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  “Then he said he was going to beat me to a miserable jelly.”

  “Ignoring the fact that you’re already a jelly, though quite a jolly one,” said James.

  Nolly ignored this witticism. “So I waited until he went off behind our line toward the road, to spy out some imaginary protesters, and accidentally discharged my shotgun in his direction,” he said, sounding suspiciously pleased with himself.

  “But if it was an accident,” asked Laura, “why did you say you waited until he was out of range?”

  “Oh, he wasn’t completely out of range,” replied Nolly. “Haven’t you noticed that the simian junior Speck is absent from our midst?”

  “He took a light dusting of shot in the seat of his trousers,” said James, shaking his head. “Honestly, me friend, I think you went a wee bit too far.”

  “I’m a very good shot,” said Nolly, who in spite of his disgrace had bagged more birds than any except the most experienced shooters. “I knew the damage would be minimal.” He attacked his grouse with gusto. “Divine! Laura, are you sure you won’t break your twenty-year vow of abstinence and try a morsel of this luscious flesh? I do assure you, it is the culinary apotheosis of the game bird.”

  “No, thank you, Nolly. I’ll have to scrape by without that pleasure,” she said, peering dubiously at the stuffed half-eggplant the server had set before her. At that moment Angela, who had been consulting with the staff and was on her way back to her seat, stopped beside Nolly.

  “I hope you’re satisfied, you great boob,” she said. “How am I to invite you back if you persist in such behavior?”

  “I am heartily ashamed of myself,” avowed Nolly, though he didn’t look it. “By the way, where is Phoebe? I crave a view of her shapely profile.”

  “Comforting her wounded hero, of course,” replied Angela crisply. “Or didn’t you consider that when you emptied your shotgun into his arse?”

  After dinner, Laura told James that she wanted to work late that night, and he didn’t object since he was, as he put it, ‘knackered’ from the day’s shoot and ready to collapse into bed. The next morning she encountered Phoebe and Roddy in the Red Drawing Room eating breakfast. She walked up to them and took Phoebe’s hand. “You are a lovely person. I hope you’ll be very happy,” she said. Then she turned to Roddy and said sweetly, “It was nice to meet you, Mister Spick.” Her last stop before taking her suitcase out to the car was the library. She went to the mantel to see if she could find the artist’s signature on the Waterhouse. It was then that she noticed the small brass plate attached to the gilt frame. It was engraved with the name Belinda.

  23.

  Ale and Fistfights

  As soon as she returned to London, she braved the Monday crowds of the West End shopping district, looking for something to send Angela and Gerald in thanks for the weekend. She had no luck, and finally made her way to the Victoria and Albert Museum to see the miniatures gallery, where she spent considerable time pondering Nicholas Hilliard’s ‘Young Man Among Roses,’ an exquisite portrait of a tall and handsome Elizabethan gallant said to be the Virgin Queen’s favorite, the Earl of Essex. According to the label, Essex had once been so insolent toward Elizabeth that she cuffed him on the ear, causing him to half-draw his sword on her. Laura wondered what the wits of the court had made of that little episode. Eventually, of course, Essex had been executed for treason. Wandering out of the museum café, she decided to try the gift shop, where she found a tiny silver hand-cast picture frame with a flowery border. Standing among the leaves on the right side was a figure like a minotaur with an ugly, sad face. This she bought for the Baroness. Perhaps it would do for a picture of Roddy. And for the Baron, she found an apple-sized glass globe containing pink cyclamen blooms among dark green leaves.

  Tuesday evening, she started dinner while listening to a long playlist of her favorite music for relaxation: jazz guitar by Bucky Pizzarelli, ballads enhanced by Chet Baker’s trumpet, the flirtatious piano of George Shearing. A knock at the door surprised her. She rarely had any visitors except for the occasional neighbor, but some of these were male, so she paused to consider her attire. She was wearing a wine-colored stretch velvet dress, a knee-length teeshirt style that was good for lounging about, and except for the lack of a bra, she looked presentable. She peered through the spyhole, her hand on the doorknob. It was James.

