Avalon (22 page)

“Philip,” she replied, leaning against the windowsill. She crossed her long legs and tugged at her skirt. The movement sent an involuntary pang of desire through him, and he decided to throw caution to the wind and ask her out for a drink. “He said you were the most knowledgeable member of the staff when it came to royal succession and such.”

“Our Philip has been known to exaggerate,” he replied lightly. “Nothing I do is terribly important to anyone, I’m afraid. These days it’s little more than a game for intellectuals with a penchant for whimsy.”

She gave him a sly, seductive smile. “Oh, I’m sure it is much more important than that.” She stood, running her hands along her hips to straighten her skirt. “He also said you had a rather important project on at the moment and that you were becoming a little paranoid over it.”

“He — he did?” Collins grew flustered.

She took a step towards him. “Oh, yes.”

He could smell her perfume now; and it filled his head like a musky, purple mist.

“Well, one mustn’t believe everything one hears.” He laughed awkwardly. “Say, would you like to go for a drink?”

“I will,” she said, stepping yet closer, “if you promise to tell me about your special project. I find all this top-secret work very exciting.”

He edged away, backing into the desk. She stepped in close, almost touching him. He could feel the heat from her body radiating, enveloping him. Suddenly anxious, his hand fumbled on the desk behind him as he tried to remember exactly what documents he had left in her view.

“What have you got there?” she asked, bending around him. Her breasts brushed his arm, and a quiver of desire coursed through him. Her perfume made him dizzy.

“Nothing,” he said, putting his hand atop the file folder. “It’s nothing, really. Just some papers.”

He looked at her, and the eyes he had found so seductive earlier now glimmered with a queer, malevolent light. “Why are you doing this to me?” he asked, his voice growing small as fear squeezed him.

“To you?” She smiled, her lips curving away from her teeth. “It’s nothing personal, I assure you.”

Seizing the folder, she pulled it from his grasp and stepped away. “On second thought, I won’t be having that drink,” she said and, turning on her heel, she strode quickly towards the door.

“Wait!” he said weakly.

“Go to hell, Mr. Collins.”

A group of Chelsea football fans happened to be passing below. They had parked in one of the side streets nearby and were on their way to the stadium, hurrying to make the 7:00 kickoff. Their accounts to police varied slightly, but they all agreed it was the scream that had drawn their attention.

There was an ear-piercing screech, so loud they thought it was a fire alarm. The next thing they heard was the sound of glass shattering, and they looked to the upper floor of the building they were passing to see a body flying through the air.

Did he jump? the police wanted to know.

They shook their heads.

Was he thrown?

The witnesses looked at one another. No, they said, it was more like he was shot from a cannon.

The eldest of the young men described it, saying, “He just came flying out the window, yeah? Glass and everything — it just exploded like. And the geezer was screaming all the way down.”

“Until he hit them spears,” put in his younger brother, pointing to the wrought-iron railing. “He wasn’t screaming no more then.”

Did they see anyone leaving the building? Anything suspicious at all?

No, the Chelsea supporters replied, nothing at all.

“Look, can we go now?” asked the eldest of the group, a young man named Darren. “We’ve already missed the start.”

“In a moment,” replied the PC. “The Chief Inspector is on his way. He’ll want to ask you some questions. Won’t take a minute.”

“Where is he then? Let’s get on with it.”

“He’s on his way, Sunshine. What’s your hurry?”

“These tickets ain’t cheap, you know. We’ll miss the whole bloody match.”

While they waited, the area in front of the Royal Heritage Preservation Society was cordoned off with yellow-and-black-striped plastic tape, portable lights were brought in to illuminate the scene, and a tent was constructed over the body impaled on the railings. A crowd of detectives and scene-of-crimes officers swarmed over the front lawn, combing every blade of grass.

Eventually, the Chief Inspector showed up, and asked to see the witnesses. He had just begun taking down their names and addresses, when a black, chauffeur-driven Jaguar pulled up, having been allowed through the police barrier at the end of the road. A police constable met the car and, after a brief word with the occupants, opened the rear door and pointed across to Chief Inspector Kirkland.

