“Perfectly all right,” John said. “Finn McCool, my red setter, thinks he has squatter’s rights on that piece of territory in our house.”
There was laughter and as the usual formalities were seen to and Myrna set Lady Macbeth on the carpet, Kitty waved a hand to encompass the room. “Kinky has done a wonderful job.”
Wine tables stood between each of five armchairs, their surfaces dotted with small dishes of almonds and potpourri. Later there would be After Eight chocolates for when the company returned to the fire to take their coffee and after-dinner drinks.
Lars sat on the extreme left, with Myrna next to him. O’Reilly sat in the middle, already helping himself to some almonds. He was flanked by Kitty and John. “So she has. I’ve always liked this room,” said Myrna, taking a sip of her sherry and studying the marble chimneypiece, which glowed in the firelight.
“Do tell, John,” said Kitty. “Did the folk museum accept your cottages?”
John MacNeill smiled. “They did indeed, and they’ll look after the disassembly, transport, and reconstruction on their premises. One less thing to worry about.”
Myrna looked at Lars. “And your brilliant brother, Fingal, has tied up everything to do with giving the estate to the National Trust at the appropriate time. The paperwork will be all signed, sealed, and delivered by next Monday.”
“It is a very great load off one’s shoulders,” said John MacNeill, “and it is panning out just as we described the night three weeks ago when you and Kitty came to us for dinner.”
“We are delighted,” Kitty said, “aren’t we, Fingal?”
O’Reilly, who had just popped another almond into his mouth, nodded.
“And,” said Myrna, “we’re going to celebrate. Tell them please, Lars.”
Lars’s thin moustache curved up as he smiled, before saying, “Myrna, and Simon O’Hally, and I have been nose to the grindstone since last December. You all know I have a place in Villefranche-sur-Mer?”
“I didn’t know that, Lars,” John said.
“I went there for a holiday fifteen years ago. I just fell in love with the place. It was small, only about five thousand people lived there then, and I found a seafront apartment not far from the old Chapelle Saint Pierre. Wonderful views of the harbour.” He looked down. “Finn can tell you I don’t usually act on impulse but … I bought the flat and I’ve been going there every year since.”
“And Fingal and I intend to come and visit you someday soon,” Kitty said. “Both of us need to slow down a bit.”
O’Reilly registered Kitty’s comment with pleasure but didn’t let his eyes leave Myrna’s face. There was such delight, excitement, and fondness there, he felt fully convinced that matters really were moving ahead. He snaffled another almond.
“You’ll be most welcome,” Lars said, “but not until later in the year, because Myrna and I are going there to take a fortnight’s break soon after her Hilary term is over at Queens in March and before Trinity starts in mid-April.”
“That’s wonderful,” Kitty said.
“It is a bit risqué, we know,” Myrna said, “but we’re not children, no parents to worry about upsetting, and we’re only telling our families. Damn it all, it’s not 1867. It’s 1967. We want to get to know each other better, don’t we, Lars?”
“Very much so,” Lars said, smiling.
“Fair play to you both,” O’Reilly said, “and you’re right, the Puritans are long gone.” Something caught his attention. He looked over at John MacNeill. His face was puce and he was emitting strange strangling noises. Was the marquis having apoplexy at the thought of his sister going off with a country solicitor? Then he realised the man was choking. O’Reilly leapt to his feet and slapped John MacNeill firmly between the shoulder blades. He coughed mightily and a soggy spray of petals flew across the room. He dragged in a great gasping breath.
O’Reilly was getting ready to clout John again when the man held up his hand.
“I’m … I’m all right,” John managed, and hauled in another lungsful. “Sorry about that,” he said, rising, heading to the sideboard, and pouring himself a glass of water. “I ate a handful of potpourri thinking it was almonds. Silly me.” He effected a weak laugh. “I’m fine. Thanks, Fingal.”
“Are you sure you’re all right?” O’Reilly asked.
“Right as rain,” he said. “Please do excuse me. And excuse my theatrics at your news, Myrna dear. I’ll admit it took me somewhat by surprise and I wasn’t paying attention to what I was doing. But I couldn’t be happier.”
