“Before I met Mrs. Mountjoy, army took me all over the world. Ain’t much I haven’t been to, young lady.”
“And after Mrs. Mountjoy…” Phoebe cut herself short. Dickie’s wife had died two years before. “Sorry, I…”
“Sorry’s for quitters and mess-ups. You don’t strike me as either.” Dickie took a gulp of his liquor, coughed violently, held a handkerchief to his mouth, examined it, and cleared his throat. “No time to be sorry.”
Phoebe frowned. “Is everything okay, Major?”
“Tickadeeboo. But it’s not all good for our Will Cochrane, and that’s why I wanted to see you both.”
“Of course it’s not good for Will. The police made that clear when they came here.”
Dickie eyed her with a stern expression. “You make a move on that young constable? Go to his station at Southwark and give them some cock and bull about losing your purse just so that constable plod might pop over to your flat and take down details?”
Phoebe rolled her eyes at David. “No.”
“That surprises me.”
Phoebe asked, “What’s bothering you, Dickie?”
The major waved his hand dismissively before allowing it to slowly descend to his knee, where he tapped his fingers. “I’ve been too hard on Mr. Cochrane in the past.”
“You thought he was in life insurance, part of an industry that didn’t pay out on your wife’s medical bills. You’ve nothing to feel bad about. Plus, you had no idea he was an MI6 officer.”
“It’s not MI6 that’s changed things.” Dickie felt uncharacteristically emotional. “Well, not that much. Just, I misjudged his character.”
Phoebe nodded and mimicked Dickie’s clipped army officer tone. “He has a right proper backbone.”
Dickie didn’t find that amusing. “Yes, missy.”
Phoebe wondered whether David could sense something was wrong with Dickie. “We can’t help him now.”
“We can.”
“The world’s hunting him! You’re not young enough to do…” David tried to think of a military analogy that might resonate with Dickie. “… to do a Charge of the Light Brigade or whatever to save him.”
Phoebe frowned. “Charge of the Light Brigade? What’s that?”
Dickie eyed her with disdain. “What do they teach at schools these days? Crimean War, 1853 to 1856. Great Britain, France, and the Ottoman Empire versus the Russians. Charge of the Light Brigade was the war’s biggest suicidal disaster. A fool’s errand given to men who deserved better.” Dickie pointed at a copy of the Yellow Pages on the side table next to him. “I got an errand that ain’t foolish. I was thinking we can help Mr. Cochrane by giving him his home back. Replace the stuff inside that’s broke. Trouble is, my eyes aren’t so good and I can’t find bloody lute sellers and violin makers and upholsterers and the like.”
Phoebe leaned forward, all thoughts about her evening ahead now out of her mind. “You want us to buy him stuff? I don’t have that kind of money.”
“Nor do I.” David took a sip of his Scotch, and went bug-eyed as the spirit coursed down his throat.
Dickie smoothed his hand over the phone directory. “Not asking for your money. Just your eyes and”—he nodded toward Phoebe—“legs. I got a guard officer’s pension that’s sitting in my post office account waiting for me to pop my clogs so that the tax man or some other greedy bastard can get his hands on my cash. Thought I might beat them to it. Spend the money while I still can.”
“Are you… ill?” Phoebe looked at the little Christmas tree, its lights and handmade parcels with ribbons bound around them, and wondered why Dickie had made the effort to dress the tree.
Dickie shrugged. “Coughing up blood.”
David asked, “What has your doctor said?”
“Never been to one before and not going to start now.”
“But you have to get an expert opinion!”
“When you get to my age you don’t have to do anything.”
“Oh, Dickie.” Phoebe tried not to shed a tear, because she knew Dickie would hate it, but she couldn’t help herself. “Dickie…”
“It’s all right, my love. Just gettin’ old and crumbly. Stuff happens.”
She smoothed a hand against her face and in doing so rubbed mascara across her cheeks. “Not to you it doesn’t.” She tried to smile. “Girls love men who’ve been around the block and who fight to the end. You’re a fighter, Dickie, but this time you need help. Medical help.”
Dickie leaned forward and took her hand. “Guys like me spend half our lives prancin’ around like peacocks and the other half wishing we still had our plumage. But we always know we’re going to die. Death nearly happened to me lots of times in the Falklands and Northern Ireland and other places. I was lucky. Some of my pals weren’t. We have to get on with death, just like we have to get on with life.”
David asked Phoebe, “You okay, Phoebes?”
Phoebe nodded while trying to compose herself. “I’m okay, thanks.”
“Phoebes?” Dickie released Phoebe’s hand and leaned back. “And I suppose you call him Dave. You two gettin’ familiar?”
“No!”
David blushed. “No.”
Dickie chuckled, coughed, and turned serious. “No chance of finding exact replicas, but you can both help me source stuff that makes Will want to come home. I don’t care if the world’s looking for him. Let it find him here, happy.”
Phoebe glanced at David. “We’ll do it, as long as you let us take you to a doctor.”
“No.”
“We—”
“The answer’s no!”
Phoebe said, “You said you’d been too hard on Will. I’ve got an idea how you can make amends. You can put your trust in him. When he gets home, let him take you to a doctor.”
Dickie was hesitant. “I…”
Phoebe held up a finger and adopted an expression of a strict schoolmistress or dominatrix. “The answer’s yes.”
The retired major was silent for a moment before saying, “You’re right that I’ve been around the block. It’s taught me a lot. Man like me doesn’t keep all his loot in one place. I’ve got other savings stashed in places where the sun don’t shine and the tax man’s too scared to stick his fingers. I’ll be all right.” He folded his arms and stared at David. “Who you cookin’ for tonight?”
“Just me.”
Dickie turned his attention on Phoebe. “You havin’ much luck finding Mr. Right by going out dressed in not much more than your undies?”
“I…” Phoebe didn’t know how to answer.
“Bring you happiness?”
Phoebe took a deep breath. “Girl’s got to do whatever it takes.”
Dickie pointed at David. “Why don’t you let him cook for you tonight? Get him to scrub up first so he looks halfway respectable. Might be a better alternative to what you both have planned for this evening.”
Phoebe and David exchanged coy glances.
“And if you give it a whirl, then I’ll let Mr. Cochrane take me to the doctor.”
David half smiled. “You’re blackmailing us into a date?”
“No. I’m telling you to see common sense. You two are made for each other. I know it.”
David and Phoebe exchanged looks, both feeling embarrassed, and both thinking that maybe Dickie’s idea was a good one. They said, “Okay,” in unison.
“Good. That’s squared away. Now — after you’ve done your romance thing, tomorrow I need you to start helping me out with Cochrane’s home.”
Phoebe felt herself getting teary again. “Dickie — your health, savings… Maybe Will won’t ever get back here.”
Dickie thought for a moment. “When the horse-mounted dragoons, lancers, and hussars of the Light Brigade made ready to charge down the mile-long valley in Balaclava, they must have known that most of them would die. But they went anyway, and were attacked from the sides and far end of the valley by Russian artillery and infantry. A large number of the British cavalry and their horses were slaughtered. It was a suicide run, and the majority of ’em didn’t make it home.” He took a sip of his whiskey. “But some of them did.”