The witnesses watched as a tall, immaculately dressed white-haired man emerged from the car and strode directly towards them. He greeted the Chief Inspector by name and asked, “May I see the body, please?”

Chief Inspector Kirkland hesitated, then said, “Sure, I suppose it won’t hurt anything. I’d appreciate anything you can tell me, Mr. Embries.”

The football supporters whined as they watched the two men walk together to the tent which now covered the corpse of the poor wretch who had jumped. The old man was inside only a few seconds, and came out again. They exchanged a few words, shook hands, and then the white-haired gent returned to his car.

As he was driven off, the witnesses caught a glimpse of his face in the police floodlights, and were struck by the fierce, almost fiery intensity of his pale gaze. Then the Chief Inspector hollered for a PC to finish taking down their particulars, and they were at last sent on their way.

Hoping to catch Jenny at the studio, James drove up to the pottery to find her. He crossed the bridge and started up the winding road, the steep hillside dark against a brilliant burgundy and orange sunset. The high tops of the hills were wearing a light dusting of snow — so it looked like another good year shaping up for the Braemar ski center. If it proved anything like last year’s bumper season, the small businesses of the area — like Jenny’s pottery factory — would do a healthy trade.

The JEJ monogram on a piece of pottery was becoming recognized as something special to those in the know. Since starting out in her father’s garage, Jenny had steadily built up a sizable business known as Glenderry Pottery, which now occupied the building she designed and built in the so-named glen high above little Derry Burn.

These days, the works employed four other people — two potters, and two dogsbodies to help with making clay, mixing glazes, shipping and so forth — and enjoyed a mostly seasonal trade, with customers traipsing all the way from Scandinavia, France, and Germany to buy bowls and goblets, platters, planters, covered cheese boards, teapots and mugs — all with the distinctive brown-flecked heather, white, and blue glaze of Jenny’s devising.

The small car park was empty, and he thought he had missed her; but as he pulled around the side of the building, he saw her car, and a light on at the back. He got out and stretched. He’d slept most of the day, and he was feeling groggy and shell-shocked from all that had gone before. He took a deep breath, drawing the clean, cold air deep into his lungs.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained
, he thought, and walked to the side door.

“Jenny?” he called, pushing the door open.

Stepping quickly into the darkened studio, he stood for a moment and was about to call again when he heard voices coming from among the drying racks at the rear. He walked towards the sound and met Jenny as she came around the corner with a tray of greenware mugs ready for firing.

“Here,” he said, “let me help you with those.”

“James!” she said, her smile fading. “You gave me a start.”

“I hollered just now,” he said, “but you didn’t hear me.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I came to see you.” He reached out to take the tray from her, but she shrugged him aside and hoisted it up onto the rack herself.

“You should have called first.”

“Sorry, I didn’t think —”

Just then someone called out from the rack behind them. “Hey, Jen, why don’t we drive over to Aberdeen for dinner tonight? I know this great little Thai place with fantastic lemon chicken. You’d love —”

James turned as Charles emerged from the racks with a tray of mugs in his hands. “Well, look who’s here,” he said.

“I didn’t know you had company,” James said under his breath.

“Here, make yourself useful.” Charles handed the tray to James to stack, and placed his hands on Jennifer’s shoulders. “Do you like Thai food, Jim? Fragrant rice, and all that?”

“It’s James,” replied James stiffly. “Uh, no, you two go ahead. Something’s come up. I just wanted to talk to Jenny a minute.”

“Talk away,” said Charles expansively. He made no move but stood looking on benignly, his hands kneading Jenny’s shoulders.

“Look, maybe I’d better call you later,” said James.

“Yes, maybe that would be best,” Jennifer replied crisply.

James stepped towards the door, feeling awkward and unhappy. “Good to see you again — um, James,” Charles called as he closed the door behind him.

Outside, James was overcome with jealous resentment. More than that, however, he kicked himself for taking Jenny’s affections for granted, assuming she would always be there for him when he wanted her. With a sick feeling in his gut, he glimpsed the possibility — no, the probability — that the train had left the station, and he wasn’t on it. He had no one to blame but himself.