“Another good reason to be thankful it’s 1967,” Myrna said. “Belting a peer was probably treason back in good Queen Bess’s day. ‘Off with his head.’” She smiled at O’Reilly.
“I doubt it,” O’Reilly said. “Us doctors were always given a bit of leeway if we were saving nobilities’ lives. The chap who founded my old teaching hospital in Dublin, Sir Patrick Dun, got his knighthood for treating King William III for a shoulder injury the night before the Battle of the Boyne in 1690.” He could feel the slight tension in the room dissolving.
There was a discreet cough from the doorway where Archie Auchinleck, hair neatly combed and parted, resplendent in a black bow tie, starched white waistcoat, and dinner suit, white towel neatly draped over his right arm, was setting a tray on the sideboard.
“My lord, lady, Mister O’Reilly, Doctor and Mrs. O’Reilly, if you’d please be seated?” The man nodded to the bay of the bow window where his own dining room table stood under a spotless white linen tablecloth. Five places were set for a four-course dinner, the best silverware and cut glass polished and sparkling.
While Kitty seated the guests, O’Reilly went to the sideboard, where two bottles of Blue Nun Liebfraumilch were in ice buckets. He opened one as Archie served the first course. It’s a great pity, he thought, given that the MacNeills’ affairs were now in order and the very clearly developing romance between Lars and Myrna, that he didn’t have a bottle of champagne. Oh well. Maybe, just maybe, he’d be able to open one if things worked out for them here at Number One.
* * *
As they tucked into the melon balls, John remarked, “I suppose this may not be very salubrious dinner conversation, but that was a terrible thing two weeks ago, those three American astronauts dying when their capsule caught fire on the launch pad.”
“Dreadful,” Kitty said. “Poor men.”
“You’d not get me up in one of those tin cans for love nor money,” O’Reilly said.
“You’d not fit, dear,” Kitty said, “and I’m sure they have maximum weight allowances.” She smiled sweetly.
“You minx,” O’Reilly said, and joined in the general laughter.
Archie cleared the melon and served the fish course.
“Straight from the sea this morning,” Kitty said.
“They really are scrumptious,” John said. “Despite the downturn in the MacNeills’ fortunes, if Kinky ever wants a new job…”
“Don’t you dare even suggest it, John MacNeill,” O’Reilly said.
The conversation became lively and wide ranging, from the recent change in the leadership of the Liberal Party to a near riot at Heathrow when teenagers swarmed through the airport to see the American pop group The Monkees.
“The lead singer, Davy Jones, was apparently nobbled by some love-struck young woman, and the poor lad isn’t even an American,” said Fingal, shaking his head.
Lars laid his knife and fork precisely parallel to each other beside the bones of his plaice to indicate that he had finished. “Stardom,” said Lars, “is a dangerous profession.”
Archie quietly and unobtrusively cleared away plates.
O’Reilly went to the sideboard and returned with a decanter full of Chateauneuf-du-Pape. “I’ll be carving in a minute, John. Will you do the honours?”
“Of course.”
Archie was setting a large oval delft platter bearing the beef Wellington surrounded by roast potatoes. Dinner plates were being kep
t warm on a sterno burner. Kinky had a tray with tureens and a gravy ewer, which she rapidly distributed around the table. She curtsied to the marquis and said, “My lord.”
“Arise, madam,” John said with a teasing tone in his voice. “That’s not necessary, Mrs. Auchinleck. Myrna and I are simply guests of this house, and fortunate indeed to be eating your delicious fare.”
She blushed. “Thank you, sir. It does be my honour and great pleasure, so.”
Kinky would never lose her awe of the gentry, O’Reilly thought as he half listened to a subdued murmur of conversation from the table. He inhaled the gentle aroma of puff pastry done to a rich brown perfection. It was not quite overpowered by the aroma of baked beef filet. He lifted the carving knife and steel, and with a rapid grating sharpened the blade.
“I’ll not try to teach my granny to suck eggs,” whispered Kinky, who, perhaps a little less in awe of the marquis, was now standing at O’Reilly’s shoulder, “but please cut generous slices, sir.”
