Much earlier that morning, when Nick Heriot went to fetch Colonel Jamieson off the night train, he had been agreeably surprised to find, at last, no agent at the front door; he had left the Dauphine in the drive overnight. On their way back from the station he mentioned this—‘And no wretched agent at the Victoire either, yesterday evening, so Monro’s car is usable again. Fast work, Sir, if I may say so.’
‘Oh, old Jean did do his stuff, did he? Good.’ The Colonel kept silent on his private opinion of Major Monteith and his advice. Then he asked whether Bonnecourt had got to Pamplona? Nick, giggling a little, reported his Mother’s raid on Tardets the previous day, and its outcome; Jamieson was irritated. ‘Well really, what a bore the man is!’
‘Actually, you know, he isn’t really; he’s more of a card. Anyhow he promised Her Ladyship to stay put till you came, and I sent a message—he and I fixed a code—by his sister Pauline at the épicerie to say that you would be here first thing this morning.’
‘Oh, thank you. Well I don’t think I’ll go over immediately—this afternoon will be plenty of time.’ Major Monteith had failed to secure him a sleeper, and after sitting up all night among more pilgrims to Lourdes—the richer ones invade even the firstclass carriages—Philip decided to sleep in, in the bedroom offered by Nick. This twin arranged for him to be called in time for lunch, and promised to drive him round afterwards to collect Colin’s car at the Victoire—then, Philip thought, he would be able to look in on his wife before driving over to see this unknown, tiresome, but apparently so valuable Bonnecourt. He had spoken to London from Paris, and been given a free hand to get the hunter out by whatever means seemed best to him. ‘When he does turn up at P., probably simplest to drive him down to Gib, and have him flown back from there’ Major Hartley said. ‘Especially since you think you can lay on this cover-job for him in the Highlands. Ghillie-ing should be right up his street!’
But the day didn’t work out quite as he planned. First Dick came in to ask about the key of the Larége house, just as he was getting off to sleep; after that he slept, and heard nothing of Nick’s setting out with his parents to the English Church. But rather later old Jeanne, intensely embarrassed, roused him to say that a very ancient Professor had called, and desired most urgently to see him immediately. ‘He will take no denial—I told him that M. le Colonel could not be disturbed, but it was of no use.’
‘What’s his name?’ Philip asked, sleepily and irritably.
‘I think, of some Saint—Professor Bernard, could it have been?’ poor Jeanne said. ‘I am agitated; I cannot recall! But Milord and Miladi are out, and Monsieur Nick also. If M. le Colonel could come to see him?’
Very reluctantly, M. le Colonel got up, pulled on his clothes, and went out to the hall, where Jeanne ushered him into the salon, announcing—‘Le Colonel Jimmison.’
A very old man in a shabby black suit, with grey hair, a grey beard, and thick pebble glasses, got up slowly and carefully, as the old do, out of a chair. As Jeanne retired, shutting the door, he asked—as the nurse had done at the Victoire two nights before—‘C’est bien le Colonel Jimmison?’
‘Yes!’ Philip said sharply. ‘But may I ask who you are, and what the devil you want?’ He was intensely irritated at having been awakened from much-needed sleep to see this doddering old creature.
To his astonishment, the old man burst out into loud laughter. ‘Ah, c’est bien le Colonel Anglais!’ As he spoke he pulled off the pebble-spectacles, the grey wig and beard, revealing a young-middle-aged face, full of intelligence and gaiety. He went forward with his hand held out. ‘Bonnecourt’ he said. ‘I thought to save Monsieur the Colonel a drive to Tardets—my sister Pauline brought me over. But I left a message with my sister Marceline, Mme. Bertrand, to say that I had come here, en cas que. Lady Heriot said that you wished to see me.’
Vexed as he was by this sudden change of the agreed plan, Jamieson’s first reaction was one of admiration for Bonnecourt as an actor: that slow effort to get up out of his chair, the shambling old man’s steps across the room. This man could do anything in the way of impersonation.