He walked to his car and climbed in. Then he sat waiting, wondering, wishing he hadn’t been such a blind and selfish idiot. After a few minutes, the light at the back of the studio switched off, and James drove away, lest he be found spying on the couple when they came out. He drove back to Braemar and stopped at the Pipe & Drum for a quick pint before heading home. It was a typical Monday night, however, and the pub was nearly empty. He took a few sips, then reflected that drinking alone was a sad, lonely thing to do, paid up and headed back to the lodge.

Cal was there, cooking bacon and chips. “Where’s Embries?” asked James as he came into the kitchen. The helicopter was gone, and there were no other vehicles parked outside.

“How’d it go with Jenny?” Cal grinned as he gave the pan a shake over the flame.

“Progress,” replied James. “Is Embries here?”

“They went to London. Collins called and they dashed off — something to do with some documents.” He prodded the chips with a fork, and regarded James with such an air of expectation that James grew quickly irritated.

“What?” he demanded. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Cal smiled and shrugged good-naturedly. “No reason.”

“Then stop it.”

“Do I have to call you ‘Your Highness’?”

“Stop, all right? This isn’t funny.” James yanked out a chair and sat down at the table.

“Second thoughts?”

“Look,” said James sourly, “I hate to pop your balloon, Cal, but an awful lot of details have to fall into place for me to even begin to think about becoming King. The Government’s about to abolish the monarchy for one thing. And even if they handed it to me on a silver platter…”

Cal nodded understandingly. “You and Jenny had a fight, huh?”

“No, we didn’t have a fight,” snapped James.

“You’re acting like you had a fight.”

“Look, we didn’t have a fight. There’s been a slight misunderstanding. All right?”

Cal went back to prodding the chips. After a while he said, “I couldn’t find any beer. You want some toast?”

They ate at the kitchen table in companionable silence, and then decamped to the living room to watch TV. A little after seven o’clock the phone rang, and Cal returned to the kitchen to answer it. “Sure,” he nodded, “he’s here.” He turned in the doorway to look at James. “Not too good, apparently.” He paused. “Right, I’ll tell him. No problem. G’bye.”

He hung up the phone and said, “That was Embries. Something’s come up in London.”

“And?”

“He’ll call back and let us know the situation as soon as he can.”

“What kind of situation?”

“He didn’t say.”

“Anything else?” James inquired, unable to keep the irritation out of his voice.

“He wanted to know how the wedding plans were proceeding.”

“He asked that?”

“Not in so many words,” allowed Cal, “but that’s what he meant.”

Fed up with the tenor of the conversation, James stood and tossed the remote control to Cal. “I’m going to bed. I assume you’re staying here tonight?”

“I’m no supposed to let you out of my sight, laddie buck,” he replied. “Orders from headquarters.”

“Fine,” replied James. “See you in the morning.” He went to his room and got ready for bed. It was early yet, but he was knackered; he shuffled woodenly through his nighttime routine, undressing, brushing his teeth — he felt like a tin robot running on the last dregs of dry-cell energy. Even so, sleep was a long, restless time coming. His mind kept replaying an image of Jenny and Charles holding hands over a candlelit table, plighting their undying love while nibbling fragrant parcels of rice and lemon chicken.

In the end, he succumbed to a fretful dream-filled slumber in which hundreds of horses coursed in wild, swirling herds over empty moorland hills beneath black storm clouds, while men in chain mail shorts ran behind with flaming torches, setting fire to the summer-dry grass.

The Prime Minister switched off the late news and picked up his shoes from beside the leather recliner. He started for his bedroom at the back of the interconnecting suite of rooms which formed his apartment at Number Ten, when a knock came on the heavy, bomb-proof outer door. Thinking it was the duty officer, he turned back, wondering what fresh hell awaited him on the other side.

“Yes, Bailey, what is it?” he said, swinging the door open to reveal not the thick, squared-off form of the Downing Street night duty security officer, but the graceful curves of a flame-haired young woman dressed in a tight-fitting sheath of pale, glimmering platinum-colored material. Her hair was slicked back sleek and wet, as if she had just stepped from the bath. She wore no underclothes, and the clingy, shimmery cloth was so thin it looked like she was wearing water.