When Shadows Fall (29 page)

She wept at the end, as the villains were roundly defeated and Zorro unmasked himself as Don Diego to the tearful swooning of Lolita.

James put out his pipe and clapped his hands, grinning across at her. “Enjoy that?”

She was breathless. “It was-oh, Mr. Bryant, it was incredible. I’ve never seen a film before. That . . . ” Dabbing her eyes, she beamed at him. “Thank you.”

They were in a taxi for the hotel by eight o’clock. James had taken a few drinks in the cinema and was garrulous with the driver. Once, in the journey, his hand had strayed onto Tara’s knee. He hardly seemed to notice himself, but the hand stayed put. Gently she removed it.

After the train journey, the food, and the prowess of the princely Zorro, she felt her eyelids sink with tiredness inside the hotel lobby. James fetched their keys from the reception desk. The lift attendant brought them to their floor.

They passed her room first.

“Well,” James paused. He caught her eye and winked. “Tired, eh?”

“Yes,” she said. “But thank you for a lovely day. What time should I meet you in the morning?”

He glanced aside, as if suddenly remembering why they were in London. “Oh, ah. Yes. I have a meeting scheduled in Whitehall for nine. I guess we ought to rise early. Shall we have breakfast about seven?”

“Of course. Good night, Mr. Bryant.”

He watched her, a hungry gleam in his eyes. “I don’t think I can wait that long for breakfast.”

“Er, good night, Mr. Bryant.”

James’s expression became deathly serious, and for several silent moments he stared at her. Then, just as fast, his mouth crinkled into a smile. “Indeed.” He straightened up, somewhat unsteadily, and tapped his watch. “Seven o’clock, then. I’ll knock on my way.”

As he meandered up the corridor to find his bedroom, Tara withdrew and locked her door.

A blue sky shone over the Victoria Embankment. The man sitting at the desk in front of James was dressed in a civilian suit and he gave a thin smile.

“With every respect, District Inspector Bryant, your approval is neither asked for nor required. This is how it’s going to be.”

They were alone in the room. James kept his expression blank but his agitation had begun to rise. “Soldiers. Yet more soldiers in Ireland. I just don’t think it’s the answer.”

“Not soldiers, as I’ve explained already.” The man looked about twenty-eight, bloated from easy living, his voice now edged with impatience. “This is coming from the very top, I’ll remind you. This is to help you. To
police
that damned island––properly for once.”

“Soldiers,” James repeated. “Soldiers for policemen, it’s—”

“The order,” the other answered. “And you will comply. You will take this and every other order given of you when the new recruits are sent in. Your policing efforts in Ireland have not worked. That’s why the prime minister—the
prime minister
—has directed that things should be done differently. To restore law, to restore order.”

James gave a short laugh. “And what do you know of law and order? You’re a bloody civil servant.”

“And so are you, District Inspector,” the man replied. “You may be cock of the walk over in Dublin Castle, but Dublin Castle is not London. You’re a small fish in a big pond over here, old boy, and as I sense opposition, then perhaps your role in Ireland may have to be reconsidered?”

James swallowed his disgruntlement with some effort. “What are they talking of, exactly?”

“Ex-soldiers to begin with. Ex-officers after that. You’ll be briefed. Good men, able men.”

“Thugs from the back ends of British cities,” James elaborated. “Yes, I can imagine.”

“Once more, District Inspector,” the man hummed, “your approval is neither asked for nor required. Ireland is on fire. We simply want to put the fire out.”

“I say you’ll burn Ireland to the very ground.” James shrugged. “I take orders and I follow them. Have no fears. Send your boys over to us in Ireland, and I’ll continue doing what I do, which is getting on with my job.”

“Admirable.” The man checked his watch. It was almost ten. Sunlight had burnished the Thames to a coppery blue. “Time for some tea. The main briefing will be at eleven, and see that you’re on time. Have you brought writing material? Your secretary is not allowed inside.”

“She’s waiting at our hotel.” James stood up. “I’ll skip the tea, if you don’t mind. I think I need a walk.”

Tara sat for some hours in the hotel lounge until James returned. He took a chair and began tapping his pipe against his knuckles as he recounted some of the developments to her. “I don’t know. Hmm. I don’t know. This could create quite the bother over there. Soldiers don’t make proper policemen.
I’m
a policeman, confound them.”

Tara tried to transcribe his notes on the coffee table. The news troubled her, for more soldiers in Ireland inevitably meant more fighting. She put down her pencil and sighed. “Your handwriting is dreadful, Mr. Bryant. It’s going to take me ages to record this.”

“Quite the bother,” James repeated absently. His gaze lay upon the window, at the sky of cotton clouds outside. A waiter was serving tea to an elderly couple near the hearth. The fire was starting to glow. He sighed and tucked the pipe into his coat. “It’s all a riddle, and rather tiresome. Come on, Tara, we’ve been here all morning. Let’s get some fresh air.”

She looked up from her writing. “But I’m not even halfway finished with these notes.”

“I want to go to Greenwich,” he announced. “Ever been to Greenwich? I want to go to Greenwich.”

