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  “The papers you showed Markham?”

  “Yes. If it explains your noise level, it’s important.”

  “So that’s what you put the call in about?” John asked, pouring sherry. “Like another?” He held up the whisky.

  “Would, yes. I got through to her, and then Thorne, the fellow who’s running that group. She’s coming over on the next flight.”

  John stopped halfway through pouring. “Well. You must’ve pushed the right buttons.”

  “I know Thorne’s contract monitor.”

  “Oh.” Pause. “Quite.”

  “Well, let’s not bore your wife by talking about business,” Peterson said. “I’d like to see your garden, if I may. I spend most of my time in London or traveling and I must say it’s delightful to see a real one-family home like this.”

  He glanced sideways at her as they got up. A deliberate play for her sympathy, she wondered?

  “Does your wife travel with you?”

  “No, she doesn’t.”

  “No, I suppose she couldn’t, with her business. She must be doing very well with it.”

  “Yes, I believe it’s flourishing. Sarah usually does well with anything she undertakes.” His voice gave nothing away.

  “Do you know his wife, Marjorie?” John asked, puzzled. They were out on the terrace, at the head of the steps to the lawn. The sun was still high.

  “No, not personally, but I know of her. She used to be Lady Sarah Lindsay-Stuart-Buttle, you know.”

  John looked blank.

  “Oh, you wouldn’t know. Anyway, she designs these marvelous little dresses now. Sarah Lindsay. You don’t have any children, do you, Mr. Peterson?”

  “No, I don’t.

  They walked across the lawn. Somewhere off to the right a cock crowed.

  “Your chickens?” Peterson asked her.

  “Yes, we keep half a dozen for eggs. Sometimes for eating too, though I hate killing the silly things.”

  “What kind do you raise? Orpingtons or Leghorns, I suppose, if they’re mainly for eggs.”

  She looked at him in surprise. “You know something about hens, then, do you? Yes, we’ve got some Orpingtons. No Leghorns. They’re good layers, but I like the brown-shelled eggs better than white.”

  “Right. And Leghorns are highly strung, too. They tend to cause chaos in a small run, which is what I suppose you have. How about Rhode Island Reds? They lay nice brown eggs.”

  “I’ve got a couple of pullets right now. They haven’t started laying yet.”

  “You’re going to crossbreed, are you? That rooster didn’t sound like a Rhode Island Red.”

  “I’m surprised you know so much about them.”

  He smiled at her. “I know a lot of things that surprise people.”

  She smiled back politely, but tried to keep her eyes cold. She was one woman who was not so easily charmed. The man was despicable, she told herself. He had no interest in her at all. He automatically flirted with her just because she was a woman.

  “Would you care to have dinner with us this evening, Mr. Peterson?” she asked, rather formally.

  “That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Renfrew. Thank you, but I already have a dinner engagement. As a matter of fact,” he added, looking at his watch, “I should probably be going. I’m supposed to meet someone at 7:30 back in Cambridge.”

  “I’m afraid I’m going to have to go back to work this evening, too,” John said.

  “Oh, no,” she protested. “That’s too bad of you.” She was feeling rather tipsy now and in the mood for company. She also felt full of energy, almost twitchy, as if she had drunk too much coffee. “I haven’t seen anything of you for ages and I was going to make a shrimp soufflé for dinner. I absolutely refuse to be left all alone again this evening.”

  “Sounds like a tempting offer. I wouldn’t hesitate for a moment if I were you, John,” Peterson said with another of his insinuating smiles.

  John looked embarrassed at her outburst before a stranger. “Well, all right, if it’s that important, I’ll stay for dinner. I’ll probably have to go in for a couple of hours afterwards.”

  They went back into the house. Peterson put his glass down. “Thank you for the drink. I’ll let you know when I next have to go to California. Mrs. Renfrew, thank you for this pleasant interlude.”

  She let John see him to the door and got herself another drink while they were in the hall. It was rather disappointing that Peterson was not staying to dinner. She might even have enjoyed a mild flirtation with him—although he was, she supposed, a totally unprincipled and unlikable character.