‘Yes, I do wish to see you’ he said. ‘I was coming over, as you arranged with Lady Heriot—a little later.’ Jamieson spoke repressively; he was still rather annoyed. ‘But since you are here, we may as well discuss matters at once. Of course you can’t stay in France for the present—de Lassalle’s disappearance has made that impossible.’ Bonnecourt nodded. He expected some questioning from the Englishman about this episode, but none came; the Colonel passed it over as an accomplished fact, earning Bonnecourt’s respect.
‘Now I have a proposition to put to you’ Jamieson went on. ‘As you cannot remain here, I assume that you will want some occupation. If you would still care to play the old game with us, as you did in the past—with what success!—there is always work for someone with your qualifications; will you come and join us again?’
He studied the hunter’s face as he waited for his reply: it showed first emotion, then eagerness.
‘But yes. This could be marvellous! Where should I go?’
‘Your assignments would be settled presently by the office, of course. Immediately you would go to a place in Scotland belonging to cousins of my wife—they need a stalker at once.’
‘A ghillie!’ Bonnecourt interjected—‘and to stalk the red deer! Splendid.’
‘Yes, that would be your apparent work, between jobs abroad. But you would have a house, regular occupation, and a small but certain income—and very pleasant quarters for Madame.’
‘She could come too?’
‘Not with you; we must get you out as fast as we can. But certainly she can join you there later, and Madame Reeder—she is the sister of Mr. Monro—would do everything to make things easy for her in new surroundings.’
‘This forest belongs to Mr. Monnro’s sister?’ the hunter asked, startling Jamieson by his knowledge of Scottish terms—although usually composed mainly of naked hills, the Scots speak of a ‘deer forest’ as they do, more accurately, of a ‘grouse moor’.
‘No—actually it belongs to Monro himself Jamieson replied, amused. ‘But while he is working, his sister and her husband live there, and look after the place.’
‘Tiens! This young Monnro a propriètaire? One would never suspect it—he is so’—the man hesitated for a word—‘modest.’
‘Well never mind about Monro’ Philip said, rather impatiently—his own word for Colin was not modest, but wet. ‘Listen, Bonnecourt—if you take on our job, and you and Madame Bonnecourt go to Glentoran, you will have to make her understand that there will be times when for reasons that you cannot explain to her you will just have to disappear, at short notice, for weeks at a time, when we need you. Can you guarantee this? Are you prepared to make it a bargain?’ Philip was worrying, not unnaturally, at the prospect of some wretched Frenchwoman, stranded in Argyll and suddenly deserted by her husband, going to the local police, or ‘creating’ in some way.
Bonnecourt’s answer, which came without the slightest hesitation, surprised Jamieson as much as it reassured him.
‘Monsieur le Colonel, I see that you do not realise—how should you?—that my poor wife has had long experience of sudden, and unexplained, disappearances on my part! She will be enchantée to know, when we are in Scotland, that they are for, and with, your people—not those others! She has always loved the English—and hated the Communists!’ he added, in a burst of frankness.
‘Good’ Philip said briefly.
‘But—excuse the question—what about my employers in Scotland? Will they accept my sudden disappearances, if they should happen at an inconvenient time? And would my wife receive my salary when I was absent?’
‘Look, Bonnecourt, I’ve told you that Mrs. Reeder is Colin Monro’s sister’ Philip said, this time patiently. Concerned as he was at the moment with trying to combine marriage and the Secret Service himself, he could sympathise with the Frenchman’s anxieties. ‘She knows all about Intelligence, and will understand why you are being sent there, and under what conditions. I must try to arrange with the Office that you are not sent away during the stalking season!’ he added, smiling. ‘And of course your salary will be paid all the year round; it is really an Office responsibility, but the Reeders are very well off, Office or no.’
