“Is there cheese in the trap?” a voice asked in Chinese. It was the general’s PR man, Major Tony Tang. The man in the grey flannel suit.
“Indeed there is.”
“Spring it.”
“As you wish, Major.”
“One more thing. Developments in London mean your presence is no longer required there. Your appointment with the Lord of the Manor is postponed, unfortunately. There is a problem at the New York office. An unfortunate blemish on Monsieur Bonaparte’s record that needs to be erased immediately. I’m afraid you shall have to fire two of his former employees. Terminate them as quickly as possible. Bianca will explain it all to you when you arrive in New York.”
“Bianca is no longer with our London office?”
“It was Bianca who discovered the CIA’s sudden interest in the two old employees. She will contact you when you arrive in New York,” Tang said, and hung up.
Hu Xu looked at his phone, savoring the moment, and once more keyed in the talismanic number. History, once reminded of this number, would never again forget it.
One…seven…eight…nine…
Send.
Chapter Twenty-nine
The Cotswolds
“WHO FOUND HIM?” CONGREVE ASKED THE HEAD GARdener, Jeremy Pordage. Mr. Pordage was a stout, wheezy fellow. His cheeks were flushed bright red and he smelled faintly and not unpleasantly of manure. Panting mightily, he produced a pleasant two-toned whistle as he inhaled and exhaled. He placed a rough red hand over his heart as if to calm it, and Ambrose was startled at the sheer size of the hand. The mud-caked fingers were horny, twisted and gnarled like the roots of an old elm.
Diana stood right behind the man, peering round his shoulder. She was striving mightily to give the impression of not staring at the thing hung up in the river. Death is absolute, Congreve had long observed, but there is nothing more dead than a floater. He raised his eyes to escape the sight. On the farther bank, timid willows stepped daintily down to the stream. They seemed to be testing the ochre waters with their delicate wands before fully deciding to take root.
The body was hanging face-down underwater, near the edge of the muddy riverbank. The head had fouled in the crook of a partially submerged tree. The arms and legs were dangling down, animated by the swirling current. A grey hand broke the surface of the water, then slid back down into the murk. A second gardener, a sturdy boy of about ten or twelve, was standing atop the half-rotted and uprooted trunk, trying to pull the body ashore without falling in himself.
“The boy and me, we did, sir,” old Pordage said. “Found him just as you see him, we did. Here, Graham, use this. I’ll help you haul him out.” Pordage handed the boy his long-handled rake. After a few tries, using the rake as a gaff, the boy was able to hook the corpse under one arm and pull it away from the fallen tree. The head popped free and bobbed to the surface, the face grotesquely swollen, slick and grey with fat rubber lips.
“It’s Henry,” Ambrose whispered to himself, although he was not entirely sure.
Pordage and the boy stood impassive. After the excitement of discovery, the corpse seemed of no more consequence than the perpetual forest deadwood that needed clearing.
“Oh!” Diana said, and then she was silent.
“I’m Chief Inspector Congreve, Scotland Yard,” Ambrose said quietly to the gardener. Old Pordage gravely nodded his white head and took Congreve’s measure. The dead were not impressive, but policemen were.
“I know well enough who you are, sir,” he said, lifting his cap. “Honored to meet you. The boy there is my grandson, Graham. He’s a groundsman, now.”
“Hello, Graham,” Congreve said to the boy, who was now looking at him, making his own appraisal. Graham Pordage had his gumboots planted firmly on either side of the old stump and was grappling with the body, carefully working the corpse in close to the bank. The victim was not a large man, Congreve could see now. Medium height, slender. Expensive shoes.
“Are you really a policeman, sir?” the boy asked, over his shoulder. He had a grasp on the head and torso, the body face-down, almost halfway up the steep muddy bank. Just then the boy lost his tenuous grip and the corpse slipped back under.
“I am indeed,” Ambrose said.
“Scotland Yard, Graham,” the grandfather added as he bent to help his grandson with his awkward burden. They had him firmly now, half in, half out of the water.
“Mr. Pordage, think back for a moment, please. To that instant when you first observed this body. Before you disturbed the scene in any way. Did you see any signs of a struggle here? Were there any tracks here along the bank? Footprints? Tire treads in the woods?”
“None at all, Inspector. We believe this gentleman must have floated downstream. Snagged up in that fallen tree there maybe sometime late this afternoon. We were by this way twice before. Once at noon, and once again around four o’clock, and there was nary a body in sight then, sir.”
“No trace of blood anywhere, I don’t suppose.”
“None that I could make out, sir. Getting on dark already when we first spotted him. We were just trying to free him up when we saw you and her ladyship up there on the hill.”
“Don’t put him on the ground,” Diana said, seemingly unperturbed by the sight of the dead man. She quickly shed her oiled all-weather coat and spread it on the mucky ground. When she was finished, Pordage and his son carefully lay the body face-up upon it. The clothes were sodden, and water and other, possibly less pleasant fluids gushed out of his trouser legs and the sleeves of his macintosh. The face was grey, the eyelids swollen horribly shut, the mouth gaping open and full of leaves, twigs, and irregular teeth.
“It’s Henry, Diana,” Ambrose said, with all the emotion of one who has seen Monday follow Sunday.
He had his penlight out and was playing it about the skull. Thin strands of dark reddish hair were plastered to the chalky pate. Bright orange wisps they would be in the light of day. Ambrose put one knee in the muck and gently peeled the eyelids back, first the left, then the right. He bent forward with his penlight, shining the thin beam directly into the fish-dead eyes. Then he picked up the left hand, the fingers wrinkled by immersion, and held it for a second, then let it drop to the ground.
“Hmm,” he said, getting back to his feet.
“What does that mean, hmm?” Diana Mars asked.
“Nothing much. Extremities are rigid. Rigor mortis. Left eye is normal, right eye is completely dilated.”
“And what does that mean, Ambrose?”
“Blunt force trauma. An unseen blow to the head, I would say, based on the complete lack of defensive wounds to the hands. We’ll see what the forensic lads have to say. We should go up and call immediately, Lady Mars. Now, Mr. Pordage, I would ask that you and your grandson remain here with the body until the police arrive. It shouldn’t be long. I’m sure they’ll have more questions for you. The SOCOs, those are the Scene of Crime officers, will interview both of you in some detail. Please try not to leave out anything, no matter how seemingly insignificant.”
“I’ll certainly do my very best, sir.”
“That’s all anyone can ask.”
“He’s a relative of yours, sir?”
“My cousin. How did you know?”
“You said, ‘It’s Henry,’ sir. Everybody on the place has been asked about Henry Bulling. Shown his picture. Didn’t recognize him, myself. I’m sorry for your loss, Inspector.”
Ambrose thanked him, took Diana’s arm, and turned to go.
He had a thought and it stopped him dead in his tracks.
“One more thing, if you don’t mind, Mr. Pordage?”