'What will happen at Perfecta now?' asked Pascoe.
'I don't know. It's all in the melting-pot. There'll be changes, I expect, but nothing ever really changes.'
Patrick Aldermann spoke with the confident disinterest of one who knows where the real centre of things lies: And why should he not? Had not life confirmed his judgement at every turn? Some might have called him an opportunist, but opportunity so invariably offered must assume the dimension of fate. There had been no doubt in his mind this lunch-time, for instance, that when he went to Perfecta he would find that Quayle had already assumed the mantle of acting chairman and managing director, and in that capacity had installed himself in Elgood's office. It hadn't even been necessary to find a pretext for getting him to open the safe. A stricken Miss Dominic had already opened it at his behest. And just as inevitably, the plain white envelope which Patrick had picked out and pocketed had contained the original of his Great-Aunt Florence's will. This was no opportunism but destiny! With such assurance of maintaining the true order of things, where for instance had been the risk in wandering into Elgood's cottage as the departing guests crowded the little garden outside to make their goodbyes, pulling down the attic ladder, ascending and depositing the cardboard box with bottle tops slightly loosened into the open cistern? Three minutes. No one had noticed he'd gone. So it had always been. So, he assumed, it would always be. Beyond choice. Beyond morality. Preordained.
He became aware that Pascoe was observing him curiously. And not only Pascoe. His son was standing close behind the policeman, almost invisible in the camouflage of sun-flecks through the breeze-stirred roses.
'Hello, David,' said Aldermann, resuming his pruning. 'What are you up to.'
'Mummy sent me to say it's rude for you to keep Mr Pascoe standing out here so long.'
'And she's right, of course. Thank you, David. Peter, I'm sorry.'
‘It was my idea,' said Pascoe.
'That's no excuse,' said Aldermann, slicing another bloom off its stem with a single economic motion which set the sunlight spilling off the silver blade like alien blood.
'Daddy,' said the boy.
'Yes, David.'
'What is it that you're doing? I mean, I can see what you're doing, but why do you do it?'
'Well,' said Aldermann with his knife poised above another deadhead. 'I'm . . .'
Then he paused and smiled as if at some deep, inner joke.
Carefully he closed the pruning knife and put it in his pocket.
'Later, David,' he said. 'I'll explain to you some other time. We have our guests to look after. Peter, you must be roasted, standing out here in the sun. Let's go and find a cool drink and sit and talk to the ladies. Isn't it a perfect day?'