  John came back into the room, rubbing his hands.

  “Well, that gets rid of him. I’m glad he couldn’t stay, aren’t you? What did you think of him?”

  “Reptilian,” she said promptly. “Smooth and slimy. I wouldn’t trust him an inch. Of course, he’s very attractive.”

  “Is he? He looks pretty ordinary to me. I was surprised that you knew all that about his wife. You never mentioned it before.”

  “Oh but heavens, John, it all came back to me while he was here. Don’t you remember? There was that frightful scandal about her and Prince Andrew. Let me see, I was twenty-five, so it must have been 1985. Prince Andrew’s the same age as me and she was—oh, I don’t know—about thirty, I should think. Anyway, I can remember how we all talked about it. Randy Andy, we called him.”

  “I don’t remember it at all.”

  “Oh, but you must. It was in all the papers. Not just the gossip columns, either. Lots of letters about the public expecting higher standards of the Royal Family and all that stuff. And the Queen had Peterson made an ambassador to—well, I don’t remember where, but it was a long way off. Africa.”

  “You mean they were married, then?”

  “Well, of course they were. That was what made it such scandal They’d had a big Society wedding only about a year before that. He wasn’t actually made an ambassador. You know, first secretary or some such post. Yes, we used to think Prince Andrew was rather super. It was quite an, exciting affair. I think the last straw was when they got a bit smashed one evening and he took her back to a room in Buckingham Palace and hung a Do Not Disturb sign on the door, a sign they’d pinched from some hotel. And then she told the reporters, when the story got out, that she’d always wanted to do it in the Palace but the beds were hard and lumpy!”

  “Good heavens, Marjorie!”

  She giggled at his expression. “Well, it is rather funny, when you come to think of it.”

  “She sounds completely irresponsible. It’s almost enough to make me feel sorry for Peterson, although I dare say they deserve each other. I suppose he only stayed with her because she could further his career.”

  “Very probably. I must say I didn’t care for him at all.” Now that she had said it that seemed right. It helped explain some of the odd tension and confusion. He seemed interesting, but perhaps that was due to the three drinks. “Well, I’ll get that soufflé into the oven. Could you set the table, love?”

  “Um, yes,” he murmured absentmindedly, moving across the room. “Thought we could catch the news, too…”

  Marjorie turned back. “News, that’s it. You and Peterson had this funny moment earlier—what were you thinking of?”

  John stopped. “Oh, yes. He had the same look on his face as this afternoon, when he got a telephone call at the lab. It reminded me. I overheard part…”

  He paused, thinking. “Well?” Marjorie said severely. “What about?”

  “The clouds. A report on their composition. And when he sidestepped your question, I knew something was up.”

  “Do you think the news will have anything?”

  “If Peterson’s keeping mum, I doubt it. Still…”

  The children had been watching ITV. John switched it back to BBC 1. Marjorie stood in the doorway, watching. There was only one major news broadcast each day; the rest was entertainment, mostly situation comedies, with the occasional Wester
n and old movie. Few wanted to see anything serious these days.

  “—rioting in London, too, today, though there were no casualties. Cornish protest groups demonstrating in Trafalgar Square became involved in a scuffle with the police. A police spokesman says the group ignored an injunction to clear the streets and let traffic proceed, so the authorities were obliged to dispel the gathering by force and arrest those who resisted. Hugh Caradoc, leader of the Cornish Movement for Independence, claims that the demonstration was an orderly one and that the police attacked without provocation.” The screen showed a wild-eyed man with one fist upraised being dragged away by two policemen. The announcer paused again and looked more cheerful. “Preparations for the Coronation are going forward. The King and Queen visited Westminster Abbey today and were received by the Right Reverend Gerald Hawker, Dean of the Abbey. They remained for a little under an hour.” The familiar facade of Westminster Abbey appeared on the screen and, dwarfed by the portals, a couple emerged, waved briefly to some bystanders and ducked into a waiting limousine with the Royal Standard fluttering over it. “Invitations for the November ceremony have now been sent out to heads of state all over the world. At the Royal Mews, work has started on refurbishing the State coach traditionally used for Coronations. It is to be entirely regilded at an estimated cost of £500,000. Mr. Alan Harmon, M.P. for Huddersfield, said in the House of Commons today that it was ‘an outrageous burden on the British taxpayer.’ A Palace communique today confirmed that fourteen-year-old Prince David is suffering from chickenpox and is in isolation at Gordonstoun School. The heir to the throne is reported to be whiling away his time reading science fiction comic books. And now for the sports news of the day. At the close of play, Kent were all out for 245 in their match against Surrey…”