‘Have the Reeders agreed to this plan?’ Bonnecourt asked.
‘Not yet; they haven’t even been told—no time. It is my wife’s idea—she knows they are short of stalkers at Glentoran, and suggested this as a cover-job for you, at once; in fact they need an extra ghillie now.’
The hunter’s face glowed, suddenly.
‘It is Madame who thought of this solution for us? After all she has been through! She is wonderful.’
Philip was startled by this tribute to Julia, and a little disconcerted.
‘She’s very practical’ he said temperately—‘and she does know the situation at Glentoran backwards; she was partly brought up there—that’s why this plan occurred to her.’ But now Philip himself reverted to the practical aspect.
‘I think I would prefer to have you flown out to Spain’ he said. ‘I gather you rather come and go as you choose across the frontier, but we don’t want any slip-up this time, and the whole place is alerted.’
‘Their alerts will not disturb me!’ Bonnecourt said.
‘I dare say not. But if you agree to work with British Intelligence again’—the hunter nodded—‘at present you are under my orders.’ He spoke firmly. ‘Can you get back to your sister’s house in Tardets, in that dotty disguise of yours? Where is the car that drove you over? Here?’
‘My sister Pauline waits in a small place close by. But where do I meet the plane?’
‘I haven’t settled that yet. I only returned from Paris this morning at a quarter to six, and in fact I was getting some sleep when you came’ Philip said, in a rather chilly tone. He felt that Bonnecourt, valuable as he could be to the Service, was enough of a ‘card’ to require rather repressive measures; it would be no good giving him any rope at all, or he would get completely out of control. ‘I had intended to come over and see you this afternoon’ he said, with intention, ‘at the address where Lady Heriot understood that you were to be found.’
Bonnecourt took the point instantly.
‘I regret. I apologise. I had hoped to save you a journey.’ He paused. ‘Would the Colonel allow me to make a suggestion, in spite of my gaffe in coming here, after my promise to remain at Tardets?’
‘What about?’ Philip asked cautiously.
‘This affair of being flown out. Doubtless the Colonel knows that there is a flying-club at Pau; the members fly small private planes: Éméraudes, Jodels, Piper Cubs and Vagabonds Piper. Nick and Dick have several friends who fly such planes: small two-seaters, with a range of 500 kilometres.’
Philip didn’t know any of this, and was interested; it could be quite useful. A private plane, on a private flight, would be much less conspicuous than a helicopter.
‘Would 500 kilometres get to Spain and back?’ he asked.
‘Easily. This is what I wished to suggest. And there is a place at no great distance from Tardets—but remote, remote, right up in the mountains—where one could land and take off, for which such planes require so little space: the Plateau de Permounat.’
‘I’ll make a note of that’ Philip was saying, when a crunch of tyres on the gravel of the drive outside indicated the arrival of a car—he went to the open window and looked out.
‘That’s the family, coming back from Church’ he said, turning into the room again. To his amusement Bonnecourt was hurriedly adjusting his wig and beard in front of a Venetian mirror—he was having trouble with the beard.
‘Come to my room—you’ll never get that done in time’ Philip said, and led the hunter to his bedroom; as he closed the door after him he heard the click of the lift as it stopped in the hall. ‘Or perhaps you would like to see them?’ he asked.
‘Mon Dieu, no. Miladi would kill me if she knew that I had done this, breaking my promise. Colonel, for the love of God, do not tell her!’ All this time Bonnecourt was arranging his wig and refractory beard in front of the shaving-glass—Jamieson laughed at his dismay.
‘All right. I suppose I can talk to the boys about the Flying-Club, and this place you mentioned?—what was the name, by the way?’ He drew out his tiny note-book, and wrote down ‘Le Plateau de Permounat.’
