Who Guards a Prince?

by Reginald Hill

  “Oh, him. He’s dead.”

  “Dead!”

  His reaction was strong enough to penetrate the blankness and the girl continued with more animation. “Yeah. The other morning. They found him right here.”

  She pointed to the floor behind the counter, staring fixedly down as though the corpse might remanifest itself.

  “What did he die of?” asked McHarg harshly.

  “Nothing, really. He just fell. Old people do fall, don’t they? Banged his head. He was eating a sweet, they said. A humbug. It got stuck in his throat, so I suppose he choked, really. Yes, choked. Awful.”

  She nodded. McHarg looked at her with distaste. He had preferred the blankness to this token concern.

  He drove away, full of anger. This life which snatched away wives, alienated daughters, put young women in wheelchairs and choked old men with humbugs, how could anyone take it seriously?

  The Davisons lived in a pleasant prewar villa on the edge of a small dormer village a few miles northeast of Sanderton. Heather greeted him with her customary warmth and concern.

  Davison had been delayed at work and in his absence McHarg let Heather inveigle him into first admitting the existence and then identifying the cause of his despondent mood.

  The Chief Superintendent arrived in the middle of his account of Mr Flint’s death and there had to be a recap. Davison allowed a look of exasperation to flicker over his face when he heard the reason for McHarg’s interest in Flint, but said nothing till Heather had gone into the kitchen.

  “You don’t let things go, Douglas,” he accused.

  “It was a chance,” said McHarg. “It got me nowhere, but at least Wainwright can’t say we didn’t try.”

  “Wainwright? That fool. We don’t work for his pleasure, thank God.”

  “Three days ago you were worried enough about the shit he was stirring,” observed McHarg.

  “He seems to have got tired of it, I’m glad to say,” said Davison. “I had a drink with our revered editor this lunchtime, and after trying the provocative bit and failing, he confessed that the daft doctor had changed his tune, says he was probably mistaken, wants to forget the whole thing. I suggest we say a silent prayer of thanks and do the same. Now, tell me about Partington.”

  They talked and drank their way steadily through a bottle of single malt till Heather announced the meal was ready. It was the kind of plain, uncluttered food that McHarg liked, washed down with a lot of red wine. He would have preferred beer but found the wine palatable enough and certainly potent, leaving him at the end of the meal with a feeling of drowsy contentment he would not have thought possible a few hours earlier.

  It was pleasant to be in front of a fire, drinking large doses of smooth brandy in the company of friends solicitous about his health and happiness. The Davisons urged him to take some sick leave, perhaps even bring forward his American holiday. McHarg shook his head and refused, but gently, touched by their care.

  At ten-thirty the telephone rang and while Davison was out of the room, Heather said to him, “Have you thought of getting married again, Doug? A man like you needs a woman.”

  He looked at her, surprised. The wine and brandy must have got to her as well.

  “No,” he said. “I’ve not thought of it. Nor will, I doubt.”

  “Why not? If you meet the right person.”

  “What’s right for me?” he asked. “I’ve had my time. It was good, I wasted too much of it, it’s past.”

  Glancing at his watch, he added, more abruptly than he intended, “I’d better be off.”

  “It’s early yet,” said Heather. “Have another brandy.”

  “I’ve got to drive,” he said.

  “You needn’t,” she said. “Stay the night. There’s plenty of room.”

  The door opened and Davison came back in.

  “Anything important, dear?” asked Heather.

  “No, thank God,” said Davison. “Some of the things they bother me with, you’d wonder if they had minds of their own. Some more brandy, Douglas?”

  “I ought to be going,” McHarg said, but he let Davison refill his glass.

  “I’ve just told Doug he’s more than welcome to stay the night,” said Heather brightly.

  Davison looked blank for a moment, then said, “Yes, why not? Why not, Douglas? Come on, we’ll finish the bottle, talk about the old days. Excellent idea!”

  His enthusiasm seemed to grow visibly, but McHarg suddenly found he had little appetite for the old days.