  Marjorie left the room to prepare the dinner. John Renfrew remained in front of the TV set, waiting for the Yorkshire score. He never had time for sports any more, but he still followed the county cricket matches and the Tests and supported Yorkshire.

  In the kitchen, Marjorie bustled about. She felt jittery. Dull old cricket. Why did he sit there and watch that stuff? He could be helping her or at least talking to her, since he was planning to go out again. She wondered about the wine and decided against it. It was a waste to drink it when she was going to spend the evening alone and she felt lightheaded anyway. She tossed the salad, got out bread and butter. The soufflé was just ready. She went back to the living room. John was still in front of the television.

  “I thought you were going to set the table, then,” she said sharply.

  He looked up vaguely. “Oh, is dinner ready? I’ll do it in just a minute.”

  “No, not in just a minute. The soufflé’s done and won’t wait. Jolly well do it now.”

  She flounced out of the room and he stared after her in surprise. He ambled over to the sideboard and pulled out some forks and mats and put them on the table. Marjorie came back with the soufflé.

  “Do you call that setting the table? Where are the napkins? And the glasses? And call the children, too. I’m going to serve this before it falls.” She sat down at the table.

  “What’s the matter, luv?” he asked innocently.

  “What do you mean, matter? Nothing’s the matter,” she snapped back.

  “You sound cross,” he ventured.

  “Well, it’s jolly irritating. All I ask you to do is set the table and I get everything else ready and then find you haven’t done a thing. I’m fed up with working hard all day and what’s the point of it? I clean the house and we never entertain any more so no one sees it anyway. I make a nice dinner and you just eat and run. I might as well have opened a tin of baked beans for all you’d notice. And I’m sick of spending the evening alone and half the night, for that matter.” She rose to her feet, confronting him.

  “Marjorie, I’m sorry, my dear. I hadn’t realized… Look, I’ll stay home tonight, if you feel that strongly about it. I thought… I mean, I know I’ve neglected you of late but this work means an awful lot to me—it’s vitally important, Marjorie, but I couldn’t do it without knowing you’re there behind me. You’re the most stable element in my life. I don’t tell you so because I take it for granted that you know it. I just count on you. I couldn’t concentrate on my work at all if I knew anything were wrong with you.”

  She smiled wryly. “Now you’re making me feel guilty. I’ve let you down, haven’t I? You want me to keep the home fires burning, be your support system, behind every great man and so on and so forth. Well, mostly I’m happy to do it, but this evening I feel a little selfish. It’s not just your being out all the time. It’s been a long hard day, one thing after another. I had to queue up for hours, they were out of meat everywhere, I can’t get anyone to come and fix the loo for a whole bloody fortnight, and someone broke the lock on the garage today and stole a bunch of tools.”

  “They did? You didn’t tell me.”

  “You gave me no chance. I can never reach you at the bloody lab. And Nicky came home from school in tears because Miss Crenshaw, of all people, has up and gone off to Tristan da Cunha with no notice or anything, and you know how devoted Nicky was to her. I thought the government was going to stop emigration of needed workers. I suppose Miss C. didn’t qualify as needed. Anyway I had to console Nicky. And then you phoned and said you were bringing Peterson home. Honestly, sometimes I feel just like a football for other people to kick around.”

  “Why don’t you take a day off? Go into London shopping? Buy yourself a dress. Go to the theater.”

  “Alone?”

