This mechanical wizard (all right, it was dated) was nothing short of a personal rocket to the moon! He was free, in the bargain, free to roam, no longer held captive to the demonic Ross Sutherland and his midget racer. And, now, he was off to a midnight rendezvous with a beautiful woman—wait! He’d better let Mrs. Purvis know he was going out, lest she wonder if the new car was being stolen.
He’d had a wall phone mounted in the garage against the day when he’d spend more time out here, puttering around with wrenches and the like, cleaning the carburetors and whatnot. He climbed out of the Morgan and reached for the phone. He’d found this daunting egress far easier to accomplish with the top down, so he’d taken to leaving it down at all times. He’d already decided not to drive his dreamboat more than a mile from home if it even smelled like rain.
Someone was saying “Hello?” on the other end of the line.
“Oh, Mrs. Purvis, yes. I am so sorry to bother you at this hellish hour, but it’s Mr. Congreve, as I’m sure you know. Saw your light on. I just rang to inform you that I’m about to go out in the new car. You know, the Morgan. Take it for a spin about the countryside. I didn’t want you to worry needlessly on my account.”
“Not at all, Mr. Congreve. I saw the light go on in the garage and I supposed that’s what you were doing. I’m just tending to my needle-point. I must warn you that you’ve quite a surprise coming your way next Christmas. I am an absolute demon when it comes to needle-point.”
“Ah. Well, splendid. I’m off then, Mrs. Purvis, with a roar and a chitty-chitty, bang-bang. Goodnight!”
He climbed back aboard the contraption and hit the ignition button. The Morgan roared to life (well, perhaps “roar” was too strong a word), and he engaged reverse and backed the thing carefully out of the garage. Reverse, he’d recently learned, was a damned tricky business. When one went backward, everything was the reverse of going forward. Eminently logical, but still. Took some getting used to, naturally, but he’d crack it. That crumpled left rear fender and brake-light assembly would be fairly easy to mend, he guessed.
Half an hour later, he’d found his way to the A404 to Marlow. From there, he simply followed his memory and swung through the stately Brixden House gates five minutes later. Moonlight turned the Roman sarcophagi in the gardens blue. After a seemingly endless succession of orchards and sloping meadows, he came to a narrow lane that ran east along the silvery Thames. He saw one of the tall brick chimneys through the treetops first. Smoke was curling out over the gabled slate roof. Lady Mars had apparently arrived at Spring Cottage first and got a fire going.
He turned right into a small car park beside the Tudor cottage. It was situated in a thickly wooded plot on a bend in the river. The many windows on the two sides he could see were dark, but there was an orange glow visible within the fanlight above the front entrance. He tried the door; it was open. He pushed inside and saw orange light licking the walls of a further room. The fire was the only light burning in the house. The smell of smoke cut through the musty odors of a place long closed and shuttered.
“Hello? Is that you, Diana?” he said, pausing in the doorway of the library. The fact that it might not be, he had to admit, had occurred to him. Someone, he still hadn’t learned who, was trying to kill him. He sometimes found himself thinking like a mystery writer at times like these, and this deserted house by the river would be a perfect trap for the unwary victim. No one on earth knew he was here. Once he was done away with, it was simply a matter of weighting him down with stones and heaving him into the chilly dark waters flowing beyond the windows.
“Oh, Ambrose, I’m so glad you’re safe. Come take a seat by the fire,” Lady Mars said. Her voice was trembling.
There were two leather wing chairs facing the hearth. She was seated in the one to his left. In the firelight, her auburn hair had a reddish-gold glow. She was leaning forward, poking at the sparking embers with a fire-iron. On a low ottoman stood a many-faceted crystal decanter full of amber liquor and two glasses. He sat down and tried to speak. He realized that, having seen her face again, he could not.
“Er, well, here we are,” he managed.
“I’ll fill you in, dear, and then we’ll have an adult beverage,” she said, getting right down to it. “Does that suit?”
“Yes,” he said, and shut his mouth. Dear?
“My head gardener came to see me earlier this evening. His name is Jeremy Pordage. He was my father’s chief groundsman. He’s eighty-three years old. I’ve known him since I was a child. I would trust him with my life.”
“I see.”
“Jeremy and his wife attended services at St. John’s on Sunday as it was All Saints’ Day. St. John’s is a small chapel in the village of Upper Slaughter. Do you know it? It’s the church where that horrific murder occurred last summer. Do you remember?”
“I stood up for the groom at that wedding. I was Alex Hawke’s best man. Still am, I suppose.”
“Oh! How perfectly awful for you, Ambrose. And that poor man Hawke. I’m so sorry. Did they ever catch the fiend who killed his perfectly lovely bride?”
“Yes. We did manage that.”
“Ah. That’s some small consolation, I suppose. They should hang him high, if they haven’t already done so. At any rate, after church last Sunday, Jeremy and Alma decided to walk to Castle Combe for lunch. They took the country walk, not the roads. But, dear Alma twisted her ankle passing through a muddy stile. There was a small pub at the bottom of the hill. A place you’d certainly never go unless you knew of it.”
“What was the name of this pub?”
“The Feathers.”
“I know it. Please continue.”
“The proprietor showed them to a booth and brought tea. Alma wasn’t seriously injured, you see, she just needed to take the weight off the foot for a while. Shortly after they’d been seated, they heard the proprietor greeting another party. He seated them in the booth adjacent to the one Jeremy and Alma occupied. The seat backs were high, wooden, you couldn’t see from one booth to the other.”
“I understand perfectly. An overheard conversation.”
“Yes. It was a man and a woman. Jeremy recognized the male voice immediately and almost spoke up. It belonged to my butler, Oakshott.”
“Ah. The butler did it.”
“Ambrose, be serious a moment. The conversation Jeremy overheard was about you. Oakshott began by telling the woman about your visit to Brixden House. She became very agitated. Wanted to know everything he’d overheard during your visit. He’d heard a lot, Ambrose. He’s some kind of specter, I think, hears through walls. Oakshott told her all about that picture you showed me. The New Year’s Eve party. The man with the orange hair.”
“Stop. You were absolutely right to call me, Diana. Please continue.”
“The woman sounded very frustrated with the lack of action since the failed attempt on your life ten days ago. Why didn’t you tell me someone was trying to kill you? My dear boy, you’re in danger!”
“Diana, this is not the first time someone has thought the world would be a sunnier spot absent Ambrose Congreve. Were any other names mentioned?”
“The name Henry Bulling came up. I vaguely recall meeting him at Brixden House. He’s the fellow in the photo you showed me, isn’t he?”
Ambrose nodded.
“Somebody wants you dead, my dear Ambrose. Bulling does. Or she does. I don’t know. But they aim to kill you and they are apparently deadly serious about it.”
“Over my dead body,” Ambrose said, smiling.
The concern in Diana’s eyes was most touching. He reached over and patted her hand, which was fluttering like a white butterfly above the folds of her skirt. “Which one really wants me pushing up daisies, Diana? Surely not young Oakshott the butler. I’ve never harmed a blond hair on his brutishly handsome head.”
“Listen. Here’s what Jeremy was able to gather. Henry Bulling was some kind of spy inside the French embassy. He was in fact working for the Chinese government. Passing along information. Something to do with oil. New French refineries being built. Capacity of oil tankers, et cetera. Does this make any sense?”
“Indeed, it fits perfectly. One wonders why the Chinese are so interested in French oil, since the French have virtually none of their own. They import all of it from the Gulf States, most notably, until the war, Iraq.”
