director of domestic intelligence at Five. She's at the scene now and should be here shortly. Do be seated, won't you?' Prince Charles said, coming around from behind his simple walnut desk. 'Some refreshments after your journey? Tea? Coffee? Something stronger? Whatever you'd like.'
'Tea! Lovely idea!' Congreve blurted out, the proper form of address not quite ready to trip off the end of his tongue. Charles smiled inwardly. Over the course of his very public life, he'd seen every possible kind of effect that he had on 'normal' people. Some of it, like Congreve's, he found rather touching.
The Prince looked over at the footman standing by the door. 'We'll have tea, please, William,' he said.
'Your Highness,' the fellow said, then bowed, retreated backward a few steps, and slipped more quickly than mercury through a door only slightly ajar.
The future King of England crossed the paneled, high-ceilinged, book-lined room and took a well-worn wingback chair by the hearth. A spindly table beside it supported a precariously leaning stack of books. Hawke and Congreve had settled into two occasional chairs facing the fireplace. The tea service arrived within a minute or two, astounding Congreve.
This place operated like a tightly run battleship, Ambrose saw, and he was somehow pleased by the observation. Despite the hoary view most people took of the Royals, doddering around in their palaces, ringing for servants, he'd seen nothing of the like here at Highgrove. It was a spirited, tightly run ship that felt, somehow, lean and mean.
Charles looked carefully at his old friend Hawke, sizing him up for the tasks at hand.
Alex certainly looked fit, well tanned, and, considering recent events, even relaxed, his legs crossed at the knee, looking for all the world like what he was-a man to the manner born-but hard inside, hard as local stone.
Chief Inspector Congreve was another story. A roundish chap, with rather flashy socks, thinning walnut-brown hair, and a well-tended moustache, his hands were shaking too badly to pick up a cup and have his tea poured, so Hawke did it for him. Whether it was from the horror of the recent incident or simply being in the presence of royalty, Charles could not discern.
Hawke poured himself a cup of steaming hot water, plain, no lemon, no sugar.
'A paragon of virtue these days,' the Prince of Wales said, smiling. 'Abstaining even from tea?'
'Well, I've some serious mending to do and I damn well intend to do it. No caffeine for a while.'
Doesn't even drink tea anymore? Congreve thought, staring at the man he thought he knew better than anyone on earth. Clearly not.
Leaning forward in his chair, the Prince of Wales said, 'Alex, I made sure you and Chief Inspector Congreve were first to arrive so I might go over a few things with you both privately. After I'm finished with my little spiel, perhaps the three of us will have time for a short stroll in the gardens. There've been a lot of changes since last you were here and I'm most anxious for you to see everything. Does that suit?'
'Certainly, sir,' Hawke said, glancing at Congreve at this mention of gardens.
'An honor and a pleasure, Your Highness,' Congreve said, giving Hawke a squirrely 'I told you so' glance. 'I'm an avid gardener myself so it will be a special treat to see what wonders you've created.'
'I do love it so,' Charles said, getting to his feet and strolling across the room to the tall French windows overlooking his gardens.
Hawke turned toward Prince Charles. 'May I ask whom else you've invited, Your Highness?'
'Indeed. I kept it a small group, deliberately. You both know most of them. Head of MI5, Lord Malmsey. Sahira Karim, the woman who was just behind you on the road. Sir David Trulove of MI6, of course, and another chap from MI6. A most delightful Indian fellow who's on my board at the Prince's Trust, one of my oldest, most trusted friends. His name is Montague Thorne, not his real name of course. Monty was orphaned in the Indian partition and adopted at a very early age by Lady Thorne, my neighbor here in the country. He's an absolute fiend for gardening, out there digging away right now. Surely you know Montague, Alex?'
'Just enough to say hello in the lift. Brilliant mind, diligent, and highly regarded. Heir apparent to Sir David, so goes the gossip,' Hawke said, and Charles nodded as if he knew that to be true.
'Ah, there's Monty now,' Charles said, throwing open the wide double windows and leaning out into the sunshine to wave to his unseen friend below. 'Alex, Ambrose, do come say hello to my dear friend, won't you?'
