His most celebrated features — his hair and his nose, which endowed his portraits and photographs with imperious nobility — were disappointing. The hair, with its deep widow’s peak, looked stiff and artificial, like a wig; and the nose was coarse and fleshy, with a slight shine that she had observed increasing during the evening. She also noticed, with distaste, that he suffered from blackheads.
Although she had drunk abundantly, she was still sober. The presence of the Ruler had cast a chill over her; for someone so drilled in the protocol of dinner parties, she now felt like an athlete who has gone lame.
The soft voice, with its faintly Teutonic inflection, sounded close to her left ear. ‘You are from England.’ It was not a question but a statement. ‘Mr Steiner here informs me that your family possesses a famous and very fine country house.’
She nodded. ‘Well, yes. But the Government has brought in this awful tax and my father thinks he may have to sell.’
‘I understand. You in Britain pay very high taxes.’ He paused. ‘I like Britain. It has simplicity and charm. London is my favourite Western city. London — and perhaps Amsterdam. Do you know Amsterdam?’
She felt the saliva dry up in her mouth. ‘Yes, I’ve been there once,’ she murmured.
‘I like the British people, too,’ he went on, ‘except that they are lazy. They ask for more money to do less work. That is ridiculous.’ He paused again, and laid his hand on her sleeve. ‘You must forgive me. I criticize the British only because I admire you, and am troubled by your problems.’
‘Oh, I quite agree with what you say!’ She had begun to feel more at ease.
‘I have said nothing that is original,’ he added. ‘Criticism is too easy — it is the trade of a parasite. Action is what is important — action translated into work and discipline.’
She wanted to say something — anything — but was again stilled by that blank timeless gaze.
Across the table the Princess was now very drunk. She was waving her hands and shouting incoherently at the American archaeologist and his wife. Sarah distinguished the words, ‘sarcophagus!’, ‘tombeaux!’ several times, then: ‘How do you say it in English — these old bodies — in sarcophagus —?’
‘Mummies?’ the American suggested.
‘Yes, mummies! Dead people — always death! That’s all you do — dig for death!’ Her voice reached a pitch of insane fury, as she lurched round in her seat and faced the Ruler, her ragged face distorted by a macabre smile. ‘You, Your Majesty — you do not fear death! Your people believe you are immortal!’
‘I am not immortal, Princess. Like everyone, I too prepare myself for death. And when I die I take with me to the earth perhaps not even these clothes I wear. Perhaps just a piece of white cloth. But I also take with me a part of history.’ He turned and looked at Sarah. ‘Mr Steiner also tells me that he has extended an invitation to you to visit my country?’
‘Yes, he has.’ She glanced uneasily at Steiner, seeking some flicker of confirmation, but found none.
‘It is possible,’ the Ruler went on, ‘that I shall have the pleasure of meeting you again. I should be interested to hear you talk about your family’s house in England. I very much like English architecture, particularly the eighteenth-century period.’
‘Yes, ours is eighteenth century — or rather, some of it. The older part is Jacobean.’
‘I am sure it is very beautiful.’ As he spoke, the Ruler rose to his feet, gave a single nod to the table, turned and left the room, followed by three white-clad retainers.
Sarah reached with relief for her wine glass.
CHAPTER 27
Owen Packer had chosen Béziers because it was a quiet town, a few miles from the sea so that it did not attract the rush of tourists, and far enough along the coast not to have been infected by the leprous opulence of the Riviera. He had once visited it on a bicycling trip, and now found it unchanged.
His hotel was half empty, overlooking a square lined with pigeon-grey shutters and trees that were just beginning to shoot green. The morning after his arrival he woke early, shaved, leaving his upper lip untouched; then inspected himself in the mirror to see what other changes he could make, and decided to rely simply on sunglasses, and a hat.
It was a pale grey morning, with the promise of a hot day. The square was still deserted, but in the street down to the railway station a couple of bars were open where workmen in blue overalls were bracing themselves with the first drink of the day. The newspaper kiosk was opposite the station. The local papers were folded out on top and one of them had a photograph on the front page of the panel-truck, with an arrow marking the bullet hole in the window.
Packer selected both local papers and strolled across to the station, where he bought Le Monde and Le Figaro, not wishing to attract attention by buying all four papers at once. Then he went into the station brasserie, ordered coffee, pain et beurre, and started reading.
None of the papers contained one mention of him or Ryderbeit; nor of the discovery of the Fiat hired by Monsieur Cassis of Liechtenstein; and there was nothing at all about the Ruler. As for the abandoned