  He downed the brandy in a single gulp and stood up. “No. I’ll be off, thanks all the same.”

  “Douglas, are you sure you’re OK for driving?” asked Davison anxiously.

  McHarg examined himself. The combination of drinks had made things a little hazier than an evening on straight Scotch would have done, but he felt in control. He doubted if there had been many times since Mavis died that a blood test wouldn’t have revealed he was over the legal level for driving.

  “I’m fine,” he said. “Thanks, both.”

  Outside the cold air cleared his brain, for the time being at least. He started the car, waved at the Davisons framed in the warm yellow glow of their doorway, and set off down the dark driveway on to the equally dark road. He drove slowly, would have driven slowly anyway along these narrow country ways between high-banked hedges, but drove the slower now because inside the car the mists had started swirling around his head once more. But he did not have too far to go once he hit the main road. A fairly steep hill led down to it, straight till it swung sharp left just before the junction. He wound down the window to catch the exhilarating rush of night air as he motored down it. It did its job of clearing his mind once more and he realized he was going a little too fast.

  He touched the brake pedal.

  Nothing happened.

  He slammed it flat, grabbed the handbrake and pulled, his fuddled brain taking a few precious seconds to admit that nothing was going to happen.

  The bend was rushing towards him.

  He thrust the clutch pedal down, crashed the gears from fourth to first, heard the grinding of metal, saw the lights of a car round the corner, just beginning to climb the hill.

  He hit the horn for a moment, then needed both hands to swing the wheel over.

  With a clear road he would have made it, but even his diminishing speed was enough to take him wide on the bend. The other car was a Mini.

  There were two people in it, a man and a woman. Or, more properly, a boy and a girl. He saw their youth as clearly as he saw their fear in that moment before the impact.

  They hit.

  The heavier Volvo drove the Mini into the banking. McHarg was flung forward against the straps of his seat belt. The cars locked together and slewed round athwart the road, creating a centrifugal force that crashed him against the driver’s door. His elbow hit the handle. It burst open. Intuitively his left hand hit the harness release button and he fell sideways onto the black road. He rolled to absorb the impact, as he had been taught all those years ago, but his body was older now, his reactions slower. His head crashed against the tarmac and lines of fire fretted his brain. Then he was on the grass verge, lying still, wondering where the pain would start.

  But before the pain had time, the fire in his head suddenly burst out into the air before him. There was a sort of fluffy bang, that dull, rather disappointing thump which the experienced ear knows is the real sound of an explosion. Flames leapt from the bonnet of the Volvo, licked backwards to consume the whole of the car, and for a sliver of time as thin and as deadly as a razor’s edge their hectic light showed him the couple again, now neither young nor old, nor scarcely anything human. Above the bass of the flame, McHarg could hear a high wavering descant which might have been a scream.

  Then another paper bag burst and the Mini too blossomed into fire and soon he could hear nothing but its steady masculine roar.

  CHAPTER 16

  The Preceptor said without reproof, “It’s been ve
ry messy.”

  The Tyler replied without apology, “Yes, it has.”

  “That beating up: that was…amateurish.”

  “Yes. I’ve reprimanded him. It was foolish, but in the circumstances understandable. At least it made up our minds that we had to deal with McHarg.”

  “So now everything’s tied up at Sanderton? No loose ends?”

  “None,” assured the Tyler. “Two old men, no one to miss them. And the doctor has a young daughter.”

  “I see,” murmured the Preceptor. “McHarg himself is, of course, still alive.”

  “He was lucky. But he’s finished. Impotent.”

  “I hope so. By the way, I too bumped into that girl the other night. She was lucky too, wasn’t she?”

  Again the tone was neutral, without reproof. But this time there was a faintly defensive note in the Tyler’s reply.

  “I wanted to finish things, remember?”

  “I know you did,” said the Preceptor placatingly. “But there were other considerations then. Still, I’m beginning to wonder if perhaps you weren’t right. I spoke to her briefly…”

  “You think she knows something?”