‘There are other places too’ Bonnecourt said, putting on his pebble glasses; he was satisfied with his beard at last. ‘The Plateau de Barthaz, or the Cirque de Crauste. They are all small “valleys of elevation”, as I believe the scientists call them, with a smooth grass surface, level, affording sufficient space for one of these little planes to land and take off again. But Permounat is especially convenient in the matter of distance, because it is so near both to Tardets and to Berdun.’
‘What is Berdun?’ Jamieson asked. But he never heard the answer, because at that moment there was a knock on the door, and Nick’s voice outside asking—‘Colonel! Have you surfaced yet?’
Bonnecourt shot into the bathroom like a scalded cat.
‘Surfacing—half-dressed’ Jamieson called back. ‘I’ll be with you in about ten minutes. That do?’
‘Perfectly—no hurry.’ Nick’s steps were audible retreating down the passage; Philip opened the bathroom door.
‘He’s gone. How shall you get out?’ he asked Bonnecourt.
‘I descend by the escalier de service, and tell Jeanne that I could not make the lift function’ the hunter said, with a grin; as he spoke he resumed his old man’s attitude, bent his shoulders, and shuffled slowly towards the door. ‘Then I rejoin Pauline.’
‘And you really will stay put this time?’ Jamieson asked. ‘It’s essential, you know; we might even fix this flyout for tomorrow. The sooner you’re out of this country, the better.’
‘I remain where I told Miladi.’ Suddenly he laid a hand on Jamieson’s arm. ‘But one thing I forget—ma voiture! What is to become of it? At present it is in one of the garages here, but unless it is run from time to time, it will be ruined.’
Philip considered. He summoned back into his mind what Colin had told him, and what he had heard in Paris, from Montieth and de Monceau, about de Lassalle’s escape.
‘But surely that’s the car you picked that young O.A.S. man up in, after the accident?’ he said. ‘And drove him off towards Larége? Both the Sureté and the D.B. are firm on that—a Bugatti, isn’t it? Listen, Bonnecourt—that car is completely compromised anyhow; even if we arrange for you to come back eventually, you could never use it again in France.’
‘Could you get it to Scotland for me?’
‘No’ Philip pronounced emphatically. But he was touched, as well as irritated, by the expression on the hunter’s face when he said that. ‘How old is it?’ he asked.
‘Nineteen years!’
‘Yes—that’s an old friend. Well if you work for us for a bit we’ll give you another car; I can’t promise a Bugatti, don’t know if they’re still being made, but how about a Bentley?’
‘Ah, a Bentley would be marvellous! But what becomes of the old one?’
‘Let’s leave that to the twins—they will think of a suitable burial for it.’
‘They could drive it into the Gave!—in a deep place. But I do not want it broken up, or sold to some brute who will murder the engine.’
Philip looked at his watch.
‘I’m sure you can trust them’ he said. ‘Now, hadn’t you better get off to meet your sister? At what time will you reach home?’
‘Let us say 15.30 hours.’
‘Right.’ He watched with admiring satisfaction as Bonnecourt, with his old man’s shuffle, moved to the door and along the corridor to the back stairs.
In the salon he thanked Lady Heriot for putting him up. ‘However now I can return to the Victoire—all my stuff is there, and it is close to the Clinique.’
‘How d’you mean you “can” return?’ Lord Heriot asked. ‘I thought you were there before you went to Paris.’
‘Yes, but then it was all over agents, tailing him; now it’s been de-loused, just like this place’ Nick said.
‘Ah, yes—a comfort, that. Pierre is in much better form today’ Lord Heriot said. ‘Did you arrange that in Paris?’ he asked Jamieson.
‘Friends of mine saw to it’ Philip said.
‘And how is your wife? Did you manage to see her this morning?’ Lady Heriot enquired.
‘I’m ashamed to say I didn’t; I overslept. I must go round the moment after lunch.’ In fact Philip was longing to see Julia, and was planning the afternoon in his head; recalling his doubts in the train up to Paris, he had been speculating which to do first—see Julia, or tackle Nick about getting Bonnecourt flown out?
