No Enemy but Time by Evelyn Anthony Page B

assigned to look after him inside the house. He could mix unobtrusively with their friends and cause no comment. The humbler guardians of politicians patrolled the grounds and watched the roads.
    Just after Christmas, when the January weather was at its worst. Fraser was on his way down from London, suitably escorted. Harvey was staying there for the weekend.
    â€˜Hallo.’ Claire Fraser came to meet him. ‘Come in and have a drink.’
    â€˜Thanks very much. Sorry to have to inflict myself on you again.’
    She had a charming smile. ‘Don’t be silly. We can sleep at night with you in the house. Gin and tonic?’
    â€˜Whiskey and soda, if that’s all right. It’s whiskey weather today.’
    She paused by the table with the bottles and glasses and looked at him. ‘That’s a very Irish way of putting it,’ she said.
    â€˜So’s the rain,’ Michael Harvey countered. ‘Reminds me of Rademon on a Sunday. All the pubs shut and nothing to do but go to church. Do you know the North at all, Mrs Fraser?’
    â€˜No, we never went up there. My father couldn’t stand them. I hope I’m not being tactless.’
    He smiled and took the glass she offered him. ‘Not in the least. My home was in Galway.’
    â€˜Really? We had some cousins down there – the Grahams. Did you know them?’
    â€˜My family did. I spent holidays at home, but went to school over here, and then into the Army. The place is sold now anyway.’ He sipped the drink.
    There was a big log fire, the inevitable Labrador stretched out in front of it, central heating keeping the atmosphere warm; nice expensive furniture and even more expensive country house pictures on the walls. Fraser was a rich man. A hospitable host, full of charm and not jumpy, in spite of the scare. He had done his best to make Harvey feel at home. Harvey was armed at all times, forever primed in case of unexpected noise or movement in the house. Fraser and his wife had shown up extremely well in the circumstances. A lot of people would have been uncomfortable or jittery, having a bodyguard at their elbow.
    Claire was a very good-looking woman, Harvey considered, watching her pour a drink and sit down opposite to him. Good figure, smart clothes, very blonde. He was completely immune to women when he was on a job. After Belfast, he knew what women could do and smile at the same time. The most he conceded was that Claire Fraser was nice and didn’t pester him with silly questions.
    â€˜I haven’t been home since Easter,’ she said. He noticed the word. Home. Keep your eyes open, he’d been told. She has a brother who’s highly suspect. ‘Neil hates going. And now, of course, we can’t.’
    â€˜No,’ he agreed. ‘It wouldn’t be very wise.’
    â€˜I’m not going to ask you if you do,’ Claire said, and smiled.
    â€˜No,’ he said again. ‘I’m glad about that.’
    â€˜I talk to my mother on the phone,’ she remarked. ‘But it’s not the same thing. She’s promised to come over here in the spring. It’s lonely for her since my father died.’
    â€˜Wouldn’t she move over to England?’ He wasn’t really interested in the small talk, but the whiskey was soothing and he could relax till Fraser came in.
    â€˜Good Lord, no,’ Claire said. ‘Mother’s been in Ireland since her first marriage. She’s more Irish than the Irish. She’s seventy and she only stopped hunting last season because she’s got arthritis in her wrist. Do you know Kildare at all?’
    â€˜Not well,’ he said, which wasn’t true. She seemed anxious to talk that night. Previously, she had said very little and her husband kept the conversation going. But then they hadn’t been alone for any time before.
    â€˜My mother was married to James Hamilton,’ she said. ‘They lived at a place