He strolled out of the private dining room and found himself in the foyer. The tall silver-framed mirror told him what Antonia had already pointed out: he looked good in uniform. He twirled an imaginary moustache and looked at his cigar. An authentic Montecristo, eh? Made the Brigadier feel young and dashing, he supposed. Payne didn’t smoke cigars often, but sometimes he did feel like it—after a good meal—when he was ever so slightly tipsy—with a good brandy—always made him think of Kipling—went with the uniform somehow. Shame he couldn’t smoke it here, though. For some reason his thoughts strayed back to the Annigoni portrait of the Queen. It had been painted two years after the Coronation and blended formality with informality, in a manner that was characteristic of the Queen’s style. She wears her Garter robes like a dressing gown, Payne thought. An ordinary woman in an extraordinary role …
Not many people around. Lunch hour drawing to a close, too early for tea. Someone standing beside a potted palm, looking furtive. Same uniform as me, Payne thought languidly. The next moment he blinked. Good lord. One of their chaps. Jesty? Yes. The elusive Captain Jesty. Payne had seen Jesty slip out of the dining room earlier on—he’d had a determined air about him, or so Payne imagined. Payne didn’t know Jesty terribly well, but they were on friendly enough terms, whenever they bumped into each other. Jesty seemed to be spying on someone. He was standing stock still, head thrust forward, face flushed, eyes bulging—
Not exactly the conduct of an officer and a gentleman. The regiment would most certainly take a dim view of it. What was he up to? With his snub nose and round blue eyes that held a malicious glint, Jesty brought to mind an overgrown boy. Short mousy hair and a little moustache that was not in the least becoming. Physiognomy, no doubt, was an inexact science, but Jesty’s face did not invite trust. Jesty had the face of an ageing debauched Puck.
Payne tried to remember what he knew about Jesty. Late forties. Hadn’t risen above the rank of captain. Twice divorced. Or was it three times? Something of a ladies’ man, nay a professional amorist, if gossip was to be believed. An indefatigable pursuer of the fair sex, in fact. That reference earlier on to the ‘usual’. Jesty was reputed to have had affairs with the wives of several of his brother officers. Personally, Payne found it hard to envisage Jesty in the role of an irresistible Don Juan, but then women were funny when it came to that sort of thing. Some women. No accounting for tastes.
What was he doing? He hadn’t moved. He looked riveted by somebody or something. Payne wondered if he could be witnessing one of Jesty’s amorous pursuits …
Feeling a little light-headed, Major Payne tiptoed up to him. He was not sure what he intended to say. Something on the lines of ‘gotcha’ or ‘boo’. Jesty, however, turned round before Payne could make a sound. Jesty didn’t appear particularly startled. He put his forefinger across his lips.
‘Voyeuristic practices are frowned upon at Claridge’s,’ Payne said sternly. ‘Does the honour of the regiment mean so little to you?’
‘Something funny’s going on, Payne. See that couple over there?’ Jesty pointed. ‘The old boy and the girlie?’
‘What about them? You couldn’t possibly be after him, so you must be after her.’
‘Perhaps I am. Any objections?’
‘Are you stalking her?’
‘She did something rather peculiar. I’m trying to work out what she’s up to exactly …’
The young woman had a delicate pale face. Hair pulled back in a severe bun. Late twenties or early thirties, Payne decided. Attractive. Practically no make-up. Simple black dress. Intense. Beautiful, yes, in a rather exclusive kind of way. Her bone structure! A model? Something of the head girl about her—the way she did her hair. Made her appear a trifle forbidding. Shouldn’t do her hair like that. The old boy was probably in his seventies. Face like a lugubrious bloodhound. Querulous expression. Balding. Smart double-breasted blazer and black tie … Her grandfather?
There was a coffee pot on the table in front of them with two cups. Also a glass. No food of any kind. Had they been to a funeral? Or were they going to one? A somewhat desolate air hung about them.
‘Who are they?’ Payne whispered.
‘Her name is Penelope, that’s how the pantaloon addressed her. No idea how they are related. My guess is he is her aged uncle.’
‘May be her aged husband …’
‘Perish the thought! Don’t think she likes him very much.’ Jesty’s eyes narrowed. ‘She’s a looker, isn’t she?’
