London Broil (5 page)

"Will you be in
London for long?"

"Until the first
week of September."

"My father spoke
very highly of your letters of introduction. One of them is from
a very old and dear friend of his. They both feel that your
study of the collection could lead to publications that will
considerably enhance its value. Please feel free to visit
between the hours of nine and one any weekday and Charlotte will
attend to you. Our only request is that you not wander about
unescorted, as this is a private residence."

"Thank you. I'm
very grateful for the opportunity, and I hope to have a chance
to meet your father one day." He nodded, but didn't say whether
he thought that such a meeting would happen. "I'll leave you to
it, then. There's a catalog of the collection on the table. When
you're ready, ring" --he pointed to an old-fashioned bell pull--
"and Charlotte will show you out."

Alexander
Porteous was a friend of her old mentor and professor, Dr. John
Tiernan. Tiernan was in his eighties now (as was Porteous), but
when he had learned of her project, he was anxious to ensure
that she had access to Porteous' library. "He's been collecting
the good stuff for several decades," Tiernan had said. "You'll
be floored when you see it. Not a large collection, but every
item is choice."

She took a deep
breath, savoring the scent of the leather-bound books. She set
her bag down on the library table and extracted her laptop, her
notebook and a mechanical pencil. One never used pens when
working with rare books. She picked up the catalog, a volume
that had been privately printed and beautifully bound in navy
morocco with gold tooling. Soon she was immersed in the contents
of Alexander Porteous' library, which were very impressive
indeed.

After about an
hour, a slight noise at the door caused her to glance up. A
beautiful woman in her thirties stood there. She was leaning
against the door frame staring dreamily at Laura, the side of
her face flush with the molding of the door. With her long,
blonde hair parted on the side, she reminded Laura of a young
Lauren Bacall, and her face had a similar striking impact with
its straight nose and full, red lips. Her tall, slender figure
was encased in what Laura assumed was a couture suit in navy
pinstripes; the suit was carefully fitted to display her curves.
On her feet were a pair of bright red, patent leather pumps with
high platforms.

"Hello," said
Laura, and smiled in spite of herself. She'd been in the middle
of tracking the complicated publishing history of an edition of
Petronius and now had completely lost her train of thought. But
this woman was such a vision of loveliness that she didn't mind.
They gazed at each other for a few moments, and then the woman
said, "Do you like this room?"

"Yes," said
Laura, simply.

"I do too," said
the woman. "It has a special smell that I like. Hamish says
there is nothing in here for me, but sometimes I come and lie
back in a chair and read one of the books. I pick one randomly
off the shelves. Quite a lot of them are in Greek and Latin."
Laura nodded; these were the ones she herself was occupied with.
"I can't read those. But there are others... Once, I read about
Julius Caesar and.... when they killed him, it was so sad that I
cried."

Probably the
Dryden translation of Plutarch's
Lives
, Laura reflected.
"Yes, I know. The idea that Brutus, the man he loved like his
own son, would plot to kill him. He must have been terribly
disappointed."

"Yes!" the blonde
said with animation, but then a voice behind her exclaimed,
"Ellen, what are you doing here? Come along, you know we're late
for the reception!" It was Hamish's voice, and he sounded
exasperated, even angry. He appeared behind Ellen and without
giving Laura a glance, hooked his arm around the woman's waist
and drew her away. Laura went back to her work, but the image of
Ellen stayed in her mind for the rest of the afternoon.

6.
Ceylon and Cigars

James left a card
in her mailbox on Wednesday. He had used a fountain pen; the
card was a plain rectangle engraved with his initials.
Meet me Friday at 6:30 at
the Herald offices. I have a late meeting. We can leave
straight from there
. She didn't know their dinner
destination, but she dressed in what she hoped would work for
any type of establishment: a charcoal pantsuit with a satiny
forest green camisole under the blazer, and a string of peridot
beads with matching earrings. Her shoes were comfortable black
pumps with only a low heel, but she had a limited wardrobe when
it came to footwear, and was not about to spend her precious
food allowance on expensive London shoes.

When she arrived
at the massive edifice that housed the
Herald
, and said that
she was there to meet James Whelan, the receptionist picked up a
phone and spoke softly into it. After a few minutes, a short,
red-haired woman emerged from a pair of glass doors to meet her.
"Hello, I'm Jenna Hicks," she said. "I'll take you back to see
Mr. Whelan."

"Thanks," said
Laura, shaking hands with Jenna and smiling in recognition. It
was the plump redhead from Roxana who had dined with James.
"What do you do here, Jenna?"

"I'm a senior
crime correspondent. I write stories for the
Herald
about murder
enquiries, bank robberies, that sort of thing. Do you read the
Herald
, Miss
Livingston?" "Yes, indeed," said Laura, who had started reading
it after meeting James. She had seen Jenna's byline on more than
one story. "You're young to be a senior correspondent, aren't
you? You must be very talented." Jenna looked searchingly at her
as though weighing whether the comment was barbed, but she was
apparently satisfied with what she saw in Laura's face, because
she smiled warmly. "I never wanted to be anything but a
reporter, ever since I was a girl," she said.

They reached a
large, high-ceilinged room filled with desks and bustling with
people. This was the crime section. Jenna led her to an office
at the perimeter of the room; it was large but not luxuriously
so, and its glass windows were equipped with blinds, open now to
permit a view of the interior. James sat there in his shirt
sleeves at a small conference table with two other men. She
noticed that they held lowball glasses and a bottle stood on the
table. When he saw her, he nodded and spoke to the men, wrapping
up the meeting. He opened the door, and as they filed out, he
took her hand. "Laura! Thank you, Hicks. Would you get Annie to
clear this up for me?"