He took Nick first. After luncheon—during which Lady Heriot informed him that Dick and Luzia were at that moment at Larége, closing up the house—he asked Nick if he could drive him round to the Clinique? But downstairs Jamieson made no move to enter the Dauphine.
‘I want to talk to you for a moment’ he said, as he spoke instinctively moving away from the house across the gravelled sweep, and out onto the wide lawn.
‘Yes?’ Nick asked, following him.
‘Do you or your brother belong to this flying Club here?’
‘You mean Les Ailes Basques? No, we don’t.’
‘But you have friends who do?’
‘Yes.’ Nick was beginning to scent something interesting.
‘Any of them English?’
‘Yes, three are.’
‘That would be best. It’s this business of getting our friend out to Spain. Would any of them know a place called’—he had pulled out his note-book, and looked in it—‘Le Plateau de Permounat?’
‘Well they could check it on the maps; I know it’s fairly close to Tardets.’
‘And do any of their planes have petrol-range enough to fly on into Spain to a place with a name like Verdun, and back?’
‘Oh, you mean Berdun, that old abandoned airfield. Half-a-minute.’ Nick went over to his car, pulled a map out of the pocket, spread it on the bonnet, and studied it. ‘Yes, here we are—no distance from the Jaca—Pamplona road. That would be well within their range.’ He looked at Jamieson with interest. ‘Goodness, Sir, you are up in this district!’
‘I‘m not—this is all Bonnecourt’s idea.’
‘Bonnecourt’s? But you haven’t seen him!’
‘Yes, he came over this morning.’ Philip enjoyed Nick Heriot’s face at this announcement.
‘The man must be mad! Did the servants see him too?’
‘They only saw an old Professor, with white hair and beard, stumbling along; but it was Bonnecourt all right. He’s agreed to come back to work with us again, and to live in Scotland as a stalker between assignments; the one condition he made was that you or your brother should drive his car into the river, so that it shouldn’t be broken up’ Jamieson said, smiling. ‘I promised him that you would.’
‘He’s nuts about that car. In fact he’s nuts altogether!’ Nick exclaimed impatiently. ‘He promised to stay at Tardets.’ He put away the map, and got in.
‘He’s a very good impersonator’ Jamieson said, as they drove off. ‘Well, will you get on to one of your flying friends at once, and try to lay him on for tomorrow or next day?’
‘I’ll try’ Nick said. ‘But most of them are usually in the air on Sundays.’ He pulled up, suddenly, half-way down the drive. ‘We’d better think this out a bit first. I’d rather get Acland—he’s much the best pilot, and you have to be pretty nippy for these tiny landings and take-offs. Let’s have another look at the map’—he took it out again and spread it across the steering-wheel and Jamieson’s knees. ‘Plateau de Permounat; here we are. Yes—good; the main axis runs roughly East—West; well nearly North-East-South-West. That’s all right; those are our prevailing winds. You see on these minute air-strips the planes can only land and take off against the wind—but of course you know that.’
‘What about the other place, Berdun?’
‘Oh, that’s all right in any wind—it used to be a proper airfield. The last time I was there, last year, there were still the red-and-white markers along the main runway, and even a ragged old airsock; quite a lot of bushes beginning to grow up, and the odd goat browsing, but Tim Acland managed all right.’ He started to fold up the map.
‘Just a moment’ Philip said. ‘How long will it take Bonnecourt to get to this pick-up plateau from Tardets?’ He and Nick both bent over the map.
‘On foot, at least six hours’ Nick said.
‘All right—minimum of seven hours notice. That means letting him know in good time. Very well—let’s go on.’
‘Just one thing, Sir. How much can I tell Acland?’
Philip considered. ‘Does he know Bonnecourt by sight?’
‘I’m not sure—he used to do a bit of climbing before he started flying, so he easily might.’
