Stone Barrington: The Short Forever Part 17

"Of course you will." She hung up.

Stone took some aspirin, had breakfast, and soaked in a hot tub for half an hour. Feeling more human, he read the papers, then the phone rang again. "h.e.l.lo?"

"Mr. Barrington?" A female voice.

"Yes."

"It's Audie, at Doug Hayward's. Your jackets are ready for a fitting; when would you like to come in?"

Stone glanced at his watch. "Ten minutes?"

"Perfect; see you then."

Stone threw some things in a bag, told the concierge to cancel his flight to New York, left his bag with the doorman, and walked up the block to Hayward's shop. The tailor got him into a collection of loosely st.i.tched pieces of cloth that only slightly resembled a jacket, made some marks, then ripped out the sleeves and made some more marks-twice, once for each jacket.

"Good," Hayward said. "How long are you staying in London?"

"I'm not sure."

"I can probably have these ready for your last fitting in a week, if you're still around."

"I suppose I will be. Doug, do you know a man named Lance Cabot?"

"I've made a lot of clothes for him."

"Know much about him?"

"He pays my bills; that's about it."

"Oh."

"You hungover this morning?" Hayward asked.

Stone nodded.

"Have a pint of bitter at lunch; that'll set you right."

Stone nodded again. He left the shop and walked back to the Connaught. Sarah was sitting out front in what appeared to be a toy car. It was little more than a bright orange box, with a tiny wheel at each corner. She stuck her head out the window.

"You're late, and your bag's in the boot."

"What boot?" Stone asked, walking around the car.

"Get in!"

The doorman held the door open for him.

"Now I know how the clowns at the circus feel," he said, folding his body and getting awkwardly into the vehicle. Surprisingly, he fit and was not uncomfortable.

Sarah threw the car into gear, revved the engine, and drove away up Mount Street at a great rate, the car making a noise like an adolescent Ferrari. A moment later, they were in busy Park Lane, whizzing through traffic.

Stone looked out the window and saw the pavement rus.h.i.+ng past, and it seemed closer than he had ever been to it. He had the feeling that, if they hit a b.u.mp, he would sc.r.a.pe his a.s.s on the tarmac.

"Ever been in one of these?" Sarah asked.

"A Mini? I've seen them around London."

"A Mini Cooper," she said. "Very special, from the sixties. I had this one restored, and it's very fast." She changed down, accelerated across two lanes, and careened into Hyde Park.

Stone winced. Why was it his lot in this country to ride with women who drove as if they had just stolen the car? "Try not to kill me," he said.

"Frankly, you look as though death would come as a relief," she replied. "What were you drinking?"

"Port."

"Ahhhhh. Goes down easily, doesn't it?"

"All too easily."

"And who was your host?"

"A man named . . . Bartholomew." He still didn't feel comfortable calling him Hedger.

"English or American?"

"American, but an anglophile."

"Thus, the port."

"Yes."

"How did you like the Garrick?"

"It's beautiful."

"They're just about the last of the old London clubs that still bar women from members.h.i.+p," she said. "I rather admire them for it; I think I enjoy going there more because it has an entirely male members.h.i.+p."

"Hmmpf," Stone said. He was drifting off.

He came to in a hurry a few minutes later, as he was thrown hard against his seat belt. He looked out the winds.h.i.+eld to see the narrow road ahead filled with sheep. One came up to his window and briefly pressed its nose against the gla.s.s, and it was eye to eye with him. "Where are we?" he asked.

"In the middle of a flock of sheep," Sarah replied. "They have the right of way in the country."

"I mean, where are we?"

"Halfway there. You hungry?"

Oddly, he was. "Yes."

"There's a pub round the bend; we'll have a ploughman's lunch." She drove on when the sheep had pa.s.sed, then turned into a picturesque country pub. They went inside, picked up their lunch-bread, cheese, and sausage, and a pint of bitter each, then made their way into a rear garden and sat down.

