“That’s an ugly thought, Tom,” Sir Horace Bragg said before the governor-general could answer.
“It is indeed an ugly thought,” Sir Martin echoed. His glance slid to Bragg once more, either in annoyance at being anticipated or, perhaps more likely, in surprise at agreeing so much with the RAM commandant. After a moment, he went on, “To the best of my knowledge, Colonel, you are the first person outside London and Victoria to be entrusted with that secret. We shall presently make the great to-do appropriate for a visit from His Majesty, but for the time being all arrangements are tightly held, the better to keep the King-Emperor safe and secure.”
“If the Sons of Liberty did get word of Charles’s impending visit, they got it from someone on this train,” Sir Horace Bragg said. “I can’t believe any of us here would violate a sacred trust in such a way. The timing of the theft has to be coincidental.”
“Once more, I find myself agreeing with Lieutenant General Bragg,” Sir Martin said. He spoke the words through slightly pursed lips, as if they tasted sour. “That the Sons of Liberty could have penetrated our inmost councils - inconceivable, sir, inconceivable.”
“Fewer things are truly inconceivable than we’d like to believe, Your Excellency,” Bushell said, “and some people know more about betrayal than they should.” He was speaking to the governor-general, but looked straight at Sir David Clarke.
That evening, over beefsteak in the dining room of the Grosvenor Hotel - the closest to RAM headquarters - Sir Horace Bragg said, “You did yourself no good there, Tom, pitching dirt at Sir Martin’s fair-haired boy.”
“I didn’t give a damn,” Bushell said savagely. He tossed down his Jameson and waved for a waiter to fetch him another. “That toffee-nosed bastard, standing there all smooth and smug and sweatless, looking like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. If I had my druthers, I’d have put him in hospital for a week or two.” He sliced away at his beefsteak. He’d ordered it blood rare, and wished the red juice spurting from it poured from the veins of Sir David Clarke.
“It’s done, Tom,” Bragg said. “No point dwelling on it, brooding over it, now.”
“I know,” Bushell answered. “Intellectually, I know. But it’s been years now, and I can’t let go of it, not for good.” He cut off another bite of rare, rare meat, raised it to his mouth. The waiter, black satin cummerbund glistening in the lamplight, set a fresh Irish whiskey before him. He swallowed the beefsteak and took a long pull at the drink.
“When I learned Smithers was going to retire, I sent you out here to take his place so you would get a fresh start on life,” Bragg said. He sent Bushell a reproving stare with his houndlike eyes. “That was a long time ago. You’ve done very well here, by all accounts and by your record. I really thought you’d managed to forget. But then today - ” He shook his head.
“I’m sorry,” Bushell said. “I didn’t intend to embarrass you, sir. And I do forget, sometimes for weeks at a stretch. But it keeps coming back, like memories from a bad stretch of combat. And when I saw Sir David’s face - ”
He slammed a fist down on the snowy linen of the tablecloth. China and silverware jumped. Jameson shook in his glass, an Upper California Burgundy in Bragg’s. The sudden sharp noise made people’s heads turn all over the dining room. The newly arrived RAMs resolutely pretended Bushell had done nothing out of the ordinary, which made him feel worse than the civilians’ stares. Only Patricia Oliver met his eyes. He thought she looked sympathetic, but had reason to distrust his own judgment. As the hum of conversation slowly revived, Bushell mumbled, “I do apologize. Another unseemly display to put in my file.”
“Oh, nonsense.” Sir Horace Bragg waved that away. “You’re a human being, Tom, and human beings have a way of doing unseemly things every so often.” He hesitated, then added, “You might get along better if you remembered you’re human a little more often. Then you wouldn’t be so taken by surprise when it happens.”
“Duty comes first,” Bushell answered, as automatically as he would have given his name had someone asked him that. Bragg glanced up to the ceiling and said no more.
After fruit and cheese, cigars and brandy, after he paid the bill, Sir Horace yawned and got to his feet.
“I’m for bed,” he declared. “Everyone tells me the rumble of a train rolling down the tracks is restful, but I’ve never found it so. Peace and quiet suit me better. I must be getting old.” He squeezed Bushell’s shoulder. “See you in the morning, Tom.”
“Yes, sir,” Bushell said. He knew that meant he should get into his steamer, drive back to his flat, and get some rest himself. Instead, he walked into the bar next to the dining room, caught the bartender’s eye, and said, “Jameson over ice, if you’d be so kind.”
He drank two Irish whiskeys in rapid succession, then paused, thoughtful and numb at the same time. If he went on from here, he wouldn’t stop until he fell asleep with his head on the polished wood of the bar. He’d done that more times than he cared to remember. But if he stopped at this point, all the memories would well up, and the Jameson had dissolved the shields he usually held against them. Could he bear that? If he could, why did he have the shields?
He looked around. The bar was nearly empty. If he did make a sodden mess of himself, he didn’t think any of his colleagues would find out about it. Like Sir Horace Bragg, they’d doubtless headed upstairs for a good night’s sleep. Most RAMs were fine, upstanding citizens. The drunken reprobates like me are few and far between, he thought.
He lifted the forefinger of his right hand. The bartender didn’t see it. Bushell opened his mouth to call the fellow. Just then, one of the newly arrived RAMs paused at the entrance to the bar. Bushell’s call turned into a cough. He let his forefinger fall.
His colleague saw him and came striding up. “May I join you?” Patricia Oliver asked. She’d changed from uniform tunic and skirt to a skirt checked in light and dark green and a light green jacket with bow, cuffs, felt, and pocket edges checked to match the skirt. The sports outfit made her look less severe and several years younger.
Bushell let his hand rest for a moment on the round leather seat of the bar stool next to him. “Please do,” he said. “What can I get for you?”
“Scotch and soda,” she answered as she sat down. Bushell gave the bartender the order. He did not ask for anything for himself. Patricia Oliver sent him a curious look. “You’re not drinking, Colonel?”
“I’ve been drinking,” he said. “Perhaps in a while, I’ll drink some more. Right now” - he shrugged - ”I’m not drinking.” The bartender returned with the Scotch and soda. Bushell set a pound note on the bar, with half a crown for a tip. One more argument against getting drunk here was that it cost even more than it would have aboard the Upper California Limited. He took out his cigar case. “Do you mind if I smoke?”
“Not at all.” Patricia reached into her handbag and produced a monogrammed gold cigarette case. She drew one of the slender white tubes from it, tapped the end of the cigarette against the bar. “Do you mind if I join you?”
By way of reply, Bushell scraped a lucifer afire. He held it out for her. She lighted her cigarette; her cheeks hollowed as she sucked in smoke. Bushell thought cigarettes harsh and acrid, but Patricia Oliver had not asked his opinion. He got his cigar going. Its savory aroma helped mask that of the cigarette. Patricia reached out and knocked ash into the crystal tray in front of Bushell. Her lipstick had drawn a band of red around the cigarette. She raised her glass. “Down with the Sons of Liberty!” she said, and sipped.