and plaster. They climbed a narrow spiral staircase before arriving on a landing fronted by three doors. The bouncer rapped on one of them.
‘Here’s where I leave you,’ he said, as it began to swing open, and he headed back toward the front of the building.
‘Come in, Erasmus.’
Erasmus – Rudolf no more – set his shoulders determinedly and stepped forward.
No avoiding it now
, he told himself, feeling a curious sinking feeling as he met the opening
door and the presence behind it.
‘Ma’am.’ Most of the girls downstairs bared their shoulders and wore their fishtail skirts slit in front to reveal their knees, in an exaggerated burlesque of the latest mode
from Nouveau Paris. The woman in the doorway was no girl, and she wore a black crêpe mourning dress. After all, she
was
in mourning. With black hair turning to steel gray at the
temples, blue eyes and a face lined with worries, she might have been a well-preserved sixty or a hard-done-by thirty. The truth, like much else about her, lay in between.
‘Come in. Sit down. Would you care for a sip of brandy?’
‘Don’t mind if I do.’ The room was furnished with a couple of overstuffed and slightly threadbare chairs, surplus to requirements downstairs: a bed in the corner (too narrow by
far to suit the purposes of the house) and a writing desk completed the room. The window opened onto a tiny enclosed square, barely six feet from the side of the next building.
Erasmus waited while his hostess carefully filled two glasses from a brandy decanter sitting atop the bureau, next to a conveniently burning candle – the better to dispose of the
desk’s contents, should they be interrupted – and handed one to him. Then she sat down. ‘How did it go?’ she asked tensely.
He took a cautious sip from his glass. ‘I made the delivery. And the pickup. I have no reason to believe I was under surveillance and every reason not to.’
‘Not that, silly.’ She was fairly humming with impatience. ‘What word from the palace?’
‘Ah.’ He smiled. ‘They seem to be most obsessed with matters of diplomatic significance.’ His smile slipped. ‘Like the way the French have pulled the wool over
their eyes lately. There’s a witch hunt brewing in the Foreign Service, and an arms race in the Ministry of War. The grand strategy of encirclement has not only crumbled, it appears to have
backfired. The situation does not sound good, Margaret.’
‘A war would suit their purposes.’ She nodded to herself, her gaze unfocused. ‘A distraction always serves the rascals in charge.’ She glanced at the side door to the
room. ‘And the . . . device? Did you give it to our source?’
‘I gave it to him and showed him how to use it. All he knows is that it is a very small camera. And he needs to return it to us to have the, ah, film developed. Or downloaded, as Miss
Beckstein’s representative calls it.’
Margaret, Lady Bishop, frowned. ‘I wish I trusted these alien allies of yours, Erasmus. I wish I understood their motives.’
‘What’s to understand?’ Erasmus shrugged. ‘Listen, I’d be dead if not for them and the alibi they supplied. Their gold is pure and their words –’ It was
his turn to frown. ‘I don’t know about the aliens, but I trust
Miriam
. Miss Beckstein is a bit like you, milady. There’s a sincerity to her that I find more than a little
refreshing, although she can be alarmingly open at times. There are strange knots in her thinking – she looks at everything a little oddly. Still, if she doesn’t trust her companions,
the manner of her mistrust tells me a lot. They’re in it for money, pure and simple, Margaret. There’s no motive purer than the pig in search of the truffle, is there? And these pigs
are very canny indeed, hence the bounteous treasury they’ve opened to us. They’re
our
pigs, at least until it comes time to pay the butcher’s bill. As Miss Beckstein
says, money talks – bullshit
‘Here’s where I leave you,’ he said, as it began to swing open, and he headed back toward the front of the building.
‘Come in, Erasmus.’
Erasmus – Rudolf no more – set his shoulders determinedly and stepped forward.
No avoiding it now
, he told himself, feeling a curious sinking feeling as he met the opening
door and the presence behind it.
‘Ma’am.’ Most of the girls downstairs bared their shoulders and wore their fishtail skirts slit in front to reveal their knees, in an exaggerated burlesque of the latest mode
from Nouveau Paris. The woman in the doorway was no girl, and she wore a black crêpe mourning dress. After all, she
was
in mourning. With black hair turning to steel gray at the
temples, blue eyes and a face lined with worries, she might have been a well-preserved sixty or a hard-done-by thirty. The truth, like much else about her, lay in between.
‘Come in. Sit down. Would you care for a sip of brandy?’
‘Don’t mind if I do.’ The room was furnished with a couple of overstuffed and slightly threadbare chairs, surplus to requirements downstairs: a bed in the corner (too narrow by
far to suit the purposes of the house) and a writing desk completed the room. The window opened onto a tiny enclosed square, barely six feet from the side of the next building.
Erasmus waited while his hostess carefully filled two glasses from a brandy decanter sitting atop the bureau, next to a conveniently burning candle – the better to dispose of the
desk’s contents, should they be interrupted – and handed one to him. Then she sat down. ‘How did it go?’ she asked tensely.
He took a cautious sip from his glass. ‘I made the delivery. And the pickup. I have no reason to believe I was under surveillance and every reason not to.’
‘Not that, silly.’ She was fairly humming with impatience. ‘What word from the palace?’
‘Ah.’ He smiled. ‘They seem to be most obsessed with matters of diplomatic significance.’ His smile slipped. ‘Like the way the French have pulled the wool over
their eyes lately. There’s a witch hunt brewing in the Foreign Service, and an arms race in the Ministry of War. The grand strategy of encirclement has not only crumbled, it appears to have
backfired. The situation does not sound good, Margaret.’
‘A war would suit their purposes.’ She nodded to herself, her gaze unfocused. ‘A distraction always serves the rascals in charge.’ She glanced at the side door to the
room. ‘And the . . . device? Did you give it to our source?’
‘I gave it to him and showed him how to use it. All he knows is that it is a very small camera. And he needs to return it to us to have the, ah, film developed. Or downloaded, as Miss
Beckstein’s representative calls it.’
Margaret, Lady Bishop, frowned. ‘I wish I trusted these alien allies of yours, Erasmus. I wish I understood their motives.’
‘What’s to understand?’ Erasmus shrugged. ‘Listen, I’d be dead if not for them and the alibi they supplied. Their gold is pure and their words –’ It was
his turn to frown. ‘I don’t know about the aliens, but I trust
Miriam
. Miss Beckstein is a bit like you, milady. There’s a sincerity to her that I find more than a little
refreshing, although she can be alarmingly open at times. There are strange knots in her thinking – she looks at everything a little oddly. Still, if she doesn’t trust her companions,
the manner of her mistrust tells me a lot. They’re in it for money, pure and simple, Margaret. There’s no motive purer than the pig in search of the truffle, is there? And these pigs
are very canny indeed, hence the bounteous treasury they’ve opened to us. They’re
our
pigs, at least until it comes time to pay the butcher’s bill. As Miss Beckstein
says, money talks – bullshit
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