Mr Rothermere sat beside her on the bed. “You are going to have to be patient, my dear. He will need to be marinaded a little. At least until after the weekend. The Bureau works to very carefully researched guidelines in these matters. Listen, do you know who is retained as its permanent consultant?”
Julia shook her head. She was conscious of being gently and systematically undressed, but felt for the moment neither resentment nor pleasure.
“Farquharson,” said Mr Rothermere. “It was to have him handy that they laid the Whitehall-Harley Street hot line in Churchill’s day. Amazing man. And yet when I knew him in Vienna—we shared a flat, actually, with a dried yeast salesman, of all things—he was dreadfully shy and stuttered.”
Without interrupting the narrative Mr Rothermere took Julia’s glass, drew over the arm thus freed the loop of her brassiere, and replaced the glass in her hand.
“This is not generally known, but three prime ministers have gone mad since 1950. Farquharson had them all back on the rails before any serious damage could be done. Except on one occasion, when he was with me, tunny-fishing off Scarborough.” He bent to take off her shoes. “So you see I too have a guilt complex. I feel personally responsible for Suez.”
Chapter Nine
David Harton emerged from the boardroom of Northern Nutritionals at five minutes to seven, with Donaldson, his sales director, and two men who had arrived on the London train earlier in the day.
One of these men, although in his early forties, had absolutely white hair, brushed straight back from a broad, baby-pink forehead. The other was sallow of face, a little taller than his companion, and he had a sort of watchful humility that would automatically steer him to the back of any group. Both gave the impression of having extremely small feet and pale, almost bleached, hands. They might have been taken to be investigative emissaries from the Vatican. In fact, they were Cultox men. Central Office of the parent company. Security Division. During the evening, they had accepted one dry sherry apiece,
“Goodnight, gentlemen.” Donaldson peeled off towards his own office to get his coat. He looked unhappy and exhausted.
“Goodnight, Brian.” Harton gave him a condescending, army officer kind of smile.
From reception came Eileen, the late duty girl. “Oh, Mr Harton...”
“Yes, Eileen.” He halted at once, courteous and friendly. Why did the wretched girl always stand and even walk about with her arms folded tightly across her breasts? Petit-bourgeois mock modesty.
“Mrs Harton is here. She said you were expecting her, and not to bother you until you came out.”
“Sure. Sure.” He gave her shoulder a jolly, get-along-home squeeze.
Distantly, a bell rang, signalling the seven o’clock shift. Eileen snatched up scarf and handbag, briefly surveyed her glass desk, and began walking to the door.
Harton frowned suddenly, turned. “Eileen...”
She looked back from the door.
“You say Mrs Harton thinks I’m expecting her?”
“That’s right.”
“I’m not, actually. Never mind, though. Where is she now?”
“I don’t know. She said she’d be back.”
“Fine.” He waved cheerily. “Off you go, then.”
The men from Cultox had been looking on, impassively. Now the one with white hair spoke. “Look. David, you obviously must stay on. If you’ll get someone to ring for a taxi, we can easily look after ourselves from now.”
“Nonsense, Charles. We’ll do as we arranged. Dinner first, then I’ll run you to the station.”
“But your wife...”
“Julia does tend to be unpredictable. I’ll leave a note on my desk. She may even have gone home.”
They accompanied him to his office. He wrote on his desk pad. Dining at Roebuck with Charles and Simon—come along if you like.
The white-haired man was at Harton’s shoulder, reading the note. The other, Simon, stood deferentially on the opposite side of the desk. He could read upside down.
“Would our names mean anything to Mrs Harton? Neither of us has ever met her.”
“My dear Charles, does it matter? One tries not to break what good habits one has, such as courtesy and general friendliness—you know?—but the truth is that Julia is, to put it mildly, pretty unrewarding. No, of course your names will mean nothing to her. She’d cut the Archbishops of Canterbury and York if I brought them home. I can but hope that the situation will soon be resolved.”
“That, and a certain other situation,” said Simon, piously but with a distinct hint of acerbity. Harton wondered if he had given a sufficiently gratifying emulation of his visitor’s way of pronouncing resolved as rezoalved.
“With any luck, one will evoalve from the other,” he said.
Charles puffed his pink, healthy cheeks in good-natured reproof. “Luck, David? Marketwise, there’s no such commodity.” He grinned and patted Harton’s arm. “As you know perfectly well, David. Anyway”—he took a step towards the door, rubbing his hands—“let us sample the roast beef of old Flaxborough at this marvellous old inn we’ve heard so much about.”
Harton, who had made no claims concerning either the age or the cuisine of the Roebuck Hotel, both of which were matters of complete indifference to him, was astute enough nevertheless to recognise that a small pit was being dug for his self-esteem.
He determined to take note of the Londoner’s technique so that he might use it himself some time.
They left the building by the main door. Julia’s car was standing a few yards away. Harton indicated it. “The wife’s. She has a genius for leaving things where they’ll be a nuisance. Bless her little heart.”
Simon’s smile was understanding.
Just round the corner stood the Hastings-Pumari, in its private port. Charles made himself comfortable in the front passenger seat. Simon entered the back. He stroked the plump suede cushioning. “Nice,” he said.
The engine fired at once and hummed with perfect manners. Less than ten minutes later, the car drew into the lighted courtyard of the Roebuck.
Charles gazed about him. “Oh, dear,” he said, pleasantly.
Harton, pausing on his way to the door that led to the dining room, gave him a look of inquiry. Charles pretended to be forcing a brave smile. “Imagine,” he said, “the sort of response you’d get if you asked in London for mulled ale!”
They went inside.
Charles examined pointedly the plywood Jacobean panelling that lined the corridor. “As for genuine roast beef...” The enormity of demanding from a London restaurateur this commonplace comestible of Flaxborough he left Harton to picture.
The dining-room was nearly empty. They were shown to a table by the manager, Mr Maddox, who left them with a menu apiece while he went to switch on another couple of lights in honour of the occasion.