  She opened the door. He was wearing one of his suits, in navy, with the tie already well loosened and a few buttons of the shirt undone. He had a scraped, raw red area on his left cheekbone, and he didn’t look happy.

  “James! Come in,” she said. “I’m just cooking dinner, though it’s nothing special. You’re welcome to stay and eat with me if you like.”

  “I’m sorry to disturb you. I know you like your uninterrupted time during the week,” he said. He fell silent, bending over to untie his shoes and putting them by the door. Something wasn’t right, but he must tell her in his own time. Had he been in some kind of accident?

  “It’s fine. I like seeing you. I can give you a glass of wine, or there’s some beer in the refrigerator. Help yourself.” As she returned to her preparations, he opened the door of the fridge, and said in an outraged voice, “Woman, are you daft? You put Newcastle Ale in the fridge? That’s far too cold.”

  “I thought it was a myth that people here drink their beer warm. And you had Duvel in your fridge!”

  “Duvel is meant to be chilled, but not a brown ale. It should only be as cool as a dark cellar. Tell me, when you tasted this, did you think it was good?”

  “Not really,” she admitted. “I thought it was a bit flabby and flavorless.”

  “That’s because you overchilled it. You should store it at room temperature and put it in for ten, fifteen minutes before you drink it, no more. Unless it’s a hot day.”

  “Okay. Have some of the Pinot Grigio then. It’s cheap, but it tastes good cold.” He poured himself a glass and began to pace about the flat. Belatedly, she realized that she’d had no opportunity to straighten it, and her books and papers were spread all over the desk, the floor around the desk, the sofa and the coffee table. If his previous visit had left James with the impression that she kept her living space tidy and neat, tonight would demonstrate otherwise.

  James paused every now and then in his perambulations to observe her work. She was putting together a crustless vegetable pie, coating the pie plate with butter and a sprinkle of crispy breadcrumbs. Next she added florettes of lightly steamed broccoli and all the bits and pieces of leftover cheese from the fridge. She’d found some free range, organic eggs at the Islington farmer’s market; they were pricey but had beautiful pale blue shells. She whisked these together with some thick Greek yogurt, added salt and pepper, and poured the mixture over the pie plate, then topped it with grated fontina. Finally, she placed it in the oven and set the timer for twenty minutes.

  All this time, she’d been aware of James watching her, but he’d said virtually nothing, and done nothing other than move about restlessly, taking off his jacket and tie and arranging them over one of the dining chairs. He looked tired, with a slight bagginess under his eyes. Now, as she was wiping her hands on a dish towel, he took her in his arms and brought his mouth down on hers, kissing her harder than he usually did, and putting one large hand on the back of her head to press her mouth against his probing lips and tongue. She responded, feeling surprised at this turn of events. Usually he was a more tender and considerate lover. Now his hands were roughly massaging her behind through the velour of her dress, lifting it up her thighs, and he was pressing his body against hers and burying his face in her neck. She could feel his insistent hardness through their clothing, and it drew an answering rush of heat in her. She breathed in the familiar, Jamesian scent of him, one part spice, one part maple leaves, and a hint of tobacco, now mingled with the sweat of what must have been a long day. For a moment, she became aware of Chet Baker’s gentle, dreamy voice floating through the room.

  Don�
�t change a hair for me,

  Not if you care for me,

  Stay, little Valentine, stay.

  “Take off your knickers,” he said into her ear. She stepped out of them, and he quickly hoisted her bottom onto the countertop. “Wrap your legs around me.” He carried her into the bedroom, depositing her on the bed. Then he began to divest himself of his clothes. She lay there, bemused, with her dress up around her naked hips, watching him and growing more aroused as his shirt, then his trousers, then his underwear (light blue cotton boxers this time) came off. He climbed onto her and she felt his thigh and knee levering her legs open. Then he paused and propped himself on his forearms, brushing the hair from her face with one hand.

  “Okay?” he whispered. “Okay,” she answered, and wrapped both arms and legs around him. Inside her, he moved slowly, deliberately at first, then faster. “Bear down on me, Laura,” he said, breathing hard. “Squeeze me.” She let herself consider the way he was filling her, stretching her, and visualized the muscles that enveloped him; she found that she had the ability to contract them. It was like an intimate, internal hug. She wondered whether he could feel her efforts, but the next time she tried, it drew a moan from him, and grabbing her by the hips he suddenly slammed into her once, twice, three times. Then he collapsed on top of her, panting.