Hawke and Congreve rose and went to the window, standing to either side of the Prince of Wales. Below, on the gravel pathway, was a tall, good-looking man with a wheelbarrow full of plant cuttings. He had to be close to seventy, but he looked to be in his late fifties.
'Monty, please say hello to Alex Hawke and Ambrose Congreve, won't you? They've just arrived.'
'Hullo up there!' Thorne called with a brilliant white smile, doffing his hat. 'Welcome to Highgrove, gentlemen.' He set down his heavy barrow and strode over so that he was standing just beneath the Library window, rubbing his rough, dirty hands together before placing them on his hips. He wore pleated vanilla trousers and a soaked- through white linen shirt, open at the neck. Removing a white bandanna he wore tied around his neck, he mopped his brow.
'You've been busy, I see, Monty,' Charles said, smiling down at him. 'Good work.'
'Well, those privet hedges round the dahlia beds in the Sundial Garden needed a good trimming so I thought I'd start there.'
'Dahlias?' Congreve exclaimed, like a man jolted by five thousand volts via live wire. 'What species is Your Royal Highness growing?'
'Hybrids, mostly. Are you familiar with 'Aurora's Kiss'?'
'Indeed I am, sir! Why just last Spring at Chelsea I was…'
While Charles, Ambrose, and Thorne standing below chatted happily about gardening, a subject about which Hawke had zero interest, he took the opportunity to study Thorne, who was smiling up into the sun at the three men in the window.
Alex was naturally curious about the fellow who might one day well become his superior at MI6. Although he had, on more than one occasion, overheard Sir David Trulove refer to Monty as 'that Thorne in my side,' Hawke often wondered what barbs C might utter about him when he was out of earshot.
Thorne was a tall, well-built man, broad shouldered but with a trim waist. His cheeks were sharp planes beneath the eyes. One eye was covered with a black silk eye-patch. The patch, combined with the easy, flashing grin, gave Montague Thorne a rakish, almost piratical air. The actor Errol Flynn came to mind.
His clear, dark honey-toned skin was that of an outdoorsman, rich with a deep, healthy tan. He still had thick black hair, brushed straight back, going to salt and pepper at the temples and close cropped at the sides like a Prussian general. A long aquiline nose and thin lips gave him a somewhat predatory appearance. Hawke decided he liked the fellow on the spot, but why?
The easy smile, the lack of self-consciousness, the twinkle in the one dark brown eye. Both communicated bemusement with the follies of this world, but without the merest trace of self-satisfaction.
Hawke leaned out the window and called down, 'Nice to finally meet the legendary Mr. Thorne.'
'The honor is all mine, sir,' Thorne said, sweeping the sweat-stained white plantation hat from his head and executing a deep bow. 'The famous 'Warlord.' What a very great pleasure, indeed.'
'Warlord?' Hawke said, baffled.
Thorne laughed. 'No offense, Alex. It's what the wags in my section call you. The Warlord.'
'I'm afraid I don't get the joke.'
Thorne grinned and said, 'Why, you're the 'lord,' Alex, the lord who's 'always off to war.'' He put his hands on his waist and threw his head back, laughter bubbling up from deep inside. Quite a jolly fellow, Hawke thought, for all his good looks and polished sophistication.
Smiling, Hawke said, 'Ah, I see. I'll have to remember that title when I have new business cards engraved.'
'Well, I'd best get cleaned up,' Thorne said, 'or I shall miss all the fireworks.' He grabbed the wooden handles of his wheelbarrow and disappeared around a corner of the main house.
ONCE THE THREE MEN RETURNED to their seats, Charles picked up where he'd left off. 'I mentioned the new director of domestic intelligence at MI5, Sahira Karim. Now at the crime scene. She is someone whom, I must say, I don't know anything about. Do either of you know her?'
'She's brilliant,' Congreve said. 'And apparently quite extraordinarily beautiful. Grew up in the slums of Delhi, family emigrated to England, took a first at Oxford in Far Eastern studies, and went on to take postgraduate degrees in physics and nuclear engineering. She was soon recruited by MI5, for obvious reasons.'