“I will.” He skewered the meat through the pastry and made his first incision. The knife slid effortlessly through the crust as steam escaped and small flakes fell onto the dish. He cut on. “Kinky,” he said, “it’s like carving butter.” And he wasn’t being flattering. The knife simply slid through the meat. He laid the first slice on its side, noting the evenness of the surrounding pastry, the paleness of the layer of paté spread on very thin pancakes, the duxelles, and the fillet, brown on its outside and pink at its core. “Kinky Auchinleck,” he said, “this is a thing of beauty. It’s perfect.”
“Well,” she said, head cocked to one side, “I am pleased to hear you say that, sir, but to my eye the centre might have taken a minute or two more.”
O’Reilly laughed. “You are the world’s greatest perfectionist, Kinky Auchinleck, and we love you for it.”
She coloured again and lifted a dinner plate. “Do you please be putting a slice and two roasties on here, sir, so Archie can serve the marquis.”
In no time everyone had been served their beef Wellington and had helped themselves to champ, gravy, and vegetables.
Kinky and Archie had vanished.
John cut his first bite of beef, as did all the others. A blissful look crossed his face as he swallowed.
O’Reilly savoured the mix of flavours—the tenderness of the filet steak, the piquancy of the paté de fois gras. When he’d been in Bremerton in World War II, while Warspite was being repaired in the great U.S. shipyard after a direct hit by a German bomb, he’d once heard a Texan workman say in great approval of something, “Sell muh clothes, shoot the hound, Momma. I’m goin’ to heaven.” And that just about summed it up.
“So,” said Kitty, “tell us more about your trip to Villefranche.”
Myrna put down her knife and fork, dabbed her lips with a napkin, and said, “Lars and I have been working together for several months and during that time we have been growing … closer.” There was fondness in her smile to him and he replied in kind.
“It seems that my belonging to the peerage has inhibited the dear old sausage from saying anything. Silly man. I have to get you to understand that I am not one bit impressed with my accident of birth. I consider professionals like lawyers and doctors my equals, of course, and I also feel as John does about skilled people. Paddy Jackson the farrier is streets ahead of us when it comes to shoeing horses. Now that’s not to say he’ll be dropping into the big house for cocktails, but we really do believe that each individual should be respected for their skills.”
“It certainly came as an eye-opener to me,” Lars said. “Fingal and I do come from a very traditional background. It’ll take me a little time to get used to Myrna being as happy with her horses and country folk as she is with her society friends, so I thought a bit of time away would be a good start. If she wants to see some of her friends while we’re in Villefranche, Nice is only eight kilometres away and Monte Carlo seventeen, with a very good rail service to both.”
“And John and I do have friends in both, although I think I shall be perfectly content to see the sights of Villefranche,” Myrna said. “I’m told the views from Mont Leuze are spectacular and the hike up excellent exercise.”
“I for one am delighted,” John said. He raised his glass. “Here’s to you both.”
O’Reilly and Kitty drank. “To Lars and Myrna.”
Good old Lars. He had taken the plunge, and if the way Myrna kept glancing at him and her obvious delight in their plans were anything to go by, his feelings were returned and damn the social gap. It would be interesting to watch his elder brother’s transformation from solitary, self-sufficient bachelor to, if it all worked out as O’Reilly fervently hoped it would, married man.
“Now,” said O’Reilly, wishing he could undo his waistband, “would anyone care for some more beef?”
There was a series of polite refusals.
“Then,” he said, “I’ll nip down and ask Archie to clear off the wreckage and to bring up the dessert.”
John forestalled him. He rose. “Let me go,” he said.
“Don’t be daft—” O’Reilly began.
“Carry on, John,” Kitty said. “We like our guests to feel right at home. Lars, Myrna, I’m sure I can speak for Fingal when I say we wish you the very best. We really do.”
Myrna reached across and took Lars’s hand. “So,” she said, “do I.”
John reappeared with Archie and to O’Reilly’s surprise Kinky in tow. Archie bore the trifle and Kinky had taken off her apron. She was glowing, O’Reilly assumed with pride.