  When he had his breath back, he said, “You must think I’m a pratt for coming over like this just to fuck you, but I had to. I couldn’t relax, and I couldn’t help myself. I had to be with you.”

  “James, even when you arrive unexpectedly, I’m glad to see you. Do you want to talk about what happened?”

  “I took one of the Newcastles out of the fridge. It should be better by now. I’ll just retrieve it. Would you like another glass of wine?” he asked. She nodded and he rose to get the drinks. “The pint glasses are in the right top cupboard if you want one,” she called, “and the opener’s in the drawer opposite.”

  He didn’t bother with a glass. They sat on the bed with their drinks, she in her dress and he naked and apparently unabashed. She kept stealing glances at him, since she didn’t often get to see him naked, especially in the unaroused state. His entire body seemed beautiful to her.

  “I had an eventful day,” he began. “We got a tip that there was a suspect hiding in an office building on the outskirts of Canary Wharf. He was one of a group known to attack bank staff as they were refilling cash machines. Brutal bastard. Used hammers and knives on his victims. Anyway, I decided to go with Hicks and see what I could see. I was tired of being banged up in that office all day, never getting out into town. We weren’t sure which tube stop to use, and had to walk a long way. Finally we approached the building from the back through a carpark. I thought it was odd that the police didn’t have the place surrounded, though I could see some blues flashing out front. Turned out they had just arrived themselves. Suddenly the suspect burst out the back door and headed straight for us, as we were blocking the only clear path through the cars. Hicks is smaller, so he launched himself at her. We had a scuffle, and he broke away. He ran about a dozen yards, but then he suddenly stopped and looked straight at me. And he pulled out a gun.”

  James drank deeply from his ale. The two small lines between his brows deepened as he narrowed his eyes. “It was surreal. I couldn’t believe the wee bugger was drawing a gun and deliberately trying to kill me. I heard the shot and then I saw the cops pile onto him. I still don’t understand why he did it. If he’d simply run, he might have got away.”

  The timer went off. “Hold that thought,” she said. “I have to see to the pie.” She got up and checked it, then turned on the broiler. She was about to set the timer again when he came out to the kitchen, wearing his boxers.

  “Guns are illegal here, right? How common is gun crime?” she asked.

  “It’s rare compared to the US, but it’s growing. Especially in the big cities. The police normally don’t carry guns. Most people here have never seen a handgun.” He was standing beside her as she monitored the progress of the pie through the glass of the oven door. He knelt to take a look himself, and she gently trailed a finger around the bruised area on his cheek. “So you got this in the scuffle? Was anyone else hurt? What about Jenna?”

  “Hicks? She’s fine, though a bit shaken. She’s got pluck, so she has,” he said proudly. “I taught her most of what she knows.” Laura couldn’t help wondering whether the curriculum was limited to journalism or included other skills.

  “When you see the papers tomorrow, don’t take it at face value. They’re going to have a field day with this,” said James. “Our rivals, I mean. We take a special delight in writing stories about one another. Your pie’s done.”

  He was right; she hadn’t been watching the pie, and the cheese on top had now reached the perfect stage of golden toastiness and gone slightly beyond, with a couple of black charred spots. She removed it and placed it on a trivet, then set the table with two places. He’d finished his ale, so she poured the last of the wine into a glass for him and they sat down to eat.

  “This is good,” he said. “Like a quiche, but with yogurt. It gives the custard a tangy flavor.” He cut himself another slice, even larger than the one she’d given him. “There’s something else.” She waited, fork poised in her hand. He hesitated, and then said, “That moment with the gun. It reminded me of something that happened when I was a lad, in Belfast.” She kept her eyes on him, almost afraid to move for fear that it might spook him.

  He took another bite of the pie. “In 1973, I was almost seventeen. Didn’t get along well with me Da. I rebelled by going about with a lot of tough lads. Nationalists, you know, people who wanted an Irish republic.” He looked at her to see whether she had any idea what he was talking about, and she nodded. The Troubles.