‘Then I think you’ll have to tell him about B., and his past record, and that he’s being got out with official approval. Don’t say why he has to leave, if you can help it. I take it he’s a trustworthy person?’
‘Oh Lord yes. All Aclands are madly pious’ Nick replied cheerfully, starting his engine.
Philip asked to be dropped first at the Victoire—there he got out Colin’s keys, and checked on the Rover; it had not been tampered with, as he half-feared, and started with no trouble. He went in and said he would be wanting his room that night; the patron was having his siesta, but the all-purposes, round-the-clock valet took the message. ‘Since yesterday we no longer have an agent here’ he announced cheerfully. ‘This is well, n’est-cepas?’
Philip drove even the short distance to the clinic, to put a little life into the Rover’s battery. After all these minor delays once again the ‘period of repose’ was over; the old head sage-femme took him straight in to see Julia. His wife lay in bed, calm and beautiful; he was struck, suddenly, by the sense of abundance that she gave: of beauty, calmness, and strength. Beautiful she had always been, and decided, and nonchalant when she chose; but this was something different. Could it be due to this new fulfilment, he wondered?
She asked first about his journey to Paris—presently, when all that had been dealt with—‘I had to give the baby names, and register them’ she pronounced. ‘I hope you’ll like them.’
‘Why did you have to do that while I was away?’
Julia told him about the limit of trois jours francs for registering a birth, and the Mairie closing at noon on Saturdays. ‘Kind old Lord Heriot did it for me, just before they packed up.’
‘What have you called him?’
‘Philip Bernard.’ She watched his face.
‘Bernard isn’t a family name—my Father and Grandfather were both called Robert Philip,’ he said, doubtfully.
‘Yes. But neither of them did much about seeing that this child came into the world at all’ Julia replied, in her slow tones, smiling a little mockingly at her husband. He laughed, at last seizing the point.
‘Yes—I see. Quite right; well done.’
‘I’m so glad you’re pleased. It was torture suddenly having to decide, with you away. How murderously tiresome the loi de France is’ Julia said; but still calmly, passing a considered judgment. Then she asked if Bonnecourt had gone to Pamplona?
‘No! He came over to see me this morning.’
‘Gracious! To the Heriots?’
‘Yes; in disguise!’
‘Oh, what fun. Isn’t he nice?’
‘He may be nice, but he’s going to be a bit of a problem unless he can learn to be more disciplined’ Philip said. He told Julia that the hunter had agreed to go as a stalker to Glentoran, as a cover-job—‘So now you’d better write to Edina, hadn’t you? He may get there quite soon.’
‘How soon?’
‘Well I hope to get him flown out to Pamplona, the day after tomorrow probably—and Colin will drive him straight down to Gib, and have him flown home from there. You’d better write that letter at once, to catch tonight’s post. I shall have to ring Colin too, and tell him; I’d better go back to the Heriots to do that—the telephones here and at the pub are so infernally public.’
‘Well give me my despatch-case’ Julia said. ‘Oh, what about Madame B? Is she going too?’
‘Yes. Not immediately. We can see about her later on.’
‘Well I’d better know when she is going, so that I can warn Edina. The French may be bloody-minded, but they are clean’ Julia stated firmly. ‘Goodbye, dearest—come back and collect my letter, won’t you?’
But no sooner had she started writing than the old sage-femme brought in the infant Philip Bernard to be nursed. ‘Madame writes—this is wrong’ the old woman said. She put the child in position; he began to suck at once, while the old woman looked on.
‘This is well. For a premature, he is a strong infant’ the sagefemme said.
When she had gone out Julia lay in that strange, unique tranquillity induced by nursing a child. This is perhaps the most calming occupation in the world: so everyday, so normal, and yet so evidently necessary that even the stupidest woman can hardly escape a passive satisfaction in it. Julia—less stupid than people sometimes supposed, misled by her expressionless beauty—surrendered completely to this satisfaction.