“Now,” said John, “I would like, with Doctor O’Reilly’s permission…”
“Please,” O’Reilly said. John never forgot his manners.
“… for both you and Mrs. Auchinleck to join us for some of this delicious-looking trifle and a glass of wine. I’m sorry I can’t ask you to the table. There are only five places, but, here,” he said, beginning to move the two closest armchairs so they were included in the small circle of the dining table.
“Oh, my lord, we couldn’t.” Kinky looked genuinely dismayed and yet at the same time even prouder than she’d looked a moment ago.
“No, I insist.” He waited while Archie served the company, seated her, and then poured a glass of white each for himself and Kinky to accompany their helpings of trifle.
“I should like to propose a toast, so please charge your glasses and rise,” said John MacNeill, twenty-seventh Marquis of Ballybucklebo, getting to his feet and raising his glass. He waited until everyone was ready and turned to face Kinky and Archie. “Please drink with me to tender our sincere thanks and admiration to Mrs. Maureen Auchinleck, the finest cook in Ireland…”
Kinky blushed and smiled.
“… and to Mister Archibald Auchinleck, who has so ably abetted his wife in serving with great panache this incomparable feast.”
Archie bowed.
“I haven’t tasted beef Wellington with such an exquisite texture and flavours…”
He was interrupted by Myrna calling, “Hear him. Hear him.”
“… since my father’s cook passed away.”
The company echoed the toast and drank. The applause was long and loud.
O’Reilly sat and tucked in. No doubt, John MacNeill was one of nature’s gentlemen when it came to dealing with people. He could “walk with kings nor lose the common touch.”
O’Reilly saw Lars bend and whisper something to Myrna, who smiled and quite unselfconsciously patted his arm.
Kitty caught Fingal’s eye and smiled.
He smiled in return and settled back into his chair. What a wonderful evening, he thought. John and Myrna perfectly at their ease in this old house of his and Kitty’s. Lars and Myrna on the brink of a romantic adventure. Kinky and Archie smiling up at the marquis, laughing at something he had just said. Coffee and brandy or whiskey would follow, adding another layer of warmth to the evening. He sighed. The time had passed so pleasantly he had for the whole time forgotten the t
hreat to Number One. Surely the blasted lease must show up soon. Mustn’t it? He wanted more evenings just like this one. Many more.
35
The Game’s Afoot
Barry wanted John D. MacDonald’s new book, One Fearful Yellow Eye. He was quite the fan of MacDonald’s “salvage consultant” Travis McGee and his live-aboard houseboat The Busted Flush, and a quiet read of the new book was part of the plan for his evening off. He and Jack Mills, who he’d be seeing soon, would rather have been out with the ladies in their lives. It was, after all, Saint Valentine’s Day. But Sue was still in France, and Helen, despite Jack’s most persuasive arguments in favour of the saint, was studying for her next professional examination, the fearsome Second MB.
Erskine Mayne’s book and stationery store on Donegall Square West, across from Belfast City Hall, was large and quiet. The current proprietor was the fifth member of the Mayne family, originally from Scotland, to be running the old establishment. The ancient wooden floors were well worn, and the high ceilings were embellished with ornate mouldings.
People spoke softly to the store assistants as if they were in a library, and the place had that smell of dust and paper unique to bookstores and library stacks. Barry had spent many happy hours here wandering the logically laid-out and well-posted passages between bookshelves, but today he would have to find his book without delay. He was meeting Jack at the Queen’s Squash Club for a quick game and then a bite to eat and a pint. Barry was looking forward to seeing his old friend, but he was of two minds about the squash. He’d not played for some time, but Jack had phoned and said he needed some exercise to keep his mind off women. His exact words had been “My seminal vesicles are so full I’ve got lumps behind my ears.” Barry had laughed and hadn’t bothered to correct Jack’s faulty understanding of anatomy. It had never been his long suit.
Barry found the book in Crime Fiction, arranged in a row beside MacDonald’s seven earlier McGee novels, all of which Barry had read. He picked up a copy and headed for the cash register. The tall angular man just ahead of him was wearing the kind of Gannex raincoat made popular by British prime minister Harold Wilson.