head.”
“D'you mind telling me where this is leading?”
“Her papers. That's all. Her possessions. Those you collected. We did. Together.”
“What of them?”
Woodrow pulled himself together: I'm your superior, for God's sake, not some bloody petitioner. Let's get our roles straight, shall we?
“I need your assurance, therefore—that any papers she assembled for her causes—in her capacity as your wife herewith diplomatic status —here on HMG'S ticket—will be handed to the Office. It was on that understanding that I took you to your house last Tuesday. We would not have gone there otherwise.”
Justin had not moved. Not a finger, not an eyelid flickered while Woodrow delivered himself of this untruthful afterthought. Backlit, he remained as still as Tessa's naked silhouette.
“The other assurance I'm to obtain from you is self-evident,” Woodrow went on.
“What other assurance?”
“Your own discretion in the matter. Whatever you know of her activities—her agitations—her so-called aid work that spun out of control.”
“Whose control?”
“I simply mean that wherever she ventured into official waters, you are as much bound by the rules of confidentiality as the rest of us. I'm afraid that's an order from on high.” He was trying to make a joke of it but neither of them smiled. “Pellegrin's order.”
And you're in good heart, are you, Sandy? Given that times are trying and you've got her husband in your guest room?
Justin was speaking at last. “Thank you, Sandy. I'm appreciative of all you've done for me. I'm grateful that you enabled me to visit my own house. But now I must collect the rent on Piccadilly, where I seem to own a valuable hotel.”
At which to Woodrow's astonishment he returned to the garden and, resuming his place next to Donohue, took up the game of Monopoly where he had left it.
The British police were absolute lambs. Gloria said so, and if Woodrow didn't agree with her, he didn't show it. Even Porter Coleridge, though parsimonious in describing his dealings with them, declared them “surprisingly civilized considering they were shits.” And the nicest thing about them was-Gloria reported to Elena from her bedroom after she had escorted them to the living room for the start of their second day with Justin—the nicest thing ever was, El, that you really felt they were here to help, not heap more pain and embarrassment onto poor dear Justin's shoulders. Rob the boy was dishy—well, man really, El, he must be twenty-five if a day! A bit of an actor in a nonflashy way, and awfully good at taking off the Nairobi Blue Boys they had to work alongside. And Lesley—who's a woman, darling, N.b., which took everybody by surprise, and shows you how little we know about the real England these days—clothes a little bit last season but, apart from that, well, frankly you'd never have guessed she didn't have our sort of education. Not by the voice, of course, because nobody speaks the way they're brought up anymore, they daren't. But totally at home in one's drawing room, very composed and selfassured, and cozy, with a nice warm smile and a bit of early gray in her hair which she very sensibly leaves, and what Sandy calls a decent quiet, so that you don't have to think of things to say all the time when they're having their pit stops and giving poor Justin a rest. The only problem was, Gloria had absolutely no idea what went on between them all, because she could hardly stand in the kitchen all day with her ear glued to the serving hatch, well, certainly not with the servants watching her, well, could she, El?
But if the matter of the discussions between Justin and the two police officers eluded her, Gloria knew even less about their dealings with her husband, for the good reason that he did not tell her they were taking place.
• • •
The opening exchanges between Woodrow and the two officers were courtesy itself. The officers said they understood
“D'you mind telling me where this is leading?”
“Her papers. That's all. Her possessions. Those you collected. We did. Together.”
“What of them?”
Woodrow pulled himself together: I'm your superior, for God's sake, not some bloody petitioner. Let's get our roles straight, shall we?
“I need your assurance, therefore—that any papers she assembled for her causes—in her capacity as your wife herewith diplomatic status —here on HMG'S ticket—will be handed to the Office. It was on that understanding that I took you to your house last Tuesday. We would not have gone there otherwise.”
Justin had not moved. Not a finger, not an eyelid flickered while Woodrow delivered himself of this untruthful afterthought. Backlit, he remained as still as Tessa's naked silhouette.
“The other assurance I'm to obtain from you is self-evident,” Woodrow went on.
“What other assurance?”
“Your own discretion in the matter. Whatever you know of her activities—her agitations—her so-called aid work that spun out of control.”
“Whose control?”
“I simply mean that wherever she ventured into official waters, you are as much bound by the rules of confidentiality as the rest of us. I'm afraid that's an order from on high.” He was trying to make a joke of it but neither of them smiled. “Pellegrin's order.”
And you're in good heart, are you, Sandy? Given that times are trying and you've got her husband in your guest room?
Justin was speaking at last. “Thank you, Sandy. I'm appreciative of all you've done for me. I'm grateful that you enabled me to visit my own house. But now I must collect the rent on Piccadilly, where I seem to own a valuable hotel.”
At which to Woodrow's astonishment he returned to the garden and, resuming his place next to Donohue, took up the game of Monopoly where he had left it.
The British police were absolute lambs. Gloria said so, and if Woodrow didn't agree with her, he didn't show it. Even Porter Coleridge, though parsimonious in describing his dealings with them, declared them “surprisingly civilized considering they were shits.” And the nicest thing about them was-Gloria reported to Elena from her bedroom after she had escorted them to the living room for the start of their second day with Justin—the nicest thing ever was, El, that you really felt they were here to help, not heap more pain and embarrassment onto poor dear Justin's shoulders. Rob the boy was dishy—well, man really, El, he must be twenty-five if a day! A bit of an actor in a nonflashy way, and awfully good at taking off the Nairobi Blue Boys they had to work alongside. And Lesley—who's a woman, darling, N.b., which took everybody by surprise, and shows you how little we know about the real England these days—clothes a little bit last season but, apart from that, well, frankly you'd never have guessed she didn't have our sort of education. Not by the voice, of course, because nobody speaks the way they're brought up anymore, they daren't. But totally at home in one's drawing room, very composed and selfassured, and cozy, with a nice warm smile and a bit of early gray in her hair which she very sensibly leaves, and what Sandy calls a decent quiet, so that you don't have to think of things to say all the time when they're having their pit stops and giving poor Justin a rest. The only problem was, Gloria had absolutely no idea what went on between them all, because she could hardly stand in the kitchen all day with her ear glued to the serving hatch, well, certainly not with the servants watching her, well, could she, El?
But if the matter of the discussions between Justin and the two police officers eluded her, Gloria knew even less about their dealings with her husband, for the good reason that he did not tell her they were taking place.
• • •
The opening exchanges between Woodrow and the two officers were courtesy itself. The officers said they understood
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