“One solitary sodding note, Silko.” Zoë was enjoying this. “Don’t tell me –”
Stevens coughed. They all turned. He was at the door. “The telephone, sir. An urgent call from the aerodrome.”
“Damn, damn,” Silk said. “What a bloody nuisance.”
“Probably a Micky Finn,” Zoë said. “I’ll explain later,” she told Glover. Stevens picked up the case. “I don’t believe there’s a cello in there,” she said. “I bet it’s an enormous tommy-gun.” Silk was halfway to the door. “Apologies,” he said.
Stevens led the way. When they reached a telephone, it was resting on its cradle. “The aerodrome must have changed its mind,” he said. “What a bloody nuisance.”
“Horseshit. Nobody called.” Silk stuffed his hands in his pockets and rattled his keys and his small change. “Don’t expect any thanks. I can handle pushy Yanks without your help.”
“He tips very well, sir. Better than you.”
“Good. You can start paying for the claret you steal.” Silk grabbed his cello case. “Now bring my Citroën around pronto.”
He was too slow. By the time he reached the front doors, Stevens had opened them. And the Citroën was already standing in the drive, with its doors open. Silk slid the case onto the back seat, and Stevens closed the door.
“This place is a dump,” Silk said. “It’s full of politics and ponces like you. I’d like to bomb it flat.” He got in, turned the key, accelerated away, foot to the floor, spitting gravel at Stevens. It gave him little pleasure. It had become a routine exit.
ALL ROGUE MALES
The canopy of the four poster had split long ago, and they could see the ceiling. They had thrown off the sheets and their bodies were cooling in the soft breeze from the open windows. She pointed up, and they watched a foot-long cobweb come loose and perform a slow-motion wave as it fell. When it got closer they both blew hard. It wandered off and missed the bed. “Takes more than a cobweb to bother us,” she said.
She swung her long legs and rolled out of bed. He watched her stroll around the room, picking up items of clothing. “You’re as lithe as a leopard,” he said. “Although I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a leopard in the wild.”
She found a green sock. It wasn’t his, and it had a big hole in the toe. She threw it out of the window.
“How many poor fools are in love with you this week?” he asked. “Not counting me.”
“Hullo,” she said, and pointed. “Here comes a vicar,”
“Bloody hell.” Silk jumped out of bed and grabbed his trousers. “It better not be the station padre. I’ll hide up here.”
“Don’t agitate yourself, Silko. It’s me he’s after.” She pulled on a pair of slacks and a sweater. “I’ll get rid of him.”
Silk listened to the fading patter of her bare feet on the stairs. Then he heard voices. He went to a mirror and watched himself knot his tie. “Why are you hiding?” he asked quietly. “It’s a music lesson. You used the bathroom. Lesson over. Going home. He’s only a parson.” He buttoned his tunic and went to the bathroom and flushed the lavatory and clumped downstairs.
“Ah! Flight Lieutenant Silk. A pleasure and a privilege, sir.” They shook hands, and Silk knew why Tess hadn’t got rid of him: tallish, bald with a grey ruff, bright brown eyes, clerical collar above a burgundy shirt, houndstooth jacket, dark trousers freshly pressed, brogues polished to a deep glow. No ordinary vicar. “Simon Gladstone. A distant relative of the great man.”
“Good for you,” Silk said. “Well, cello lesson’s over, I’ll be off.”
Gladstone raised a hand. “The Church takes a relaxed view about pastoral duties nowadays. My parish is the Press, the world of journalism. I work where I pray. It makes you one of my flock.”
“He says he’s doing a series on pilots’ hobbies,” Tess said.
“Nothing more boring.” Silk said. “Nobody’s interested in that stuff.”
“Skilfully presented,” Gladstone said, “it’s absolutely riveting.”
“So you say. Well, time’s up. Cheerio.” Silk picked up his cello case and walked out. Gladstone followed him.
“I’m disappointed, flight lieutenant. I see I have underestimated the degree to which you value your privacy.”
They reached the lane and stopped. It was a mild, still evening. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Silk said.
“Oh, I think you know what it means. If you don’t want publicity, I can equally guarantee secrecy. It will cost you a thousand pounds. For the church restoration fund, you understand.” Gladstone was still being enormously friendly.
“This is turning into a peculiar day,” Silk said. Tess had followed them, and was leaning on the gate. “Don’t you think it’s peculiar?” he asked her. But Tess was looking down the lane. Silk turned and saw Stevens walking towards him. “Now it’s gone beyond peculiar,” he said. “Now it’s the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party. This is Stevens, our under-butler,” he told Gladstone. “Have you got an under-butler? No, of course not. Lucky you, they’re stupendously bossy. Worse than wives. Look: I don’t know where you got the idea that I’m going to give you or anyone a thousand pounds. It’s quite ridiculous.”
“Of course it is. Two thousand is my price for not informing your commanding officer that you and this delightful lady have been banging like a loose shutter in a high wind, to the prejudice of your security status and the defence of the realm. Surely that’s well worth two thousand. No, listen: tell you what, I’ll make it twenty-five hundred.”
“You’re not a vicar,” Silk said.
“That’s irrelevant now.”
“May I relieve you of that burden, sir?” Stevens asked. He took the cello case and moved away.
“Tell the CO what the hell you like,” Silk said. “Mrs Monk and I are studying the cello. That’s the truth.”
“I have photographs,” Gladstone said. “Photographs in which you two are indeed playing duets, but none that the Royal College of Music would recognise. Now that’s the truth.”
“Fakes. Anyone can fake a picture.”
“These are moving pictures.” Gladstone chuckled. “In every sense. Both cinematic and emotive and active. You make a very athletic subject, flight lieutenant. Prime condition. Three thousand pounds.” He might have been a gentleman farmer, bargaining over cattle.
“Tell you what: I’ll fight you for it.” Silk was unbuttoning his tunic. “Here and now. Bare-knuckle stuff. Anything goes – kicking, gouging, knee in the balls, elbow in the teeth, no limits. Last man standing wins.” He gave his tunic to Tess.
Gladstone looked amused. “You’re a romantic, flight lieutenant. I don’t gamble on fisticuffs. I trade in certainties.”
Silk rolled up his sleeves. “I lose, you get the Cabrilloni, it’s worth a fortune. You lose, I get the photographs. If they exist.”
“Ludicrous idea. Your blood is of no value to me.”
“I want yours.” Silk raised his fists and moved forward. “I’m sick of bullshit, I want a good hard knockdown fight.”
Gladstone’s hands were in his jacket pockets. “I am not so foolish as to come unarmed,” he said.
“This is stupid,” Tess said. Just words: no emotion. “Two grown men fighting in the street. Childish.”
“Not me, madam,” Gladstone said. “I am left with no option but to consult the station commander.”
“I’ll kill you first.” Silk threw a couple of punches, just out of range.
“I wish you’d both die,” she said. “Go off and play in the traffic, it’s all you’re good for.”