuned to items of scandal and indiscretion, as sharp as the diamonds which customarily adorned each of them) had picked up a winner this time, like a blip on a high-tech radar screen which registered not so much ‘Friend or Foe?’ as ‘Profit or Loss?’ unfailingly—
‘What about Masson, then?’
‘A turn-up for the book, you mean?’
‘Not a turn-up. I never did believe that story. It was too neat.’
‘Which story? The official one—? Or … ?’
‘Neither of them. But I tell you one thing: David Audley won ’t like it. ’
‘David Audley? You don ’t mean —? ’
‘I don’t mean anything. Except … people who don’t suit his book have a way of being safely written out of it. And Masson was a front runner then … remember?’
‘Yes … But, surely, you don’ t think— ?’
‘Not aloud I don ’t —no! But I think … if I was Audley … I might be remembering the banquet scene in that play the actors don’ t like naming— eh?’
‘You ’re sure you ’ve got it right, Jen —? ’
‘Don ’t be a bore, Ian. Of course I ’ve got it right. I was listening to them. ’
‘To whom? ’
‘To these two men. And don ’t ask me who they were, because I don ’t know —yet. ’
‘They didn ’t introduce themselves to you? ’
‘Now you ’re being thick. They weren ’t talking to me. I overheard them. And the play ’s “Macbeth ”, of course —‘
‘Oh? Not “Hamlet ”, then? ’
‘Not —what? ’
‘You overheard them. But I can ’t think they wouldn ’t have noticed you. Because you ’re quite noticeable, Miss Fielding-ffulke. So presumably you were hiding behind some arras, like Polonius in “Hamlet ”. That ’s all. ’
I see. So now you’re being clever. So at least you’ re awake … Well, for your information, I was partly behind an arras, actually. Or a curtain, to be exact … And Victor Pollard and Nigel Gaitch were regaling me with inane Palace gossip about Charles and Di, which I really didn ’ t want to know, but which they thought was just up my street. So I stopped listening to them … and there must be some sort of acoustic trick just there, because of the alcove there, and the curtain — I don ’ t damn well know. All I know is what I heard. And it ’ s “ Macbeth ” — the one the actors won ’ t ever mention. And the banquet scene, too. And you know what that ’ s about, do you, Ian
Not okay. Because now, with the Sunday streets emptied by rain, and the Sunday pubs filled, the temptation to look over his shoulder at every corner was like an itch in his brain. And all the little antique shops, the contents of whose windows had never much interested him before, seemed full of intriguing objects … which he mustn’t stop and look at, just in case someone might think he was trying to be clever. And as there probably wasn’t anyone, that made him feel like a right prick.
But then … if Reg Buller was right …
He decided to concentrate on it, partly to help him to forget that itch and its accompanying incipient paranoia, and partly because Reg Buller usually was right, when it came to such mundane matters. Which cleared the way in turn for the consideration of the more important matters with which Jenny would hit him during her version of Sunday lunch— yuk!
Because Jenny, too, had been right this time—and not in any mundane matter, either: her little shell-like ears (sensitive appendages, always attuned to items of scandal and indiscretion, as sharp as the diamonds which customarily adorned each of them) had picked up a winner this time, like a blip on a high-tech radar screen which registered not so much ‘Friend or Foe?’ as ‘Profit or Loss?’ unfailingly—
‘What about Masson, then?’
‘A turn-up for the book, you mean?’
‘Not a turn-up. I never did believe that story. It was too neat.’
‘Which story? The official one—? Or … ?’
‘Neither of them. But I tell you one thing: David Audley won ’t like it. ’
‘David Audley? You don ’t mean —? ’
‘I don’t mean anything. Except … people who don’t suit his book have a way of being safely written out of it. And Masson was a front runner then … remember?’
‘Yes … But, surely, you don’ t think— ?’
‘Not aloud I don ’t —no! But I think … if I was Audley … I might be remembering the banquet scene in that play the actors don’ t like naming— eh?’
‘You ’re sure you ’ve got it right, Jen —? ’
‘Don ’t be a bore, Ian. Of course I ’ve got it right. I was listening to them. ’
‘To whom? ’
‘To these two men. And don ’t ask me who they were, because I don ’t know —yet. ’
‘They didn ’t introduce themselves to you? ’
‘Now you ’re being thick. They weren ’t talking to me. I overheard them. And the play ’s “Macbeth ”, of course —‘
‘Oh? Not “Hamlet ”, then? ’
‘Not —what? ’
‘You overheard them. But I can ’t think they wouldn ’t have noticed you. Because you ’re quite noticeable, Miss Fielding-ffulke. So presumably you were hiding behind some arras, like Polonius in “Hamlet ”. That ’s all. ’
I see. So now you’re being clever. So at least you’ re awake … Well, for your information, I was partly behind an arras, actually. Or a curtain, to be exact … And Victor Pollard and Nigel Gaitch were regaling me with inane Palace gossip about Charles and Di, which I really didn ’ t want to know, but which they thought was just up my street. So I stopped listening to them … and there must be some sort of acoustic trick just there, because of the alcove there, and the curtain — I don ’ t damn well know. All I know is what I heard. And it ’ s “ Macbeth ” — the one the actors won ’ t ever mention. And the banquet scene, too. And you know what that ’ s about, do you, Ian
Similar Books
