Part 19 (1/2)

Helped by his companion, they both stumbled out of the office and down the stairs.

The injured party was Cyril Banks and he had to wait, moaning and crying, while Berrow found a doctor who would keep his mouth shut, knowing that the police would be checking the hospitals. Because he was an inveterate smoker and kept a spare cigarette case inside his elastic-sided boot, his foot was only badly bruised.

After the doctor had left, he and Berrow sat down to think up ways and means of getting that photograph back.

Harry knew who the culprits probably were and told the police. But when they called on Cyril, it was to find he appeared to be walking normally and there was no sign he had been shot. Threatened with everyone from the king to the prime minister, the police backed off with apologies.

When he heard the news, Harry a.s.sumed that they had hired a couple of men. ”Maybe,” he said to Ailsa, ”you should take some leave. They will try again.”

”I am not afraid,” said Ailsa, ”although I did have a fright. I am afraid I helped myself to some of your whisky.”

”That's all right. But be vigilant. There is a police guard now on the door downstairs.”

”We need to be subtle,” said Berrow. ”She looked like a real dried-up spinster. What about getting someone to romance her? Let me think. Who needs money?”

”Most of London society.”

”We need a charming wastrel.”

”There's Guy Delancey. Still owes me a packet from a baccarat game. But if he courts her and gets that negative, maybe there's another print with it and he'll see that photograph.”

”Don't worry. I'll tell him how we were set up.”

The dark days moved on to Christmas. The earl was preparing to remove to Stacey Court in the country. Harry had been invited to join them, and to Rose's amazement had accepted. He had been at her side as much as he could, but always at social occasions, and had not seemed to make any push to be alone with her.

Rose still diligently worked at the soup kitchen, forgetting in her zeal that the idea had originally been to get her photograph in the newspapers. She now wore her hair tightly bound up in a disinfected turban. At times she wearied of the smell and degradation of the people she was serving and could only marvel at Miss Friendly's unremitting and cheerful manner.

A hard frost had London in its grip. The earl ordered that the water pipes outside the town house were to be lagged with old sheets because he could see the burst pipes of less diligent owners glittering with long icicles.

Ailsa was leaving work one evening. She stopped outside a butcher's shop and looked up at the fat geese hanging from hooks.

A light pleasant voice behind her said, ”Which one would you like?”

Ailsa turned round. In the light of the shop, she saw a fas.h.i.+onably dressed man with a dissipated face and his tall silk hat worn at a rakish angle.

”I am admiring the birds, sir,” she said. ”I will not be buying one.”

”Going to be alone at Christmas?”

”Yes.”

”Me, too. Look, it's dashed cold evening. Why don't you join me for a drink in that pub over there?”

Ailsa surveyed him from under the brim of her black felt hat ornamented with a pheasant's feather. She had not had much to drink that day. Although Harry paid her a good salary, a large part of it went to an orphans' charity, some on food and rent and the rest on gin.

A pub was a public place. Nothing could happen to her there. Also, she was curious to find out why this man had waylaid her.

”Very well, sir,” she said. ”But just one. I have a weak head and I am not accustomed to strong liquor.”

Guy Delancey felt relieved. Berrow had said to charm her, get her drunk and either get the office keys out of her reticule or make her so besotted with him that she would turn over the negative.

He took her arm and guided her across the road through the traffic, which had ground to a halt as usual. The newspapers were complaining that the whole of London was seized up with too much traffic.

He found a corner table in the pub. A waiter came bustling up. ”What will you have, miss? Champagne?”

”No, I might try some gin. My mother used to like gin.”

”Gin it is. Make it a large one, and I'll have a large whisky.”

When the drinks arrived, Guy introduced himself. Ailsa thought of using a different name but then gave him her real one.

”Drink up,” said Guy.

”My father always used to say, 'Bottoms up,' and drain his gla.s.s. I've never tried that.”

”Let's try it now.”

”Bottoms up,” said Ailsa and knocked back her gla.s.s in one gulp. Guy followed suit.

He called the waiter and ordered another round. ”That poor waiter, running to and fro,” said Ailsa. ”Why does he not just bring the bottles?”

”Good idea!” Gosh, thought Guy, she'll be putty. A few more gla.s.ses and she'll do anything I want. He surveyed Ailsa with her flat chest, thin pale face and hooded eyes. Probably had nothing stronger than a gla.s.s of sweet sherry in all her life.

The waiter, as ordered, brought a bottle of whisky and a bottle of gin to the table.

”I'll be Mother,” said Ailsa, just as if she were pouring tea instead of liquor. ”Bottoms up!”

Guy soon began to feel his senses reeling. ”I shay,” he said, ”where d'you work?”

”I work for an orphans' fund,” said Ailsa. ”This is fun. Bottoms up!”

”You mean you don't work for Captain Cashcart?”