“Never ostensibly. Before the week’s out, I’ll be up in front of the finance committee fighting to justify the additional expense to the department of one Edward Pemberton.”
No lie there. Max would have to make his case, then the Maltese representatives would haul him over the coals, and then they would agree to his demands. In its own small way, this predictable little theater, played out with tedious regularity, laid bare one of the grander themes of colonial administration: allow them a voice, then tell them what to say.
“I think I get the picture.”
“Excellent. Now, where are you staying?”
“The Osbourne.”
“We’ll have to find you more permanent digs. There’s a drinks party later. It would pay for you to show your face. We might be able to rustle up something for you.”
“Sounds good.”
“If you don’t mind riding pillion, I can pick you up around five.”
“You have a motorcycle?”
“Technically, it’s three motorcycles, held together with wire and willpower.”
Pemberton flashed his film-star smile.
She was.
Her hand even went to her hair when she greeted them at the door, something it had never done for Max.
The house sat near the top of Prince of Wales Road in Sliema, just shy of the police station. It was typical of many Maltese homes in that the unassuming facade gave no indication of the treasures that lay behind it. The wooden entrance door was flanked by two windows, with three more windows on the upper floor united by a stone balcony overhanging the street. Perfectly symmetrical, the front of the house was unadorned except for a brass nameplate set in the white stucco
Rosamund was wearing an oyster-gray satin evening gown, and once her hand had tugged self-consciously at her auburn locks, Max made the introductions. Rosamund offered a slender hand, drawing Pemberton inside as they shook, which permitted her to fire an approving look over his shoulder at Max as she did so.
The entrance hall was cool and cavernous, impeccably decked out with antique furniture. A Persian rug sprawled at their feet, and a handful of colorful impressionistic paintings hung from the walls. Pemberton looked mildly stunned.
“Tell me, Edward, you aren’t by any chance related to Adrian Pemberton, are you?”
“If he lives in Chepstow Crescent, then he’s my cousin, I’m afraid.”
“Why should you be afraid?”
“You obviously haven’t heard.”
“No, but I can’t wait.”
She hooked her arm through his, steering him across the drawing room toward the large walled garden at the rear of the house.
“Has he done something terribly wicked? I do hope he’s done something terribly wicked. It would bear out all my suspicions about him.”
Max dumped his scuffed leather shoulder bag onto the divan and followed them outside.
Rosamund had three rules when it came to her “little get-togethers.” The first was that she personally greeted everyone at the door. The second was that it was unforgivably rude to speculate about the source of the copious quantities of spirits on offer, when it was barely possible to locate a bottle of beer on the island. The third rule stated quite simply that there was to be no “talking shop” after the first hour, to which end she would ring a small handbell at the appointed time.
“All week I get nothing from Hugh but barrages and Bofors and Junker 88s. For a few small hours, I’d like to talk about something else, and I’m sure you all would too.”
Hugh was her husband, a lieutenant colonel in the Royal Artillery. A mathematician of some standing before the war, Hugh had worked out the intricate calculations behind the coordinated box barrage over Grand Harbour—an impressive feat, and one that had seen him elevated to the position of senior staff officer at RA HQ. Though he was in his early forties, he looked considerably older, which played to his private passion—the theater—making him eligible for a host of more senior roles, which he scooped up uncontested every time the Malta Amateur Dramatic Club put on one of their plays. He was always trying to get Max to audition for some token part to make up the numbers: butler, chauffeur, monosyllabic house guest.
While Rosamund abandoned her first rule in order to parade her new catch around the garden, Max made for the drinks table in the grateful shade beneath one of the orange trees. True to form, there was no one to pour the drinks. It wouldn’t be good for relations if the Maltese staff were to witness the excesses of their brothers in suffering. Max was concocting a whisky and soda when he heard a familiar voice behind him.
“‘Ah, thou honeysuckle villain.’”
“Not good enough, and you know it.”
Max swiveled to face Hugh, whose forehead, as ever, was beaded with perspiration. It was an old and slightly tedious game of theirs. Hugh liked to toss quotations at him, usually Shakespeare, but not always.
“Damn.”
