“I’ve no idea. But the Chinese secret police, who were running Henry, discovered that he was having secret meetings with British Intelligence. In St. James’ Park. That Henry Bulling was a double agent. They abducted him from his flat and somehow got the truth out of him. Henry gave them your name.”
“Ah, it all starts to make sense. The Te-Wu may well have issued a death warrant with my name on it,” Ambrose said. “Sending a signal to MI6 to mind its own business. That wouldn’t be unusual.”
“Ambrose, how can you be so damned cool about this information? She, the woman, was apparently the one who orchestrated the kidnapping and did the interrogating. She gave Bulling a choice. She could kill him. Or he could kill you.”
“He missed, didn’t he?” Ambrose said, feeling a sudden pang for Mrs. Purvis. After all, the bullet that had nearly nicked her heart had been meant for his.
“Yes, and thank God he did miss, Ambrose. But I fear the next attempt will not be quite so catch-as-catch- can.”
“You were very kind to call, Diana,” Ambrose said. “And, wise. Now, let me pour you a brandy. I think we could both use one.”
“I need to be clear in my mind. That man, the one with orange hair, Ambrose,” she began, “is your cousin.”
“Yes. Caught spying on the French by the Chinese. Who clearly have something to hide.”
“Yes. And if he’s dead, the woman is planning to kill you herself. Jeremy managed to sneak a peek at her when they left. She was Chinese, Ambrose. She was the woman in the photograph. That dreadful Chinese spy.”
“Yes, I guessed as much. Hawke and I had a small run-in with the Chinese some years ago. Nasty affair. A lot of people ended up dead. We, Hawke and I, ended up on some kind of list in Beijing, according to MI6. Since I’ve been rattling their cage recently, I suppose it’s possible the Mandarins have worked their way round to me again.”
“Again?”
“Their previous attempts were unsuccessful. I thought they’d forgotten about me. It is not beyond the realm of possibility that my dear cousin Henry would sic this woman on me out of pure spite and malice. Or that he is himself very much alive and the true villain of the piece. He does have motive, after all. He is of the opinion that I stole his inheritance.”
“Your lovely cottage.”
“Yes. Heart’s Ease. We shall see whether or not that shoe fits. Diana, you used the phrase ‘running him’ a few moments ago. Spy lingo. Do you enjoy such light entertainments? Spy thrillers and the like?”
“Well, I—”
There was a sound beyond the window. A dull thud, as if something heavy had fallen in the rose bed. Lady Mars leaped to her feet, her hand at her throat.
“Ambrose! Someone has been listening at that window!”
“Get down, Lady Mars!” Ambrose said, moving to the window and pulling his gun. “Get on the floor, now!”
The glass in the window exploded inward and a bullet tore into the plasterwork inches away from Congreve’s head. He saw a dark blur of shadow moving quickly away from the window. He raised his pistol and fired once, twice, three times.
Chapter Twenty
Hawkesmoor
“GOOD MORNING, YOUNG PELHAM!” AMBROSE CRIED, STORMING into the kitchen, the bright yellow scarf wound round his neck fluttering behind him like a cricket pennant on opening day. “Come out, come out, wherever you are!”
“He’s in the butler’s pantry, Chief Inspector,” said a pretty young woman in a toque blanche who was sitting at a counter sorting Brussels sprouts. A beam of pure sunlight was streaming down on her white bowl of green vegetables and it looked like the kind of scene that would have sent Vermeer or his like rushing madly for his brushes.
“You’ll find me back here, sir,” Pelham’s distinctive and fluty voice floated from the pantry.
“A-ha!” Ambrose said, and headed in that direction, nodding and smiling at all and sundry. “Good morning, all! Lovely day, isn’t it?”
Congreve had awoken in a splendid humor. He wasn’t sure what was behind it. Still alive, for one thing. His marvelous new car, perhaps, or, chasing murderers in the moonlight across the grounds at Brixden House. Or the kiss Diana had planted on his cheek when he’d said goodnight. Whatever it was, life seemed full of sunshine and bursting with promise.
“Good morning, sir!” the kitchen staff replied as one, their voices hale and full of good cheer. This unbridled enthusiasm for the day at hand was one of the reasons Ambrose so enjoyed these early morning surprise visits to Hawkesmoor. The house was always a bustle of happy activity on a clear, sunny summer morning like this one. In the kitchens, in the gardens, in the stables, and throughout the house itself. Everywhere one went, someone was polishing something, dusting books, plumping pillows, making acres of glass sparkle in the sun.
It had become, Ambrose reflected as he passed through the bustling kitchen, a happy house once more. Vicky’s untimely death had cast a pall over Hawkesmoor. Alex Hawke’s doomed bride had been a great favorite in this house. Everyone was keenly anticipating the arrival of Lady Hawke, the new mistress of Hawkesmoor and the first woman to lay claim to that title since the death of Alex’s mother, tortured and killed at the hands of pirates in the Caribbean in the seventies.
When you thought about it, as Ambrose did at that moment, Alex Hawke’s entire life was just one long pirate story.
Victoria Sweet’s horrific murder on the steps of St. John’s Church had shocked and saddened everyone under this roof. And, indeed, many people throughout England still spoke of her loss with great sorrow. They had been a beautiful, popular couple. An aura of permanence and glamor seemed to surround them. It all vanished in an instant. After Hawke returned from Vicky’s funeral in Louisiana, this house, once so full of youth and promise, had gone dark once more.
Alex left Hawkesmoor for good after weeks of grieving, vowing never to return to the scene of so much sorrow. But now, on this fine June morning, it seemed as if the very sun itself had once more come from behind the clouds. And, perhaps it had.
“Ah, there you are, young Pelham!” Ambrose said, and sailed his straw boater into the pantry, causing the aged retainer to duck his head.
“Morning, Mr. Congreve,” the octogenarian said, giving the chief inspector a decidedly narrow look. In Pelham’s personal view, the man sometimes bordered on the overly boisterous.
Pelham said, “I’m just on my way up to his lordship with the morning tray. Follow along, if you’d like.”
“Having breakfast in bed, is he?” Congreve frowned.
“Hardly. His lordship was down for his breakfast at six, sir. Had it out there on the lawn with his papers, joined by a gentleman from the CIA, a houseguest who has since departed via helicopter. A helo, I believe he called it.”
“Ah, what’s this, then?” Ambrose asked, looking at the silver tray Pelham was preparing.
“A lemon, sir,” the butler sniffed. He was long accustomed to Congreve snooping about the kitchen, lifting pot lids and sampling soups. The two men had joined forces to raise the child Hawke after the loss of his parents and, finally, his grandfather when the boy was not yet twelve. Theirs was a long-simmering rivalry over the care and feeding of Alex Hawke.
“I can see that, Pelham, but what’s it for?”
“He’s going to eat it, sir. It’s become his daily midmorning pick-me-up, as it were.”
“Eat a whole lemon? Good lord. Why?”
“Some kind of new diet, sir. He is attempting to purge his body. I believe the word for his new regimen is