  “Not about me,” laughed the Preceptor. “But I don’t like coincidences. Better be safe than sorry.”

  “I’ll test her again,” said the Tyler. “And if necessary…”

  “Yes,” approved the Preeceptor. “Now to more immediate matters. Our craft-brothers in America are taking this will seriously. We need to be able to tell them if there’s anything to worry about. Is he here?”

  “Waiting outside.”

  “He did all right the other night, you think?”

  “All right. But limited, I’d say.”

  “I never doubted that,” said the Preceptor. “Bring him in.”

  When the Entered Apprentice appeared, he was greeted with delighted enthusiasm.

  “I’ve had excellent reports of you. You did well. Congratulations.”

  “Thank you,” said the Entered Apprentice with a nervous smile at the unsmiling Tyler.

  “Now you have a report for us. What we particularly need is your assessment as to the status of this relationship and whether the Canadian trip will offer a chance to develop it.”

  For ten minutes the Preceptor listened attentively, then asked a few questions. Finally the Tyler escorted the Entered Apprentice out.

  When he returned he said, “He’s curious. And a bit concerned. If it comes to action there, he’ll need good reasons.”

  “Better than sixty million pounds and a man in the White House? I’ll think of something. I’ll be seeing him again before he goes. Now, I’ll ring New York tonight and put them in the picture. They’ll make provisional arrangements at their end and I of course am going to be in Boston myself next week, so I’ll be able to look at the situation on the ground and decide accordingly.”

  The Preceptor paused and thought deeply for a moment.

  “I think on the whole I’d like to have you on hand too. Can you arrange it at short notice?”

  “I expect so. You think it will come to action then?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised. Like I’m always saying, unbridled passion is a terrible thing.”

  The Preceptor gave a high rhythmic laugh. And after a while a rare smile stirred the Tyler’s features too, like the shifting of a pike in the depths of some dark, still pool.

  PART TWO

  FACTS OF HISTORY

  CHAPTER 1

  Boston is one of those cities which really persuades you it might be the center of the universe. A Boston lady, asked by a visitor if she travelled much, is said to have replied, “Why should I travel when I am already here?”

  It was a feeling Dree Connolly could understand.

  To the Granda, the house on Beacon Street was merely a symbol; he much preferred Castlemaine. To Christie it was a nuisance, to his wife, Judith, an impressive address. But Dree really loved the old house, and loved Boston too, despite the sad disfigurement of middle-age spread. Particularly she loved it on a brusque March day when each gust of wind brought with it the tang of the sea till, all resistance eroded, she would climb into her emerald green Porsche and head for the marina where the Connolly Dutchman lay restlessly awaiting her arrival.

  Her sister-in-law, Judith, had other ideas. Her notion of a good day was to move slickly through two or three expensive stores ending up at an expensive restaurant with as little exposure to the open air as possible. Born in South Carolina, she made a martyr’s meal of her sensitivity to Massachusetts winters, and she had some evidence to support it.

  Now in her early thirties the bloom had gone from her cheeks, the provocatively turned-up nose had become pinched and the seductive drawl was reduced to a plaintive undertone.

  Dree was sorry for her, bored by her and entertained by her in equal quantities. Her saving grace was that after a couple of martinis she became amusingly bitchy, parodying the old Southern self which, played for real, was rather pathetic.

  Too much drink, however, turned her merely quarrelsome. At lunch today the proportions remained just about right until Judith summoned the waiter and ordered two large armagnacs with their coffee, despite Dree’s protests.

  Judith drank hers swiftly.

  “Don’t you want yours, honey?” she enquired sweetly.

  “I said not.”

  “Waste not, want not,” said Judith, helping herself to the second glass. She examined Dree quizzically over the rim.

  “Dree, honey, how is it you Irish girls keep looking so good, so long?”

  Dree smiled but didn’t reply.

  “Could it be,” continued Judith with a mock-simper, “that us Southern flowers blossom too early, while in dear old Ireland the girls stay soft and luscious and juicy for ever, like a peat-bog?”

