Quirke opened the door for his colleague. ‘Third, professor?’
‘Tell them that I didn’t find Camlantis. Tell them that you can never find it. You can only build it.’
Lord Meldrew patted his waistcoat. As if he were feeling the tweed to see how much room there was left in his stomach for the meat he was being helped to at the table. Damson Beeton nodded approvingly at her hired evening staff serving on the other side of the table, the spread sparkling with candlelight, their finest silver laden with food.
‘But Dolorous Isle has had a tenant for many years, damson,’ continued the elderly lord, looking at the guests newly arrived by boat and being ushered into the hall by crimson-coated retainers. ‘And this is the first soiree he has thrown for his neighbours since he moved in?’
‘We found ourselves with a surfeit of food in the pantry that needed getting through before it went off, my lord.’
Lord Meldrew chortled. ‘Oh that’s a good one, that’s sharp indeed, damson.’
‘More roast potatoes with your meat, my lord? I spiced them up with a little concoction of my own devising.’
‘Capital,’ said the ruddy-faced nobleman. ‘I don’t suppose I could entice you into my service, damson? It’s only the next island across. You could teach my old cooky a thing or two about how to relish the humble spud over at m’pile.’
‘I fear not, Lord M,’ said the housekeeper. ‘The truth is, I’m secretly watching the crook that owns this place for a covert department of the Jackelian state.’
‘Really!’ Lord Meldrew’s face glowed like a steamman’s stack as he rolled with laughter. ‘Oh, capital. That’s rich; but then your employer looks like a queer one, a fellow who appreciates a good ribbing now and then. That was him playing a flute in the orchard and ignoring all his guests as we walked up to the house, wasn’t it?’
‘The very same, sir. I’ll chase him into the mansion later on.’
‘And I shall chase some more of your roast down m’gullet while we wait upon his presence. Charcoaled and chewy, just the way I like it. It’s quite gamey, actually.’
Damson Beeton carved another slice of Septimoth off the table’s spit. ‘Yes, he was a tough old bird, sir.’
Nothing for the enemy.