When the old sage-femme returned she dumped the baby casually down on the bed, and gave Julia back her despatchcase.
But before Julia had finished writing to Edina Reeder at Glentoran announcing Bonnecourt’s arrival as an extra stalker, to be followed later by his wife—‘and as she is French, Mrs. Cameron really must make the cottage at Ach-an-Draine perfectly clean’—a little nurse opened the door and ushered in Dick, weighed down with suitcases; he dropped them, and went out to fetch the rest. Then Luzia came in with Julia’s Burberry and water-proof hat, explaining that she had only noticed these on the hooks by the door when the cases were already in the car.
‘Put them in the cupboard,’ Julia said, as Dick came in with two more cases. ‘How kind of you both.’
‘Do not forget the vinho’ Luzia adjured Dick; grinning, he went out, and returned with his arms full of bottles—several of the sherry they had purchased at Jaca, more of the vin du pays that the twins had bought and bottled for Julia.
‘Luzia says you’re going to the Victoire next week—that miserable place is bone dry, so I thought we’d better bring you down a little sustenance’ the young man said.
‘Thank you. Put them in the cupboard’ Julia repeated. ‘No, wait—leave one bottle of sherry out. Luzia, give me my handbag’ she took a cork-screw out of it. ‘Now would you go and find another glass somewhere. There are two on the washstand—wash them out, Dick, like a dear. I feel like some sherry, after all this child-bearing!’
‘Well, this is a regular tooth-glass party’ Dick said presently, when they were all drinking sherry. ‘Often they’re the best kind.’
Julia made some practical enquiries about what they had done. ‘You left the key at Barraterre’s?’
‘No, because we return tomorrow to make the house clean. But Mme. Barraterre is paid—she sent her felicitations on the birth of the son.’
‘I shouldn’t think the Stansteds would notice whether the house was clean or not’ Julia said, with calm uncharitableness—‘except perhaps the frig.’
‘I cleaned out the frig while Luzia was at Mass’ Dick said proudly—‘I made a wonderful job of it, I assure you.’
‘Also we paid for the milk’ Luzia continued. ‘And while we wait for this good soul to make her reckoning, which takes long, there arrives Madame Bonnecourt—who gives Dick thousands of francs, which she says Nick lent to her husband.’
‘Goodness, has Bonnecourt been back to Larége?’ Julia asked—she just managed to suppress the word ‘too’.
‘No; she said that he sent it. This is a strange being!—it seems that he does as he pleases’ Luzia said, looking amused. While she was speaking Colonel Jamieson came in, ushered by the little nurse—he caught the last words.
‘Who does as he pleases, Condesa?’ he asked. ‘Hullo, Heriot! You must be Dick—just left your brother.’
‘This guide-person at Larége,’ Luzia said—the nurse had not quite closed the door; Jamieson did so himself. ‘We were there today’ Luzia went on, ‘packing.’
‘Did you see him?’ Jamieson asked; after the morning’s performance he felt that Bonnecourt was capable of anything.
‘No, only Madame. But she had heard from him, and he had sent money; for Nick.’
‘For Her Ladyship, you mean really’ Dick said—Jamieson brushed the observation aside.
‘What is she like?’ he asked Luzia with interest.
‘Not young; once pretty, now faded; and I think a nice person’ the girl said. ‘One sees that she is devoted to her husband, and often in anxiety about him. But she keeps her dairy beautifully’ she added—‘this I saw one day.’
Jamieson glanced at his wife, whose despatch-case was on her knees. His one desire now was to get rid of Dick and Luzia, collect Julia’s letter to Glentoran, and post it.
‘How good of you to go up there and pack’ he said courteously to Luzia. ‘Well, I shall be seeing you at dinner—Lady Heriot has been kind enough to invite me. Dick, I believe your Mother hopes you are at Evensong.’
‘Oh Lord, I forgot all about it! Well, it’s too late now.’ But they both took the hint; Luzia kissed Julia, and the pair went off. Philip at last kissed his wife. ‘Is that letter done?’ he asked.