Laura looked
around the office. It was surprisingly neat, quite different
from the disordered desk in her flat with its stacks of papers
and books. Although her work was meticulous, she never found the
time to file everything on her desk properly. The filing system
in her head was well-organized, but nobody visiting her flat
would have known it. James' desk had a computer with two large
monitors, some legal pads with pens lined up beside them, and a
couple of trays of papers. On a shelf beside the desk, she
noticed a picture of a woman with two little girls aged about
seven. The woman looked Indian or perhaps Pakistani. She had
golden brown skin, shining black hair in a very thick braid that
flowed around her neck and down her chest, and striking, clear
green eyes. The girls looked like smaller versions of their
mother, though with lighter complexions.

"We're off,
then," James said to Jenna. "I'll see you tomorrow morning. And
tell Hartley to get his arse into my office first thing or he'll
rue it." He sounded different at work, Laura thought. His voice
was louder and deeper, and he seemed quite comfortable ordering
people about. Jenna turned away with a last assessing look at
Laura, and James picked up his jacket and guided her out of the
office and down the hallway, his hand at her back. Today he had
a navy suit with a white shirt and a pink paisley tie.

As they
approached the tube stop, he said, "You look very striking this
evening-- that green necklace on your white skin, and with your
hair." She had auburn hair cut in a bob; there was enough red in
it to complement green clothes and jewelry, as long as the green
was the right shade. Tonight she had added some red lipstick,
but she wore little other makeup. They were going to an Italian
restaurant, Leonardo. According to James, it was excellent and
not very expensive. It turned out to be a smallish place with
lots of tables for two and dark wood paneling accented by
nineteenth-century prints of Roman city scenes. Each table had a
green cloth and a small brass holder for a votive candle.
Examining the menu, she chuckled when she spotted
carciofi alla giudia
,
fried artichokes. "I'd love to start with these," she told
James.

"That's an
excellent choice," he said. "For you I can recommend the
tonarelli with black pepper, lemon and pecorino. The pasta here
is fresh and made in-house. I'll try the
bollito misto
with
gorgonzola. I think a white could work with that."

"If you'd prefer
a red, we can order by the glass."

"But a bottle is
more companionable, don't you agree?" he said, and she nodded.
With luck it would not be an expensive one. She was determined
to split the check this time. They decided on an Orvieto that
was reasonably priced, and it arrived at the same time as the
artichokes.

She speared a
piping hot, crispy morsel of artichoke, dusted with grated,
sharp cheese and sprinkled with lemon. She paused to enjoy it,
closing her eyes in reverent appreciation. It was perfect, and a
slight involuntary moan escaped her. She opened her eyes; James
was regarding her with amusement.

"I have this
theory that every person is like a food," she said. "And this is
the dish you most remind me of."

"What?" He looked
less than pleased. "I admit they are quite good, and I grant
that your obvious... appreciation of them is a point in their
favor. But there is something deflating about being compared to
an artichoke, don't you agree?"

"Not at all. This
happens to be one of my all-time favorite dishes. The choice is
a compliment to you," she replied sternly. "Furthermore, count
yourself lucky that you didn't turn out to be eggplant. Or
tofu," she added, for good measure.

"I stand
corrected," he said hastily. "But let us probe this theory of
yours further. What other people do you compare to foods?"

"My friend
Juniper. She's like peanuts with lemon and chili flavor, or
maybe popcorn with romano cheese and green Tabasco. And my
father --my brother and I call him Pappy-- he's like a cup of
aromatic Ceylon tea, no milk or sugar, with two buttery
shortbread cookies."

"Are both your
parents living, then?"

"Yes. Mom worked
as a clinical psychologist until she retired. Pappy's a
philosopher, and he reared me on all the maxims of the Greeks.
Everything in moderation. Know thyself. And most importantly,
wisdom lies only in realizing how ignorant you are."

He nodded. "That
explains your familiarity with Aristotle and Epicurus."

"Yes. It was
Pappy who introduced me to philosophy. Maybe he reminds me of
tea and shortbread because the combination has a classical
balance-- the astringency and clarity of the tea paired with the
richness and crumbly texture of the shortbread."

The artichokes
had quickly disappeared, and now their salads were arriving. His
was thinly shaved mushrooms with capers and lemon, and hers was
cold blanched rapini with olive oil and chili flakes. "I don't
know anyone I can compare to rapini," she went on, "but it's by
far my favorite vegetable."

"Perhaps you're
missing the iron in red meat," he suggested.

"Possibly," she
allowed. "All I know is that crave it. I would eat it every day
if I could."

"Spoken like an
Italian," he said, refilling their glasses with the chilled
Orvieto. "I have friends in Lazio who can't visit the Baths of
Caracalla without rhapsodizing over the abundant weeds and
trying to stow them in a sack for their suppers." She laughed
and replied, "Either we have some friends in common, or it must
be that foraging is a national trait of the Italians."

"I've been musing
on what you would be if you were a food," he said slowly. The
first thing that comes to mind is foie gras."

Now it was her
turn to be outraged. "Do you have any idea how they produce
that?" she cried. "You might as well call me a veal cutlet!"

"I wasn't
thinking of where it comes from. I was thinking of the taste.
Rich, smooth and velvety. Sensuous. Like the browned bits of fat
on the edge of a perfect steak. Mouth watering," he said, fixing
her with that intense gaze of his, and lowering his soft, deep
voice almost to a whisper.

"Yes, I remember
eating steaks," she said, deliberately ignoring his seductive
tone. "My mouth still waters when I smell them. But just because
something tastes good or feels good, and we
can
do it, doesn't mean
we
should
do it.
Pleasure should be taken mindfully."