it, he saw a cat racing along the cobbles in pursuit of something. No doubt the rats were everywhere. He stepped across the road and around the bomb crater and stood at the door through which he had passed only a few hours before. The building was no longer smouldering. The frame of the front door remained intact, as did a small portion of the front wall to the right of the door. A brass nameplate remained undamaged. On it were the words “Grand Duchy and Oriental Trading Company Limited”. Merlin took a small notebook out of his jacket top pocket and jotted down the name. He walked through the doorway and picked his way over the splintered floorboards towards the back of the house where he thought he’d seen the men.
“Oi, mate. Better get out of there. This thing could come down at any minute.”
Merlin looked back to see the outline of an ARP warden framed by the front door against the bright sunlight. The image reminded him of a scene in a Western he’d been to see with Alice. “It’s alright. I’m a policeman.”
“Well, being a policeman is not going to stop the roof of this place coming down on you. I suggest you make your way back over here and carefully.”
“I’ll just be a few minutes.”
“Suit yourself. It’s your funeral.” The warden disappeared. Merlin moved forward carefully. Some sunlight was filtering through holes in the walls and the roof, but this had the effect of making the areas of the house not lit by sun even gloomier and harder for his eyes to penetrate. He thought he could see something shining in the corner, but was it just a trick of the light? He took another couple of wary steps.
* * *
The restaurant was tucked away in a narrow street off Trafalgar Square. It had been here for years. Its Georgian owner had arrived on a boat from Batumi the week before Queen Victoria died. He had rapidly married an English girl and fathered three sons, all of whom, with much noisy argument, maintained their father’s establishment today, while he, supposedly retired, brooded over their efforts in a back room. Voronov was a regular. There was not really enough call in London for an exclusively Russian restaurant, let alone a Georgian one, so the chef, the youngest son, Josef, offered a wide range of British and European cuisine on the menu. If you wanted steak and chips or steak and kidney pie, you could get it, provided they had the meat. If you wanted something more continental, you could get that too. For a hard core of regulars, there was, however, a comprehensive Russian menu, with Georgian dishes a speciality.
Voronov was early and was drinking his second lemon vodka of the day while happily browsing the Russian menu. It was a little unadventurous, but he really felt like some traditional soup to start. The Muzhuzhi cold soup made from pork legs, ears and tails was always excellent. He had it on Misha’s rather dubious authority that pork tails were good for the sex drive. Not that he had noticed any particular failings in that area recently. His wife had no grounds for complaint and he still had plenty spare for Alexandra, that perfect specimen of young Russian womanhood he had discovered in Harrods at the beginning of the summer, and indeed for other challenges. That’s what today’s lunch was all about.
* * *
Merlin sat at his desk, removed what he had found in Marylebone from his pocket and placed it in front of him. The object sparkled in the bright sunlight coming through the window. It was a small ingot measuring four inches by two and appeared to be pure gold. Turning it over in his hand he saw that there were different designs engraved on the two larger sides. He reached into a desk drawer and took out his new reading glasses. They didn’t seem to work as well as they did on print and he found the designs a little fuzzy. One engraving appeared to be of a horse and the other, which was a little larger and clearer to him, depicted an eagle wearing a crown.
Sergeant Bridges came
“Oi, mate. Better get out of there. This thing could come down at any minute.”
Merlin looked back to see the outline of an ARP warden framed by the front door against the bright sunlight. The image reminded him of a scene in a Western he’d been to see with Alice. “It’s alright. I’m a policeman.”
“Well, being a policeman is not going to stop the roof of this place coming down on you. I suggest you make your way back over here and carefully.”
“I’ll just be a few minutes.”
“Suit yourself. It’s your funeral.” The warden disappeared. Merlin moved forward carefully. Some sunlight was filtering through holes in the walls and the roof, but this had the effect of making the areas of the house not lit by sun even gloomier and harder for his eyes to penetrate. He thought he could see something shining in the corner, but was it just a trick of the light? He took another couple of wary steps.
* * *
The restaurant was tucked away in a narrow street off Trafalgar Square. It had been here for years. Its Georgian owner had arrived on a boat from Batumi the week before Queen Victoria died. He had rapidly married an English girl and fathered three sons, all of whom, with much noisy argument, maintained their father’s establishment today, while he, supposedly retired, brooded over their efforts in a back room. Voronov was a regular. There was not really enough call in London for an exclusively Russian restaurant, let alone a Georgian one, so the chef, the youngest son, Josef, offered a wide range of British and European cuisine on the menu. If you wanted steak and chips or steak and kidney pie, you could get it, provided they had the meat. If you wanted something more continental, you could get that too. For a hard core of regulars, there was, however, a comprehensive Russian menu, with Georgian dishes a speciality.
Voronov was early and was drinking his second lemon vodka of the day while happily browsing the Russian menu. It was a little unadventurous, but he really felt like some traditional soup to start. The Muzhuzhi cold soup made from pork legs, ears and tails was always excellent. He had it on Misha’s rather dubious authority that pork tails were good for the sex drive. Not that he had noticed any particular failings in that area recently. His wife had no grounds for complaint and he still had plenty spare for Alexandra, that perfect specimen of young Russian womanhood he had discovered in Harrods at the beginning of the summer, and indeed for other challenges. That’s what today’s lunch was all about.
* * *
Merlin sat at his desk, removed what he had found in Marylebone from his pocket and placed it in front of him. The object sparkled in the bright sunlight coming through the window. It was a small ingot measuring four inches by two and appeared to be pure gold. Turning it over in his hand he saw that there were different designs engraved on the two larger sides. He reached into a desk drawer and took out his new reading glasses. They didn’t seem to work as well as they did on print and he found the designs a little fuzzy. One engraving appeared to be of a horse and the other, which was a little larger and clearer to him, depicted an eagle wearing a crown.
Sergeant Bridges came
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