‘Not quite. First I had to feed the child, and then they came.’
‘Well you’d better tell Edina that Mrs. B. is a good dairy-hand’ he said, as Julia opened her case—while she started to write again he rinsed Luzia’s glass out in the basin and helped himself to sherry. He lit a cigarette, and sat quietly, while his wife scribbled away.
‘Do you know yet when he goes?’ Julia asked.
‘No. Not tomorrow; Nick says his good pilot won’t be free till the day after.’
‘Tuesday. How long will it take Colin to drive to Gib?’
‘Well, better allow two days—it could be done in one, I think, but safer to say two.’
‘That brings us to Thursday. Fly home, one day—could B. be sure of getting a flight on the Friday?’
‘Not by any means. Better reckon London on Saturday.’
‘Well we all know about the lack of trains and buses in Scotland on the Sabbath!’ Julia said, sardonically. ‘Even if the Office flew him to Renfrew, he couldn’t get on. I’d better say Monday or Tuesday week, at earliest, for him to reach Glentoran.’ She wrote away—then looked up at her husband.
‘You know, much the most sensible thing would be to have Colin fly home with him, and take him up’ she said. ‘Then they could go on the bus from Glasgow, like anyone else; Colin would know where to get off, and no need for exciting helicopters landing in the Dairy Park, or strange cars dashing up from Machrahanish! If you want Bonnecourt to get to Glentoran unobtrusively, that’s the way to do it.’
‘I think you’re right’ Jamieson said. ‘Of course I’ve only been there once; and arrived, and left, by sea. But this seems a sound plan. I was going to drive over to Pamplona anyhow tomorrow to see Colin and tell him about picking B. up—telephoning from France to Spain is hopeless! But now we can switch cars at the same time. No point in my Bordeaux hire-car being left at Gibraltar indefinitely—I can take it back when I have to go home.’
‘When do you go home?’ Julia asked, putting down her pen.
‘Look, dearest, do get that letter finished—then we’ll discuss plans’ her husband said firmly; obediently, Julia completed her missive to Edina, and licked down the envelope.
‘There’ she said, tossing it across the bed. ‘Now—may I ask some questions?’
‘Yes.’ He went over and kissed her. ‘Bless you!’ He was thinking that if marriage and Intelligence could be made compatible at all, Julia was one of the few women to make them so. ‘Ask away’ he said, sitting on the bed and taking her hand.
‘Well first, when do you have to get back?’
‘In about a fortnight. What a mercy they sent for me to come home and report just at the appropriate moment! But I shall have to return to my Sheiks and finish the job—well really as soon as I conveniently can.’
‘Taking about how long?’
‘No idea.’
‘I see.’ Julia considered. ‘Not conveniently, on any date’ she said. ‘However! I gave Buchan and Mrs. What’s-it weekly cheques up to the end of September, but now I shan’t get back till the middle of November; I’ll write out some more, and you can hand them over when you get home.’
‘Right. What about the nurse?’
‘I was coming to her. You’ll have to ring up her organisation—I think it’s called “Monthly Nurses Ltd.”, but you’ll find it in the big address book on my desk—and find out how much we ought to pay for the cancellation. Then you can send them a cheque, and explain.’
‘I will. What about Nannie Mackenzie? You’ll want her a month sooner, won’t you?’
‘Goodness, so I shall. How clever you are! I hope to God she’ll be free. You’d better ring up Edina and find out about that. Oh yes, and cancel the wretched accoucheur too—he won’t be wanted. How complicated babies can make things, when they’re born out of due time! Dear one, I’m sorry to give you so much bother.’
‘Nothing matters, so long as you and he are all right.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I must go now, or I shall be late for dinner. See you late on Tuesday, or some time Wednesday.’ He bent over the bed and gave her a long embrace. ‘Bless you, my darling.’