  “Were you a Nationalist too? Or was it more about breaking away from your father?”

  “I’m not sure any more. Ma had Republican sentiments. She used to call me Séamus when I was a wean —I mean a wee lad— even though I was christened James. Da was apolitical, and he hated the Troubles more than anything. He only wanted us to be safe. I didn’t understand that until I became a father meself. The lads I spent time with, they knew some men who… who were very dangerous. They had guns. Used to get us to help them from time to time. Be in a certain street in a group, watch certain houses and describe the people who came and went. I had a younger friend Donal. He was just fourteen, and he followed me about like a duckling follows its mother. I didn’t think to tell him the rules. One day I went in the pub and he was having a friendly coze with a man we all knew was from the police. I hadn’t thought to warn Donny about him, never to speak to him. I saw some of the older men looking his way and whispering amongst themselves and knew it was bad. A few days later, we were walking in the Falls Road and he was shot by a sniper. In the head. I was arrested and banged up for days. My father came to collect me, and drove me straight to the train station. He gave me some money and said to come to my uncle Fergus in London. And then he said, ‘If you love us, you won’t come back.’”

  “And did you ever go back?”

  “Eventually. I was angry at Da for years. And I blamed myself for Donny’s death. I went back a couple of times before my parents died, and they came to my wedding with Sita. I went to Belfast the week I met you, to see my sister Maeve.” He drained his wine glass and then continued the story. “Fergus was in the construction business and he helped me get a job, doing renovations on kitchens and baths, that sort of thing. I found a flat in Bethnal Green near Fergus’ place, the one he left me. After a year, I started at Birkbeck, but at first I drank too much.”

  “Ale and fistfights?”

  “Yes.” He rose from the table, clearing the dishes and silverware. He took them to the sink and began to rinse them. Laura got up and stood behind him, wrapping her arms around his bare middle. “Thank you for telling me,” she said. “Are you cold? Do you want to get into bed?”

  “I ought to go,” he said
. “I need a bath and a long sleep.” He wandered into the bedroom and re-emerged wearing his trousers and shirt, then collected his jacket, stuffed his tie in his pocket, and bent to retrieve his shoes. She waited while he put them on, and then placed her palms on his chest, sliding them up around his neck and into his hair. They shared a gentle kiss. It was the first time they had kissed each other for comfort rather than sex.

  “Thanks for putting up with me,” he said. He gestured toward the empty pie plate. “Have you tried asparagus and gruyère?”

  24.

  From Russia, With Love

  The next morning she went out to a newsstand to get a paper, and spotted a headline in The Sun under the byline of Jon Jacques: “Scribbler Downs Thug as Coppers Look On.” She bought a copy of every local paper and took them upstairs, then made herself a pot of Ceylon tea.

  London Herald crime editor James Whelan found himself an unlikely hero when Costin Stoika, a notorious member of London’s Russian Mafia, attempted to escape from a building near the Canary Wharf business district. Whelan and Herald correspondent Jenna Hicks were investigating a tip when Stoika burst into the carpark and violently attacked Ms. Hicks. According to witnesses who noted the delay in the arrival of police personnel to the scene, Whelan hoisted Stoika off the prostrate Ms. Hicks and delivered a handy long fist to Stoika’s gut. Bystanders opined that although advanced in years, the near-heavyweight Whelan had an unfair advantage, as the slight Stoika was barely a welterweight. Stoika attempted a haymaker but instead managed only a glancing blow to the side of Whelan’s face. A few inconclusive jabs were exchanged and the 54-year old Whelan landed a respectable uppercut before the suspect fled, pausing at the opposite side of the carpark to draw a 9mm Beretta pistol and discharge it, missing his erstwhile pugilistic opponent. Nobody was seriously injured, and the delay provided police the opportunity to subdue Mr. Stoika. According to Mr. Justin Stemple of Tower Hamlets, who observed the altercation, “Oi, it all wennof, dey got inta da ruk, innit, and da geezer gave it large.” Mr. Whelan and Miss Hicks refused comment.