Stone drank deeply from the pint. "There, that's better," he said.

"The bitter will set you right," Sarah said.

"That's the second time today I've been told that."

"And we were both right, no?"

"Yes, you both were. What do you know about Lance Cabot?"

"I told you already-not much."

"Remember everything you can. Anything ever strike you as odd about him?"

"Only that he seems to fit in awfully well with English people. People I know don't even seem to regard him as a foreigner."

"Have you ever seen him with anyone you didn't know?"

She thought. "Once, in a London restaurant, I saw him across the room, dining with a couple-man and woman-who looked foreign."

"What kind of foreign?"

"Mediterranean."

"That's a big area."

"Turkish or Israeli, perhaps."

"Describe them."

"About his age, well dressed, attractive-the woman, particularly. She was quite beautiful, in fact."

"Could you hear them talking?"

"No, but they didn't seem to be speaking English. I couldn't read their lips, and I'm quite good at that, even from a distance. I don't know if I told you, but as a child I had some sort of flu or virus that resulted in a sharp hearing loss. My hearing came back after a few months, but during that time I became adept at reading lips. Most people couldn't tell I was hard of hearing."

Stone nodded in the direction of a young couple sitting on the opposite side of the garden. "Tell me what they're talking about."

Sarah squinted in their direction for a moment, then giggled. "She's lying to him," she said.

"How?"

"She's saying they were just friends, that they never slept together, and he believes her, but she's lying."

"How do you know?"

"I can just tell."

"You're a woman of many talents," he said.

"I thought you already knew that."

"I had forgotten how many."

"Don't worry," she said, "I'm going to remind you."

25.

THEY DRESSED FOR DINNER AND DINED in a smaller room than last time, at a round table, the heavy curtains drawn to shut out the night, in the English fas.h.i.+on. Stone didn't understand why the Brits did that; he enjoyed the long summer twilights.

The talk ranged through politics, sport, and the relations.h.i.+p between the English and the Americans. Stone noticed that Lord and Lady Wight, during this part of the conversation, seemed to feel that Lance was on their side of things, while Stone and Erica occupied the other. It was as Sarah had said; the Brits were very comfortable with Lance, considering him one of their own. Stone couldn't figure out why.

Port was served with Stilton at the end of the meal, and Stone sipped warily from his gla.s.s, his hangover having only just disappeared. At some invisible signal, the ladies rose and left the room. Stone nearly went with them, but Lance signaled him to stay.

"Over here, the ladies go somewhere, and the gentlemen stick around for cigars," Lance explained, lighting something Cuban.

Stone despised cigars-smoking them or smelling somebody else smoking them.

Wight did not light a cigar, but sniffed at Lance's. "My doctor has taken me off them," he said. "b.l.o.o.d.y cruel, if you ask me." He looked at a pocket watch from his waistcoat. "If you gentlemen will excuse me, I'm turning in early. My respects to the ladies." He got up and left.

They sat quietly for a moment, Stone playing with his port, Lance puffing his cigar and staring at the windows, as if he could see through the thick drapes and out into the night.

"You asked me a strange question the other day," he said finally. "I'd like to know why."

"About Hedger?"

Lance nodded almost imperceptibly.

"I have a lot to tell you about that," Stone said.

Lance waved the cigar, as if motioning him onward.

"Last week a man showed up in my office, recommended by Woodman and Weld, and introduced himself as John Bartholomew."

Lance shot him a glance.

"I take it you understand the significance of that name," Stone said.

Lance shrugged slightly.

"He told me that he was concerned about his favorite niece-his dead sister's child-that she had run off to England with someone of whom he suspected evil things. He retained me to come over here and see if I could disentangle the girl from the clutches of this ogre. Normally, I wouldn't take on such an a.s.signment, but he had pa.s.sed muster with Woodman and Weld, and they had urged me to help him, so I came."