  Dree laughed. “Maybe. I think we should go now.”

  She stood up and shook her long hair, which she’d been using as a defensive screen, back on her shoulders.

  The gesture seemed to irritate the other woman, who murmured as she rose also, “Yes, sir. You pluck a petal from a blossom and that’s a petal gone forever, but take as many slices as you like from an old peat-bog and you’ve still got yourself an old peat-bog.”

  “This old peat-bog’s going to the john,” said Dree. “I won’t be a second.”

  There was only one other woman in the restroom, a girl of about her own age with a handsome, determined kind of face and hair which, while not quite as richly dark, hung just as long over her shoulders as Dree’s. She looked up, flashed a brief smile at the newcomer and returned to her makeup.

  Dree heard the door opening behind her. Guessing it was Judith and not wishing to be subjected to more of the peat-bog joke, she went quickly into one of the cubicles.

  “Well, hello,” she heard Judith say.

  “Hello, Mrs Connolly.” The accent was English, the tone politely neutral.

  “Enjoy your meal, honey? Must be nice to be able to afford these prices on a research grant, but then, I’m way out of touch.”

  “I haven’t been eating, Mrs Connolly. Just using the loo.”

  “I see. Well, feel free, honey. Food’s expensive but this is cheap. I thought you might have been using some of your subsidy, that’s all.”

  “Subsidy, Mrs Connolly?”

  “That’s what you’d call it, isn’t it, honey?” said Judith, her voice thickening in a way that disturbed Dree. “What else would you call it, what all those poor frustrated lecturers give you for research assistance after midnight? What my stupid fool of a husband gives you! What’s the going rate, honey? How’s the pound stand against the dollar these days?”

  “Mrs Connolly, please, excuse me…”

  To Dree’s horror there was the sound of a violent slap followed by a scream and the noise of scuffling.

  She burst out of the cubicle to find the two women locked in each other’s arms. Judith had wrestled the other back against the washbasins and was trying to butt her
in the face. The younger woman turned her face, which bore the vivid impression of a hand on its left cheek, appealingly towards Dree.

  “For God’s sake, Judith!” she cried.

  The interruption had a momentary effect. Judith slackened her grip and the other woman thankfully broke free. But as she moved away, her assailant cried, “Whore!” and grasping her long dark hair tugged so violently that she crashed to the ground, her head smashing against the marble basin as she fell.

  Dree knelt quickly beside her. She was conscious and the skin wasn’t broken.

  “You OK?” she asked.

  The girl nodded and sat upright.

  “Stay there. I’ll be back,” commanded Dree.

  She stood upright and cast a quick eye over her sister-in-law, who was leaning against a basin, panting vigorously. “You’re going home, Jude,” she said, smoothing the woman’s elaborate blonde coiffure.

  “She’s Christie’s whore. I’ll kill her,” said Judith. But she spoke mechanically, without passion. Her eyes were frightened.

  Dree opened the door and stepped out, pulling Judith after her. There was no one near enough to have overheard the disturbance. A large man was hanging around by the elevator apparently engrossed in the fire emergency regulations. Dree made a summoning motion with her head and he came across. She had long ago realized the futility of complaining to Old Pat about the presence of a bodyguard wherever she went. There was no way of getting rid of him permanently without recourse to law, though on occasion she had amused herself by setting out to shake him off.

  Now at last she was glad of his presence.

  “Mrs Connolly’s ill,” she said. “See she gets home.”

  The man looked uncertain.

  “For Christ’s sake, Sam!” snapped Dree. “We’ve got trouble. I can sort it, I think, but not with Mrs Connolly around. OK?”

  The man nodded.

  “Judith, you’re going home. I’ll see you later,” said Dree. “Right?”

  She didn’t wait for an answer but went back into the restroom.

  The girl was on her feet and dipping a handkerchief into cold running water, then applying it to the side of her head where a large purple bruise was developing.