  “You choose the day and I promise I’ll come up in the evening and meet you for a play. How about that? So long as it’s not one of those new-style gloom-and-doom pieces. The world’s in bad enough shape already without that.”

  She laughed, mollified. “Oh, things are not as bad as everyone makes out. The world’s been through worse times. Think of the Black Death. Or the Second World War. We’ll survive all this too. Yes, I think a day in London is a good idea. I haven’t bought any new clothes for ages. Oh, John, I feel a lot better now. And you know, you don’t really have to stay this evening. I know you’re dying to get back to your work.”

  “I’ll stay,” he said firmly. “Tell me more about what was taken from the garage. You know, it’s high time we had an alarm system installed. Do you think it was those squatters up at the old farm?”

  “Oh my God, John,” she wailed suddenly, “look at the soufflé! It’s flat as a pancake!” She sat down heavily and stared at it. Then she started to laugh. Her laughter merged gradually into sobbing. John stood behind her, patting her shoulder awkwardly.

  “Don’t take on so, luv,” he kept saying.

  Finally she dried her eyes and sat up. “Well, I’m not hungry anymore anyway. I don’t want to eat the beastly thing. I’m exhausted. But the kids haven’t had dinner. I suppose I’ll have to get them something.”

  She started to get up, but John pushed her back into her seat. “No, you don’t. I’ll open a tin of soup for them or something. You go off to bed. You look all in. Don’t worry about a thing. I’m staying home this evening and I’ll take care of everything.”

  “Thanks, John, you’re a dear. Yes, I really think I will go to bed.”

  She watched him go into the kitchen and stood up wearily. Then she almost started to laugh again. Just an hour or two ago, she had been feeling starved of sex because John was so seldom home. Now he was home for the evening and she was so tired she could hardly keep her eyes open long enough to get to bed. Bloody marvelous, wasn’t it?

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  SHE APPEARED ON TIME AT THEIR AGREED-UPON meeting place, the low stone wall in front of King’s. Peterson hesitated for only an instant, rummaging for the phrase that would call up her name. Ah, yes, Laura-at-Bowes. “Hope I haven’t kept you waiting,” she said, smoothing her dress with dainty hands.

  He murmured something in automatic reply, struck again by how pretty she was. He noticed wit
h amusement that she was wearing a simple dress that was a copy of one of Sarah’s models. A good copy. It would have fooled almost anyone.

  Laura was impressed with the car, a late model custom-modified for him. She looked wonderingly at the bossed wood and understated dash, yet said nothing. Trying to appear blasé, he judged. Even Sarah, who must have been sophisticated at age five, had exclaimed over the interior. Come to think of it, the only person he could recall who had not been impressed was Renfrew. He wondered what that meant.

  When they entered the restaurant, some miles outside Cambridge, the head waiter apparently recognised him. The other male diners didn’t; it was Laura who drew the stares. Gin-and-tonics, opulent linen napkins, the usual. Laura looked round the room in a way suggesting that she was taking mental notes for her friends. Impressive, he supposed, but stylistically a hodge-podge. Basically an English country inn with touches of French elegance that didn’t fit. The chintz, the large stone fireplace filled now with plants for the summer, the beamed ceiling, the low round oak tables—all were comfortably familiar, solid. The chandeliers and tinted mirrors were wrong. Doubly so for the flatplate TV giving a not-quite-right view of a French courtyard, with distant moving figures in the fields, farmers apparently gathering hay. And the fake Louis XVI half-round side-table with its bowed gilt legs was simply a monstrosity.

  “Frangers!” Laura exclaimed.

  “Yes,” he said.

  She remarked very precisely, “I wonder what the rognons de veau flambé is like? And the cotes d’agneau a l’ail?”

  “The first, probably so-so. They’re big on flaming here. The second, more likely adolescent mutton than real lamb. Your French is quite good.” Might as well get that in. He phrased a longer compliment in French.

  “Sorry, I only speak food.”

  He laughed, pleased to find a touch of wit in her.

  They discussed shiplifting in Bowes & Bowes; Peterson had deflected most of her questions about Council matters. “Why not a guard at the door, searching briefcases?” he asked.