‘She is, rather. Now, steady on—’
‘You think I am after her virtue?’
‘Aren’t you?’
‘I want to stroke her hair … Look at those lips … She’s the kind that puts up a fight … I’d like that … Incidentally, the pantaloon is going to a place called Maybrick Manor.’
‘Maybrick Manor?’
‘Some such name. May have been Maypole Manor. Or Mayflower. Not sure. The acoustics here are awful. Intend to complain to the manager about it.’
‘Hasn’t it occurred to you that perhaps Claridge’s was never meant to accommodate eavesdroppers?’
‘The old boy said something about it not being his fault the ghastly woman wanted to end it all.’
‘What ghastly woman?’
‘No idea … I managed to walk close by their table twice—after I saw what she did. I was curious. Don’t think she noticed me. Didn’t so much as lift her pretty head. Distraite.’
‘What did she do?’
Jesty pointed. ‘See that little box beside the old boy’s cup?’
‘What about it?’
The next moment the young woman signalled to one of the waiters and said in a peremptory voice that was loud enough for them to hear, ‘Could we have the bill, please?’
‘Yes, madam.’
‘Looks like a snuff-box.’ Payne squinted. ‘A silver snuffbox. Seventeenth-century, at a guess.’
The old man spoke peevishly. ‘Penelope, my dear, isn’t it a bit early?’
She glanced at her watch. ‘I don’t think you should make the Master wait. It would be bad manners.’
‘I wouldn’t have minded some more coffee, actually. There’s no need to hurry. The Master said, come whenever you want.’
‘The Master was only being polite.’
‘The Master is always polite.’
Payne frowned. ‘Who is the Master?’
‘A damned fine-looking filly,’ Jesty murmured. ‘I love her voice. I love her throat—’
‘She looks jolly tense. Like a cat on hot bricks.’ Payne stroked his jaw with his forefinger.
‘She’s got a reason to be tense. She did something damned odd.’
‘What did she do?’
Jesty did not answer. They watched the old man pick up the snuff-box and put it into his pocket.
‘What’s inside the box?’ Payne persisted. ‘Not snuff?’
‘Not snuff. It contains a pill, Payne. A capsule, rather. A single capsule. All right. She—’
‘Would you be kind enough to order a cab, please?’ The tall young woman called Penelope was addressing the waiter again. ‘We are rather in a hurry.’
‘We are not, really,’ the old man said.
‘Name of Tradescant—’ She broke off.
‘Take cover,’ Payne whispered. ‘She’s looking our way.’
Drawing back sharply, Jesty said, ‘She saw us. Hell and damnation. Let’s get out of here.’ He pulled Payne by the cuff and the two men beat a rapid retreat in the direction of the private dining room. Awfully undignified, Payne thought. Like schoolboys caught in the act.
‘She blushed … Deep crimson … She looked a picture of guilt,’ Payne said thoughtfully. ‘Penelope Tradescant. It’s the kind of name one remembers.’
‘Tradescant may be only the old boy’s name,’ Jesty pointed out.
‘Is there any reason for her to look guilty? Come on, what did you see? That capsule you mentioned, tell me about it.’
Jesty gave him a sidelong glance. ‘Always hunting after a mystery, aren’t you, Payne? So it’s true what they say about you being a regular Sherlock?’
‘Hate it when people use clichés. One should always strive to be original. Why don’t you say something like—’
‘Ah, there you are, boys, you’ve decided to rejoin our so—so foolish and trifling banquet.’ Major-General Hailsham greeted them with this unlikely quotation from Romeo and Juliet. ‘We’ve been wondering what happened to you. Where did you disappear? What have you been up to?
You look as though you’ve surprised a nymph while bathin’! What? What?’
‘… and then old Wavell asked me if his eye was straight,’ Colonel Speke was saying. ‘It was only then I realized he had a glass eye. Gave me a frightful turn.’
‘Some Napoleon brandy, boys?’ Brigadier Fielding, his face the hue of a tropical sunset, held up a bottle.
‘What did she do?’ Payne asked again.
Jesty looked at him. ‘She swapped the capsules.’