hoping he would not tell her.
There was a short silence. Then a voice - not Rick's - began speaking, and continued to do so at some length, carefully as from a prepared statement.
At one point Jemima did interrupt: 'What?’ The voice continued to speak. Then: 'Who are you?'
A little later she said: 'That's out of the question. Absolutely out of the question,' she repeated firmly, 'whoever you are. And whatever it is you say you've got.'
CHAPTER NINE
A Dangerous Connection
'It may have been successful, Beagle,' Monkey was remarking in his (to Beagle) irritatingly lofty voice. 'But it was extremely dangerous.'
Monkey's suit was the habitual pin-stripe; with the handkerchief in the breast pocket once more white, the first impression was of the respectable city gentleman Monkey presented to the outside world. But Monkey was palpably disturbed by recent events: how could Beagle so blithely ignore orders when orders, correctly given, correctly carried out, were to be the secret of their success? Because of the emotion of this moment, Monkey's simian quality, conveyed by his long curved hairless upper lip, the unduly splayed nostrils, was more in evidence than usual. Twirling his umbrella, Monkey today had, thought Lamb, the air of some heavy and slightly desolate primate.
'Careful planning, my old Monk, careful planning,' replied Beagle easily. 'Careful planning eliminates danger. Chicken here took the photographs. No sweat, no problem. No difficulty. No laughs. No tears. Well, maybe just a few. But I assure you it was totally non-violent. The pistol was a fake or rather it was a true-blue pistol, but unloaded. As used in some lethal drawing-room tragedy. Supplied by Foxy. All by agreement as you might say. A gentleman's agreement.'
'Shouldn't we say a lady's agreement, Beagle?' Chicken as usual sounded earnest; but all the same there was a new ease about her, even an air of happiness. Pussy in contrast looked heavier than usual (like Monkey) and her expression as she gazed downwards at her single plastic shopping-bag was sombre.
'A lady's agreement, indeed, Chick. In more senses than one. So: no sweat, good photos, and now we use them.'
'In fact,' continued Beagle, 'as you know, I've already set it up. Now don't panic, Monko - you agreed' — and as Monkey appeared to be about to speak - 'don't give me a lot of shit about orders, orders correctly carried out and all that shit. I really don't give a fuck for orders, never have, my orders being of course different -' Beagle smiled: but it was demonstrably not a smile intended to rob his words of offence. 'It just happened, right? Right and Innoright. There was I, photographing this lovely lady, clothes on, or most of them, and we get talking. Well, it was natural, wasn't it? We've got a lot in common, so we get friendly.' Beagle winked with meaning, a parody of a lewd wink perhaps, but a lewd wink none the less.
In spite of herself, in spite of everything she had learned about self-esteem from the nice doctor. Lamb felt a violent lurch of jealousy, followed by the kind of spasm which just might turn to depression .
She would not, could not let it do so. Quickly, Lamb cast up counter-images on her mental screen to blot out the pictures already forming there of Beagle and Mirabella Prey, Mirabella's black hair, how very black, how very thick it must be everywhere, even where concealed by the Daily Exclusive, Mirabella and Beagle. Inst ead, Lamb concentrated on other images, in themselves far more horrific but which actually served as mantras to calm her down, restore her to her sense of purpose.
The image of a pet cat called Snowdrop came first; the young white cat with a pink nose and occasional tabby patches which Lamb had loved as a child and which had vanished one day from a London street. Lamb imagined the cat with wires through her nose, and other wires applied strategically to parts of her body; Snowdrop's eyes gazed in silent terror and despair into Lamb's own,
There was a short silence. Then a voice - not Rick's - began speaking, and continued to do so at some length, carefully as from a prepared statement.
At one point Jemima did interrupt: 'What?’ The voice continued to speak. Then: 'Who are you?'
A little later she said: 'That's out of the question. Absolutely out of the question,' she repeated firmly, 'whoever you are. And whatever it is you say you've got.'
CHAPTER NINE
A Dangerous Connection
'It may have been successful, Beagle,' Monkey was remarking in his (to Beagle) irritatingly lofty voice. 'But it was extremely dangerous.'
Monkey's suit was the habitual pin-stripe; with the handkerchief in the breast pocket once more white, the first impression was of the respectable city gentleman Monkey presented to the outside world. But Monkey was palpably disturbed by recent events: how could Beagle so blithely ignore orders when orders, correctly given, correctly carried out, were to be the secret of their success? Because of the emotion of this moment, Monkey's simian quality, conveyed by his long curved hairless upper lip, the unduly splayed nostrils, was more in evidence than usual. Twirling his umbrella, Monkey today had, thought Lamb, the air of some heavy and slightly desolate primate.
'Careful planning, my old Monk, careful planning,' replied Beagle easily. 'Careful planning eliminates danger. Chicken here took the photographs. No sweat, no problem. No difficulty. No laughs. No tears. Well, maybe just a few. But I assure you it was totally non-violent. The pistol was a fake or rather it was a true-blue pistol, but unloaded. As used in some lethal drawing-room tragedy. Supplied by Foxy. All by agreement as you might say. A gentleman's agreement.'
'Shouldn't we say a lady's agreement, Beagle?' Chicken as usual sounded earnest; but all the same there was a new ease about her, even an air of happiness. Pussy in contrast looked heavier than usual (like Monkey) and her expression as she gazed downwards at her single plastic shopping-bag was sombre.
'A lady's agreement, indeed, Chick. In more senses than one. So: no sweat, good photos, and now we use them.'
'In fact,' continued Beagle, 'as you know, I've already set it up. Now don't panic, Monko - you agreed' — and as Monkey appeared to be about to speak - 'don't give me a lot of shit about orders, orders correctly carried out and all that shit. I really don't give a fuck for orders, never have, my orders being of course different -' Beagle smiled: but it was demonstrably not a smile intended to rob his words of offence. 'It just happened, right? Right and Innoright. There was I, photographing this lovely lady, clothes on, or most of them, and we get talking. Well, it was natural, wasn't it? We've got a lot in common, so we get friendly.' Beagle winked with meaning, a parody of a lewd wink perhaps, but a lewd wink none the less.
In spite of herself, in spite of everything she had learned about self-esteem from the nice doctor. Lamb felt a violent lurch of jealousy, followed by the kind of spasm which just might turn to depression .
She would not, could not let it do so. Quickly, Lamb cast up counter-images on her mental screen to blot out the pictures already forming there of Beagle and Mirabella Prey, Mirabella's black hair, how very black, how very thick it must be everywhere, even where concealed by the Daily Exclusive, Mirabella and Beagle. Inst ead, Lamb concentrated on other images, in themselves far more horrific but which actually served as mantras to calm her down, restore her to her sense of purpose.
The image of a pet cat called Snowdrop came first; the young white cat with a pink nose and occasional tabby patches which Lamb had loved as a child and which had vanished one day from a London street. Lamb imagined the cat with wires through her nose, and other wires applied strategically to parts of her body; Snowdrop's eyes gazed in silent terror and despair into Lamb's own,
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