"Drop it, Marian," he snapped in exasperated dislike, dimly sensing he was punching well above his weight and the effort was wearying.
"God, it's hot in here," he flung at the room and shuffled away.
Her cold stare had been little more than a further attempt to ward off her fears, Peter its unfortunate recipient. She felt a sudden desire to hurry back into the knots and cabals of the reception. Commission civil servants moved as assiduously as the waiters, topping up bonhomie, confidence, complicity, as quickly and certainly as the champagne flutes were refilled. Rogier still remained conspiratorially close to Campbell, beneath the canvas of The Fall of the Rebel Angels, a painting more like Bosch than Bruegel, filled with the energy of tangled limbs, great flying wings and damnation. Butterflies, birds and weird fish represented the metamorphosed damned while God's team flew above them, blowing great trumpets; above Rogier and Campbell too, though they seemed supremely unaware of the fact. Or perhaps they still numbered themselves among the un fallen righteous angels?
They were, however, curiously diminished by the painting above their heads, and she found herself able to breathe more easily. Rogier, especially, as Campbell was distracted from his side by his tour-guide's duties, seemed deflated, even guilty.
She watched Campbell dive into a small sc rum of her colleagues and Commission functionaries with the eagerness of a sportsman. Rogier's glass was refilled and he seemed self-consciously aware of his momentary isolation. She hurried towards him.
Her features must have declared her sudden, invigorated determination, for the tall, slightly stooping, elegantly slim Frenchman flinched from her approach as if she was armed.
"M'sieur Commissaire," she murmured.
"Marian Pyott." She thrust out her hand. He was reluctant to take it; his eyes revealed his anxious knowledge of her.
Nevertheless, he bowed formally.
"Of course, of course one of our most formidable opponents," he rallied.
"A pleasure to welcome you to Brussels on behalf of the Commission." His eyes seemed to seek support from the others in the room.
Marian pounced with: "We have a mutual acquaintance, M'sieur Rogier that is, until recently. Michael Lloyd. We spoke of him over the telephone after his death—"
"Yes, of course. So unfortunate tragic
…"
She felt her body heated with eagerness. She knew she must force the pace.
"I had a word with someone at the Police Judiciaire—" Marian offered.
Would Rogier recognise the lie at once? His eyes narrowed with calculation before adopting a purported concern.
"On the advice of someone in London in security You see, knowing Michael as I did, I just couldn't believe the overdose theory."
The police? I understood that they were satisfied with the cause of death, that it was not suspicious…?" Rogier murmured, stooping close to her face, his eyes darting once more over her shoulder, presumably towards Campbell.
Marian sipped her warm champagne.
"I think I managed to create a little doubt in that quarter."
They will re-open the case?"
"I hope so."
She was fiercely satisfied with his anxiety, the evidence that he was at a loss.
Rogier's features seemed burdened as well as furtive. He probably knew, and had diplomatically filed and forgotten, the cause of Lloyd's death. He remained silent, an actor who had dried on stage.
"Marian-!" It was Campbell, interposing himself like a bodyguard between them, one hand lightly on her shoulder, the other on Rogier's forearm, steadying the man.
"Not cornering the Commissioner, surely?"
Angered at the bluff emptiness of the tone, she snapped: "We were talking of Michael Lloyd, nothing controversial!" Exhilarated at his evident rebuff, she added wildly: "It was absolutely nothing to do with my dangerous theories on the subject of Aero UK, Ben no need to worry!"
She suppressed a shiver of tension. The charged atmosphere between them was like a cone of hot silence. At the edge of the painting, the frogs and fish gaped, tumbling from heaven. Then Campbell's features were lit with pleasure. His hand waved.
"David!" he called like a threat. Rogier's relief was shiny on his high forehead.
Marian turned.
Winterborne had entered the room accompanied by Laxton and the President of the Commission, the three of them trailing a comet-tail of minor functionaries and assorted businessmen.
She swallowed carefully. Winterborne's gaze focused on her. Rogier was whispering to Campbell, whose hand was making denying motions. The Commissioner was being assured she was bluffing. She moved away, smiling.
Winterborne and the President received champagne as reverently as the Host while acolytes seemed magnetically drawn towards their group from every part of the room. The President at once engaged the Chairman of the Select Committee, his hand cupping an elbow, his ear still half-bent to the aide who had identified the man. Henry, the senior Opposition MP was openly amused as their chairman actually blushed at whatever compliments his dignity was being paid. He grinned at Marian.
"We meet again," David murmured.
"You didn't expect me to be here?" she asked.
He raised his glass as if to toast her.
"I knew you'd be here, my little blue-stocking. The art is too good for you to miss."
True."
Campbell was with them, drawing David instantly aside with little pretence at subtlety, whispering urgently. Deliberately, she wandered away towards the napkin-littered glass cases which contained the engravings on loan to the musee from the Bibliotheque Royale. She peered down at The Festival of Fools, her neck tickling with the sense that Campbell was reporting her bluff. She shivered as she moved along the row of cases. Small landscapes, then The Poor Kitchen an dits companion, The Rich Kitchen.
David appropriately rejoined her as she pretended to study The Battle between the Money Banks and the Strongboxes. It suddenly seemed as dramatic as the painting of the angels in combat.
"Ah the perfect allegory for your taste, eh, Squirt?" His tone was warm and she hated the memories it at once evoked.
"You know me, Davey," she responded as innocently as she could.
"And look, a sleeping pedlar being robbed by monkeys — and there, Luxury, and here Justice and Prudence… I had no idea this trip would be so educational!"
"Marian," he sighed, shaking his head. His eyes glanced towards Campbell.
"Always stirring things up, Squirt. Twas ever thus…" His gaze hardened. He snatched at her arm and drew her to his side, huddling them away from seekers and purveyors of influence alike. Gales of laughter at a poor witticism, a mood of enjoyable sycophancy, and the mutual acknowledgement of elites.
"Marian, please," he whispered. She stopped, turning to him.
"What?" Her innocence was pronounced, provocative. His lips narrowed, his eyes flashed.
"For God's sake," he warned without disguise.
"Just stop whatever it is you think you're doing!"
"What am I doing?" I He had pleaded with her like this as a boy, in his better moments. Begged her to desist, to accept, to agree… before he hurt or excluded her. His hand was gripping her arm painfully, like pincers. She drew away, rubbing her arm.
"Will you stop?" he asked. There was the shadow of a plea in his voice.
After a long moment, she shook her head.
"I can't," she said softly, hoarsely. Ms computer, his computer, she heard in her head like the chanting of a mantra.
"I can't, Davey-!" she blurted as if in pain, remembering his childhood cruelty.
He nodded stiffly.
"I didn't think you could. I had to ask." Voices were demanding his presence. As he turned from her, she sensed his well-being at once restored, his awareness of his power seep back. They were adults again. Campbell hovered, waiting to direct his master towards the most necessary handshakes and pleasantries. David's shoulders were set, his expression evidently threatening, by the mirror that was Campbell's face.