* * *
"Anything else going on?" Burr asked, when he had listened in near silence to Jonathan's account of these events.
Jonathan affected to search his memory. "The Langbournes are having a marital tiff, but I gather that's par for the course."
"It's not unknown in this neck of the woods either," said Burr. But he still seemed to be waiting for more.
"And Daniel's going back to England for Christmas," said Jonathan.
"Nothing else?"
"Not of any moment."
Awkwardness. Each man waiting for the other to speak.
"Well tread water and act natural," said Burr grudgingly.
"And no more wild talk about breaking into his holy of holies, right?"
"Right."
Yet another pause before they both rang off.
I live my life, Jonathan told himself with deliberation as he jogged down the hill. I am not a puppet. I am nobody's servant.
EIGHTEEN
Jonathan had planned his forbidden assault on the state apartments as soon as he learned that Roper had decided to sell some more farms and that Langbourne would be accompanying him and Corkoran would be stopping off in Nassau to attend to Ironbrand business.
His resolve was confirmed when he heard from Claud the stablemaster that on the morning following the men's departure, Jed and Caroline proposed to lake the children on a pony trek of the island's coast path, setting off at six and returning to Crystal in time for brunch and a swim before the midday heat.
From that moment his dispositions became tactical. On assault day minus one he took Daniel on his first difficult climb up Miss Mabel's north face ― more truthfully up the face of a small quarry cut into the steepest part of the hillock ― which required three pitons and a roped traverse before they arrived triumphant at the eastern end of the airstrip. At the peak he gathered a bunch of sweet-scented yellow freesias, which the natives called shipping flowers.
"Who are they for?" Daniel asked while he munched his chocolate, but Jonathan managed to dodge the question.
Next day he rose at his usual early hour and jogged a stretch of the coastal path to make sure the trekking party had set out as planned. He came face-to-face with Jed and Caroline on a windy bend, with Claud and the children straggling behind.
"Oh, Thomas, will you by any chance be going up to Crystal later?" Jed asked, leaning forward to pat her Arab's neck as if she were starring in a cigarette advertisement. "Great. Then could you be frightfully kind and tell Esmeralda that Caro can't eat anything with milk fat because of her diet?"
Esmeralda was fully aware that Caroline could eat no milk fat, because Jed had told her so in Jonathan's hearing. But Jonathan was learning to expect the unexpected from Jed these days. Her smiles were distracted, her behaviour was more contrived than ever and small talk came hard to her.
Jonathan continued jogging till he reached his hide. He did not uncache the handset, because his will was his own today. But he did help himself to his subminiature camera got up as a Zippo lighter, and to the camera he added the bunch of lock picks that were not disguised as anything, and clutching them in his fist so that they didn't chime while he ran, he returned to Woody's House and changed, then walked through the tunnel to Crystal, feeling the tingling of prebattle across his shoulders.
"Fuck you doin' with them shippin' flowers, Mist' Thomas?" the guard at the gate demanded of him good-humouredly. "You been up there robbin' poor Miss Mabel? Why, shit. Hey, Dover, come over here and put your stupid face in these shippin' flowers. You ever smell anything so beautiful? The shit you did! You never smelt nothin' in your life 'cept your young lady's cherry pie."
Reaching the main house, Jonathan had the giddying sensation of having returned to Meister's. It was not Isaac but Herr Kaspar who received him at the door. It was not Parker standing on the top of the aluminium ladder changing light bulbs but Bobbi the odd-job man. And it was Herr Kaspar's nymphet niece, not Isaac's daughter, who was languidly squirting insecticide into the potpourri. The illusion passed, and he was restored to Crystal. In the kitchen Esmeralda was conducting a seminar on world affairs with Talbot the boatman and Queenie from the laundry.
"Esmeralda, would you please find me a vase for these? Surprise present for Dan. Oh, and Miss Jed says to remind you that Lady Langbourne can't eat any milk products at all."
He was so arch about saying this that his audience burst into fits of uncontrollable laughter, which followed Jonathan up the marble staircase as, vase in hand, he headed for the second floor, apparently on his way to Daniel's quarters. Reaching the door to the state apartments, he paused. The flow of cheerful chatter from downstairs ran on. The door was ajar. He pushed it and stepped into a mirrored hallway. The door at the end of it was closed. He turned the handle, thinking Ireland and booby traps. He stepped inside, nothing blew up. He closed the door and looked around him, ashamed of his exhilaration.
The sunlight, filtered by net curtains, lay like ground mist on the white carpet. Roper's side of the enormous bed was not slept in. Roper's pillows were still puffed up. On his bedside table lay current copies of Fortune, Forbes, The Economist, and back numbers of catalogues from auction houses round the world. Memo pads, pencils, a pocket recorder. Shifting his gaze to the other side of the bed, Jonathan observed the imprint of her body, the pillows crushed as if by restlessness, the tissue of black silk that was her nightdress, her Utopian magazines, the pile of coffee table books on furniture, great houses, gardens, great horses, more horses, books on Arab blood-stock and English recipes, and how to learn Italian in eight days. The smells were of infancy ― baby powder, bubble bath. A luxurious trail of yesterday's clothes was spread haphazard over the chaise longue; and through the open doorway to the bathroom, he saw yesterday's swimsuit hanging in triangles from the shower rail.
His eye quickening, he began reading the whole page at once: her dressing table, cluttered with mementos of nightclubs, people, restaurants, horses; photographs of laughing people arm in arm, of Roper in bikini shorts, his maleness much in evidence, Roper at the wheel of a Ferrari, of a racing boat, Roper in white peaked cap and ducks, standing on the bridge of the Iron Pasha; the Pasha herself dressed overall, berthed majestically in New York harbour, the outline of Manhattan soaring behind her; book matches, girlfriends' handwritten letters spilling from an open drawer; a child's address book with a photograph of soulful bloodhounds on the cover; notes to herself scribbled on bits of yellow paper and stuck to the edges of her mirror: "Diving watch for Dan's birthday?" "Phone Marie re Sarah's hock!" "S. J. Phillips re R's cufflinks!!"
The room felt airless. I'm a tomb robber, but she's alive. I'm in Herr Meister's cellar with the lights on. Bolt before they wall me in. But escape was not what he had come for. He had come for involvement. With both of them. He wanted Roper's secrets, but he wanted hers more. He wanted the mystery of what joined her to Roper, if it did; of her ludicrous affectations; and of why you touch me with your eyes. Setting the flower vase on a coffee table, he picked up one of her pillows, held it to his face and smelled the wood smoke from singing Aunt Annie's hearth. Of course. That's what you did last night. You sat up with Caroline in front of the fire and talked while the children slept. So much talk. So much listening. What do you say? What do you hear? And the shadow on your face. You're a close observer yourself these days, eyes staying on everything too long, including me. You're a child again, seeing everything for the first time. Nothing is familiar to you anymore, nothing is safe for you to depend on.