Methuen turned over on his stomach and held tight, gripping the edges of the table while the Scotsman probed the wounds, grunting as he did so. This proved to be more painful than anything Methuen had so far undergone and he sank his teeth into the padded pillow in order not to groan.
“There,” said Duncan at last, and he heard the tinkle of lead in a basin. “That’s two I’ve fished out. The others can lie awhile. They’ll not trouble you. And by the way, Colonel, it’s not lead you’ll be glad to know, but bits of rock. Were you peppered by a blunderbuss full of odds and ends?” He chuckled comfortably.
“Rock?” said Methuen.
“Aye. Fragments of Bosnia.”
He lay in the white bath and soaked himself for nearly an hour while Duncan sat beside him on the bathroom stool, smoking and asking questions. Methuen felt his tiredness oozing from his very bones as he lay there. It seemed almost too good to be true. Then Porson appeared with all the clothing shed so recently by Mr. Judson and a fat file of telegrams from Dombey. “Everything has gone wonderfully,” he said. “Mr. Judson has been in bed with ’flu for a day or two, and now he has sprained his ankle. How soon will he be walking again, Doc?”
“It’s a terrible post this for practice,” said Duncan with genuine disappointment. “He should be up day after tomorrow. May need crutches for a day or two if the muscles are seized up. But it’s not serious, unfortunately.”
“Unfortunately?” said Methuen indignantly.
“Have pity on me,” said Duncan. “Apart from an occasional cough or cold I have nothing to do. I was full of hope when Porson brought you in. I thought I’d have some real work to do.”
“Selfish fellow,” said Porson.
“I’m beginning to feel apologetic,” said Methuen.
“Oh, it’s not your fault,” said Duncan kindly. “You did your best for us. Lucky you didn’t come back on a slab like poor Anson.”
“By the way,” said Porson, “you are going to be kept here to-day. In the state bedroom. The Ambassador’s orders. He wants to have a long talk with you; and you’ll presumably want to do some dictating.”
“Yes,” said Methuen. “Help me up, will you?”
He was bedded down in some luxury in the bedroom usually reserved for important visitors after Duncan had given him an amateurish shave with the Ambassador’s own razor. Sir John himself came flitting in and out every few moments, obviously most anxious to hear his story and to compose his telegrams to the Foreign Office. “I don’t want to rush you if you feel tired. Do have a sleep. We can talk this evening. I’ll keep a clerk on duty to send anything we need.”
“I’d like just half an hour to lie quite quiet and get it all clear in my mind,” said Methuen, “and then I can dictate something. Perhaps Porson would take it.”
He lay for a while with closed eyes, luxuriating in the feather mattress of the bed, and trying to compose the events of the last few days into a coherent picture; but when Porson tiptoed into the room again he found Mr. Judson sleeping a profound and happy sleep.
They did not disturb him and it was long past teatime when Methuen awoke and rang for the butler. The door opened to admit Sir John himself, wheeling a trolley crammed with tea-things. “Ah!” he said. “So you are awake at last.”
“Yes,” said Methuen shamefacedly.
Over a cup of tea they talked and Methuen gave a slow and detailed account of his adventures while Porson sat in a corner dotting and dashing into a shorthand notebook. Then he disappeared and left the two men to talk in the twilight. “The drafts will be back soon,” said the Ambassador. “And thank goodness we can talk about something apart from shop. Methuen.…”
“Yes, sir.”
The Ambassador leaned forward, balancing his cup of tea precariously on his knee, and said: “Don’t think it frivolous of me, but anything you can tell me about the fishing might come in useful. One day they might relax this ban on travel inside the country and then maybe I should get the chance to try my hand at the … what do you call it … Studenitsa river.”
Methuen smiled and asked for a map and the two of them settled down to one of those delightful and interminable conversations which for anglers is the next best thing to actually fishing a river. Methuen was flattered by the modesty and attention of the great diplomat and quietly stuffing the pipe which he always carried but so seldom smoked, he gave of his best, cross-hatching in the rivers he knew and scribbling a note here and there about more esoteric matters like bait and weather.
Sir John was highly delighted and when Methuen told him ruefully how he had lost his rod his sympathy was so great that he immediately retired to his study and produced his own — a splendid greenheart by McBey — which he forced upon his reluctant guest.
“I really couldn’t, sir,” he said.
“But you really must. I insist.”
“But it’s too much,” protested Methuen feebly. “I’ve never owned anything as beautiful and expensive as this. I should be, well, almost shy to fish with it.”
“Don’t you believe it,” said Sir John.
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Nonsense.”
Methuen smiled. “It is by the purest of good fortune that I didn’t leave your book of flies behind. I’ve ticked the two I thought likeliest — though I really didn’t have time to experiment in the way I’d have wished—”
But by now Porson was back with the drafts and a note for the Ambassador. Sir John read it and said:
“There’s a message just come through on the Agency tapes about the submarine which was supposed to take off the treasure in Dalmatia. Apparently the Italian fleet caught it trespassing in Italian territorial waters, and ordered it into Trieste. It’s a poor look-out for the White Eagles.”
Methuen sighed. “It was always a tricky and chancy operation. But something tells me they haven’t reached the karst, let alone the point of rendezvous.” Once more in his mind’s eye he saw those toppling, turning figures spinning slowly down into the icy fastness of the great lake and felt a pang of pain for Black Peter and his band of shaggy ruffians whose devotion to a lost cause had led them to sudden and ignominious death in the fastnesses of Serbia.
While the Ambassador with crisp succinctness dictated his telegrams from the drafts, Methuen ruffled his way through the file of telegrams from Dombey, many of which were already outdated by events.
“What would have happened”, he said when the Ambassador had finished, “if we had got through?” and Sir John sighed and shook his head. “It’s always difficult to predict but a well-found Royalist movement might have been a serious factor for the present régime.”
“But surely that would have been a good thing? These people hate the West.”
Sir John took a turn up and down the floor with his hands behind his back. “I’m not sure,” he said, “I’m not sure. A number of strange reports have been floating in from various missions about reported disagreements between Tito and Stalin. At times I have been almost led to predict some sort of rupture. Of course I can’t go as far as that, but the situation at the moment seems full of unknown factors. We must wait and see. You see, Methuen, at the moment the Russians certainly have influence here but the country is not yet in a Russian stranglehold. It is a willing partner of the USSR, that no one can deny. But if Tito were overturned by any chance the Russians might move troops in.”
“But do you think he is detachable?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know. Not by us perhaps. He is certainly a Communist. But perhaps by factors outside his own control.”
“This is very interesting.”
“It’s all so speculative that I did not think it worth mentioning to you.”