—
‘You bastard! ’ exclaimed Willy, sitting on her heels in the mud.
‘Look what you’ve done to me!’ She surveyed herself. ‘Christ!’
The designer-jeans were certainly not what they had been before he had sent her out to measure the castle ditch. And her hair had come down at the back—and at the front, too.
‘Christ!’ She let go of the measuring pole with one hand, in order to examine the other hand. ‘I’m goddam hurt!’
That would be the dead blackberry suckers from last year—or maybe the thorn-bushes in the tunnel. It was much too early in the Price, Anthony - For the Good of the State year for stinging nettles, certainly. Because there had been no stinging nettles at Sulhampstead last week, nor within the old Roman walls at Pevensey, the week before.
Willy was busy sucking her finger—
Stinging nettles were interesting, thought Tom. They were always to be found in association with agricultural activity, rather than military or monastic work—was that true or false? There had been sheep at Sulhampstead, and cows at Pevensey. Or had it been the other way round? But, either way, there might be room for some intriguing research there—
‘ Tom!’
Tom experienced momentary irritation—he had never really thought about the incidence of stinging nettles before—but then he realized too late that what was expected of him was regret and guilt, and tried to contort his features appropriately. ‘Willy-love, I am sorry —’
‘ Bastard! ’ Her voice fell from self-pity to cold anger: she might well be remembering her experiences at Sulhampstead.
‘I said I was sorry—’
‘I’ll give you “sorry”!’ She picked up the measuring pole with both hands and jabbed it at him like a spear. ‘I’ll make you sorry—’
‘Now, Willy—don’t be like that.’ Tom skipped sideways as she jabbed at him again. He was just out of range, but she had risen to one knee and was aiming dangerously low, towards parts of him which he would undoubtedly be sorry to have injured. ‘ Willy! ’
‘Don’t you “Willy” me—’ Just as she was rising from the other Price, Anthony - For the Good of the State mud-caked knee, pivoting on it at the same time to reach his new location, she saw the policeman on the edge of the ditch above and behind him.
The policeman cleared his throat nervously, otherwise evidently struck dumb by the intended act of Grievous Bodily Harm he had been witnessing. Or it might be just the sight of Willy herself, thought Tom with proprietorial admiration.
‘Gee!’ In the instant of recognition the wide snarl had turned to jaw-dropped surprise, but in the next instant she had rearranged her expression so that now it merely registered interest. ‘Well, hi there, officer!’
Tom’s admiration increased, and he felt that same curious twinge of an emotion he had experienced several times just recently, but hadn’t taken the trouble to explore. Or maybe didn’t want to risk exploring—was that it? he wondered, shying away from the traffic light in his mind which shone red and green at the same time.
‘Good morning…madam.’ For a moment the policeman seemed undecided as to how to address her. But that would be as much because of the rich mid-western American accent—foreigners were always tricky—as because of the contradiction between her dishevelled appearance and her abundant self-confidence, Tom estimated.
‘He’s looking for a gentleman, Willy,’ he advised her.
‘Uh-huh?’ She didn’t even look at him as she stood up, using her ex-deadly-weapon to help her. ‘Well, I guess he better go look somewhere else—’ she smiled her sweetest smile at the policeman Price, Anthony - For the Good of the State
‘—because there’s no gentleman here.’
Tom knew then what he knew he had known from the moment the young policeman had materialized out of nowhere, which he had only been resisting because he didn’t want to know it; because, when a man was more nearly happy and carefree than he had any right to be, he also had the right to resist the inevitability of a 99-percent certainty, just in case that last one-per-cent was on his side.
But he turned back towards the policeman, hating himself because he was suddenly even happier —no longer carefree, but excited now, and utterly consumed by that old addictive drug—because they wanted him this badly. And it still fed his happiness, as their eyes met, that the policeman knew too… although with nothing like that 99-per-cent certainty even now… that this unlikely gipsy-looking non-gentleman was nonetheless his gentleman— just his gentleman being awkward, no more.
The policeman struggled for five seconds against his remaining doubts, but then surrendered to the slightly higher odds. ‘Sir Thomas Arkenshaw?’
Tom sympathized with him. Half his stock-in-trade was derived from the wild accidents of twentieth-century history, which had crossed unlikely genes with a different environment; and also he knew that it was always painful for such a good solid Englishman as this to throw a 350-year-old baronetcy on such a questionable product.
‘I am Sir Thomas Arkenshaw.’ As always, the foreign half of him threw down the Anglo-Norman half contemptuously: the Dzieliwskis had ridden in a hundred battles before the low-bred Price, Anthony - For the Good of the State merchant Arkenshaws had made enough money to interest any parvenu Stuart King of England. ‘Yes.’
‘Thank you, sir—Sir Thomas.’ The policeman stumbled slightly over Debrett’s Correct Form of Address, one part of him obviously still unwilling to accept the identification. But then he squared his shoulders and gave Tom the full benefit of the doubt. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Sir Thomas—’ with an effort he didn’t glance at Willy
‘—but there’s… there’s another gentleman who wishes to see you… urgently. He’s waiting for you back in the lane, by the gate.’
Now it was Tom’s turn for disbelief. ‘Here?’
‘Yes, sir—Sir Thomas. By the gate.’
That changed matters. Being sent for was one thing: by routine they knew where he was shacked up with Willy, and the hotel people knew where he was to be found this morning. So, despatching the nearest policeman to find him was the simplest and quickest way of effecting his recall. But this automatic assumption had been wrong, for the mountain had come to Mahomet. And that was another thing altogether.
‘Right. I’ll come at once—’ He had started to move before he remembered his manners, and turned back to Willy ‘—if you’ll excuse me for a moment, Miss Groot—?’
‘Be my guest, Sir Thomas.’ As a good servant of a great republic Willy accepted the call to duty without demur, only with a proper disrespect for the undeserved and unrepublican title he bore.
‘Thank you, Miss Groot.’ Tom threw the words over his shoulder as he scrambled up the side of the ditch towards the policeman.
Price, Anthony - For the Good of the State (Sending someone down to scoop him up, and presumably to brief him on the spot… that might mean a panic, minor or major —) His foot slipped, and he slid back half a yard—
(How exactly did they build their ditches? Revetted with turf or with wood?)
(Alternatively… whoever it was who’d pulled rank on the local police— another gentleman suggested rank, so it could even be Phillipson —)