WHITEHALL, LONDON
“I think we ought to begin, Miss Mayfield, upon terms of absolute candour.”
The speaker was a thin, sandy-haired man in his middle fifties whose face was starting to show that fraying that is commonly brought about by decades of fine living. He sat upon the business side of a great oak desk in a small but sumptuous office. The view from the window behind him, on the fourth floor of the building, was of the city at its most flagrantly picturesque. He was, at least, in terms of the hierarchies of Westminster, rather a minor figure yet he was surrounded by opulence. His dress, his every mannerism, the languidness of his deportment and the lavishly antique nature of his surroundings – all pointed to one who swam unthinkingly in the waters of power.
“I have granted this audience today strictly as a favour to one who was once something of a mentor of mine.”
The young woman who sat opposite him gave a steady smile of acknowledgement. “I understand that, minister.”
“And how is dear old Woodgrove?”
“Enjoying his retirement,” said Coral.
“Good. That’s very good. And most probably for the best.”
“Did he tell you why I wanted to see you?”
The politician looked down at his desk and to the many papers which were stacked there and began to rifle through them with an air of increasing desperation. There was a studied sort of bemusement to his actions. A kind of pantomimic haplessness which struck Coral as being the height of insincerity.
“I am dreadfully busy… so many calls upon my time… so many good causes, you understand… and my secretaries… are not all they could be…”
Coral watched for as long as she could bear it and then, cutting in firmly: “I came to speak to you about the island.”
At this phrase, the parliamentarian blinked once and said, with preternatural mildness. “And which island would that be?”
Coral mustered all her dignity. “I think you know the one.”
The politician gave a little shrug which Coral Mayfield thought distinctly foolish. “With all due respect, Miss Mayfield, there are many islands. Was it the Isle of Wight you were thinking of? The Isle of Dogs?”
“Please, sir, do not insult my intelligence.”
In response, the politician gave her a smile of undiluted condescension. “Do you have any plans to wed, Miss Mayfield?”
“Whatever makes you ask me that?”
“It’s only that I’m sure a husband could educate you on the matter. He might also be a little easier for me to conduct business with.”
Coral could not help but glare at him. “I have no plans to marry, sir.”
“Oh? Pity.”
“I want one thing from you, in the name of your friendship with the priest.”
The politician winced. “I fear you may already have overstated your case. But, very well, you may make your request.”
“I want the exact location of the island that was operated by the late Dr Moreau. I want its latitude and longitude.”
The politician smiled and leant back in his seat. The polished leather of it let out a sigh as he adjusted his frame. “Then I’m terribly sorry, Miss Mayfield, but I fear I have not the slightest notion of what you’re talking about.”
“Oh but I rather think you do. You remember Moreau, don’t you? Surely? And of what became of him?”
The politician shrugged. “Oh I remember some wild tales in the popular press. I must be frank with you, Miss Mayfield: there are very good reasons why I do not believe very much at all of what I read there.”
“I would have thought you would remember this.”
“I’m sorry, young lady. Truly I am. I wish I could help but, as I say, I’m terribly busy. Now was there anything else or was that your only enquiry?”
His act of flustered charm might have fooled many but it did not sway Coral Mayfield. “Why are you lying?”
“I can assure you, young lady, that I am not. Now I really think you ought to leave. Do give my regards to old Woodgrove and assure him that I did all I could to help his young friend but…” The politician stopped speaking and the smooth burble which fell from his lips ceased. There had been an interruption (he was not a man at all accustomed to being interrupted), one which had come from a most unexpected source.
Tap tap tap. It came from the window behind him.
The politician blinked, glanced at Coral. She only smiled. “Something wrong, minister?”
Tap tap tap. The sound again. Like fingernails on glass.
“Forgive me,” he said. “The oddest noise… I expect it’s a bird… some pigeon or crow…”
The sound again and this time the politician turned in his chair to confront the source of it: something at the window.
When he saw what it was (much to Coral’s amusement) he swore in violent disbelief. A small furred face at the window pane, grinning savagely. The creature tapped again and bared his teeth.
“My son,” Coral said coolly. She stood up, walked around the desk and the astonished minister and opened the window. The creature sprang inside and ran at once towards the politician.
“Play nicely, Arthur,” Coral admonished gently, though she did not sound altogether sincere.
Arthur flung himself up towards the startled minister’s face, fangs out and hissing. The politician screamed, threw his hands around, stumbled backwards and fell to the floor, still with the creature affixed.
“Enough now,” Coral said and Arthur obeyed.
The politician sat up, gasping. “Good God,” he murmured. “It’s true, then. All true.” He gazed in horrified respect at his visitor. “Madam, what is this thing?”
Arthur hissed with a menace which, at least to those who did not know him, seemed altogether genuine.
“He’s not a thing,” Coral said. “Don’t speak of him so. He can understand you, you know.”
Arthur capered towards the minister once again.
“What do you want?” the man said. “For goodness’ sake, what do you people want with me?”
“Just the latitude and longitude of the island of Dr Moreau,” Coral said lightly before adding, with a wink: “And perhaps some money too.”