Tsar

“I am,” Congreve said, his eyes shining. “Very.”

Hawke smiled. “Good. Then let’s get down to cases, shall we, Ambrose? Tell me, how does it look?”

“How does what look?”

“Come on. The bling-bling.”

“The bling-bling?” Congreve said, regarding Hawke as if he’d lost his mind. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“The rock, the ice, the D flawless. Remember?”

“The ring, do you mean, for heaven’s sake? My mother’s diamond?”

“Yes, of course, the ring, Constable. The diamond engagement ring. Was she floored? KO’d in the very first round, I’ll wager.”

“Still upright, I’m afraid. I haven’t given the thing to her yet.”

“Not given it to her? Really? Based on our last dinner conversation at Black’s in London, I should have thought the presentation was imminent. That’s why you two were coming out to the balmy mid-oceanic isles. Seal the deal or do the deed or whatever.”

“Hmm.”

“So. Where does the thing stand now? Are you engaged or not?”

“Bit difficult to say, really, isn’t it?”

“Not at all. You proposed to the woman. She accepted. I was there at Brixden House the night you dropped a knee, remember? That orchestral proposal? Berlioz?”

“Ah, yes. That’s correct. But there have been…complications. Things have arisen since then.”

“What kind of complications?”

“Well, I mean to say, difficulties.”

“Difficulties with what?’

“Communication, apparently.”

“Communication?”

“Hmm.”

“What about it?”

“It seems we don’t.”

“Don’t communicate?”

“Precisely. Don’t communicate my deepest feelings.”

“You’re a man. You don’t have any deep feelings.”

“I keep saying that.”

“She loves you.”

“I know. And I her.”

“Well? Give her the bloody ring, and get on with it! Is there anything on earth more symbolic of one’s deepest feelings? I mean, a diamond is forever. Isn’t that what they say?”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right. You brought the rock along to Bermuda, one hopes. Ideal setting to bestow precious stones upon females feeling insecure about a chap’s deepest feelings, much less his honorable intentions.”

“Yes, yes, of course I’ve brought it. It’s upstairs in my shaving kit, awaiting the ideal moment. Perhaps on a sail in the moonlight. Something along those lines.”

“In your shaving kit? You’re kidding.”

“No, no. It’s safe as houses. I’ve got an old can of mousse a raser with a false bottom. It’s in the bottom of the can.”

“I suppose that’s all right if you trust the staff. I’d hide it someplace more original were I you. When do you intend actually to bend the final knee, then, old fossil? Full moon tonight, you know. How those facets will sparkle. I could excuse myself early and-”

“Alex, please. These things take time. Planning. I alone will know when the moment is right. Now, then, what are you up to? You certainly look tan and fit. No hint of the dreaded accidie about you.”

“Accidie? Is that more of your bloody French lingo?”

“Boredom, Alex, in any language. You show no signs of it, dear boy. What accounts for that? Keeping busy, are you, you and Pelham in that cozy little cottage of yours? Bermuda’s own odd couple, I must say.”

“Pelham and I? We’re not odd at all. A trifle eccentric, perhaps, rough and ready, but hardly odd.”

“So, what do you two hardy boys do with yourselves all day? To keep you both from going barking mad?”

“Pelham has his needlework in the evening. He’s taken up fishing, too, uses a monofilament hand line and reels them in by the bucket-load. Many’s the evening he fries up something he’s hooked in our little lagoon. Rockfish a la Pelham with a Gosling’s Black Seal rum sauce. Bloody marvelous should you ever be lucky enough to receive a coveted invitation to Teakettle Cottage.”

“Diana and I would be delighted. What else?”

“Bit of Scrabble or Whist on rainy nights, the two of us. I’m reading a lot. I finished Tom Sawyer, and now I’m on to Huckleberry Finn. Bloody marvelous, Mark Twain, I never realized. Did you know Twain adored Bermuda? Came here scores of times.”

“I need hardly remind you your dear mother was born on the Mississippi, Alex. Small wonder you find Mr. Clemens’s marvelous books so appealing.”

“I suppose you’re right. I do get a sense of her in those pages of his.”

“So, in a nutshell, you’re reading Twain by the fireside while Pelham lurks about down by the lagoon, harrying the finny denizens of the deep. That about it?”

“What else? We’ve a small stable on the property, and I ride on the beach most mornings. Good strong black horse named Narcissus, loves to run. Swimming a good deal helps, I suppose. Six miles a day. Which reminds me. I must tell you about the most remarkable woman I met this afternoon and-”

Lady Diana Mars appeared at Hawke’s elbow, all gossamer and glittering stones at the neckline and sparkling in her swept-up auburn hair. She was a beautiful woman with a fine mind and a generous spirit, and Congreve was damned lucky to have found her, especially so late in his life. Alex, along with everyone else, had put the renowned detective down for a lifelong bachelor. Diana had changed all that.

“Alex, you darling boy,” she said, going up on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “It’s so very good to see you.”

“And you,” Hawke said. “You look lovely, Diana, absolutely radiant. And Shadowlands is wonderful.”

“I’ll give you the grand tour later if you’d like. We can even take the Scarlet Runner around the grounds. They’ve gotten the steam engine up and running again, apparently. But right now, I’ve got to go to the kitchen and see about dinner.”

“Just us three,” Hawke said. “What a treat.”

Ambrose and Diana looked at each other.

Diana said, “Well, yes, Alex, it was just the three of us until about an hour ago. We’ve a surprise guest for dinner. Ambrose hasn’t told you?” She looked at her man again, and Congreve frowned.

“Sorry, dearest, hadn’t got round to it yet,” Ambrose said, expelling a fragrant cloud of Peterson’s Irish Blend.

“Coward,” Diana said to her beloved, taking Ambrose’s hand and squeezing it.

“Well, who is this mystery guest?” Hawke asked, looking at the two of them, who were looking at each other. “Don’t tell me the monarch heard I was coming and arrived unexpectedly on your doorstep.”

“No, no, not Her Majesty the Queen, I’m sorry to say. But someone equally formidable. Tell him, dear, don’t keep the poor boy hanging.”

Ambrose looked at Hawke like a brain surgeon steeling himself to deliver a less than ideal diagnosis.

“Sir David Trulove rang me up earlier today, Alex. He just arrived in Bermuda late last evening. I offered to put him up, but he’s staying with some dear old friends who live here on the island, Dick and Jeanne Pearman. They’ve a lovely place over in Paget called Callithea. They’ve put Sir David in their guest house, Bellini.”

“C is here? On Bermuda? Why?”

C was the chief of MI-6, the British Intelligence Service. As far as Hawke knew, his idea of an extended vacation was a leisurely stroll to the corner concessionaire for a pack of his favorite smokes, Morland’s, a blend of Turkish and Balkan tobaccos with three gold bands on the filter.