“But—”

James clicked his fingers, the concierge went outside to whistle up the street, and moments later a hackney pulled up.

They travelled to Greenwich by a Thames river barge. The sun had burned away the earlier banks of cloud, and now a sky of cerulean vaulted the city. On the boat a white-liveried Indian laid out a buffet table with tea, cold drinks, and wine whilst his colleague brought platters of smoked fish canapés and cheese. James smoked his pipe, resting one elbow on the rail as he gazed at the buildings gliding by on the port side—Fishmongers’ Hall, the Tower of London, the Mint. The river breeze tousled his blond locks, sleek gold in the sunlight.

For a stolen moment, Tara couldn’t help but watch him.

He could have been a work of art at that particular moment, the light just right, his eyes distracted, yearning into the distance. Strong jawline and tanned complexion. She became aware that she wasn’t the only female on board looking in his direction.

People said that Michelangelo’s
David
was beautiful too.

But not to everybody’s taste.

“Ah.” He turned back to her after a while and smiled. “There it is, that’s Greenwich just ahead. I haven’t been here in years. You’re going to love it.”

There was a grand frontage of buildings on the river. A hospital and naval college occupied a site that had once been a royal palace. The birthplace of Henry the Eighth and his daughters Elizabeth and Mary, James told her.

“Did you learn about King Henry and his wives when you were at school?” he asked. “Six wives, he had. Divorced, beheaded, died—”

“Divorced, beheaded, survived,” she completed the sentence with a laugh. “Yes, I remember.” She gazed around. “It’s so pretty. I had thought London might be full of dirty streets and chimneys, but this . . . ”

They walked up to Greenwich Park, a royal domain of nearly two hundred acres, and explored its landscaped pathways, herb gardens, and boating ponds. Fallow deer grazed shyly in the trees beyond. The grass heath was of brightest emerald.

“Let’s test your school lessons again,” James quipped. “Ever heard of Wat Tyler?”

She shook her head.

“He led a peasant’s revolt in England back in the fourteenth century. Quite the plucky fellow, and a fine mess he made too. But he marshalled a great horde of his chums here on this very grass that we’re standing on. Of course, he was duly despatched in the end and killed by the mayor of London and his rabble seen off. And proper order.”

It was impossible to picture violence in this serene setting. Tara could smell summer flowers on the breeze, unseasonal and all the more pleasing for it. “Right here?”

“Oh, yes. This was the spot for all sorts of desperate carry-on—murder, highway robberies, and even golf. The Scot James the First introduced golf to us Southrons for the first time here on this heath. Needless to say, we were baffled by it. Seems to have caught on since, though.”

They wandered up to the Royal Observatory on the crown of the hill. The home of the prime meridian. At one o’clock each afternoon the time-ball would descend, and the precise time was then telegraphed to all important cities and towns.

Later they drank tea in a cobbled square while a troupe of street acrobats performed stunts for the crowd. The sun became more intense during the afternoon, and so they withdrew for lunch into a small, tree-shaded plaza near the river. The yellow canopy of the restaurant fluttered gaily in the air. Somewhere inside a piano played softly. A gaggle of American children were throwing food morsels to the seagulls and pigeons.

“Call it a diversion,” James said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “It’s the least I can do, bringing you here. To thank you for your work.”

“Mr. Bryant,” she smiled in embarrassment, “the government will pay me well enough. And besides, I’ve hardly done any work yet.”

“Not true. You’re keeping me company, aren’t you? And that alone is priceless.”

She removed her hand from the table, thinking that he was about to grasp it. But James had already turned to signal for the bill.

To her disappointment it was soon time to leave and catch the last boat to the city centre. She could have stayed in beautiful Greenwich forever. It was early evening by the time the boat docked in Westminster, and the sun was sinking behind the skyline.

There was just time for Westminster Abbey. For five pence each they were shown round the ambulatory chapels, the chapter house, the cloisters, and the tombs of kings and queens. They saw the grave of the Unknown Warrior, the final resting place of an anonymous British serviceman killed in the Great War, his body carried home from France and buried on Armistice Day in the presence of King George the Fifth. An ordinary soldier, he now unwittingly lay in the company of the illustrious greats of British history.

In a small receptacle below the tomb lay the Congressional Medal, recently bestowed by the United States government on the remains of the Unknown Warrior. Tara stood for a long time before that touching symbol. It made her think of another man, another warrior of the Great War. She wished he was here in London with her.

“I could murder a drink.” James nudged her arm. He had visited the Abbey countless times and was clearly getting bored. “Have you seen enough? Interesting, isn’t it? I fancy an ale, though.”

He ordered a hackney to Fleet Street. The journalistic centre of London, it was wide and modernised, but on either side was an abundance of old, quaintly named courts and byways. The tavern that James escorted a reluctant Tara to was, however, somewhat brash and viciously loud.

“You won’t believe this,” he shouted into her ear as he reached over the bar for their glasses, “but I used to come here all the time. Me and the fellows.”

“Really?” Tara was barely listening. There were several men opposite clutching beers, their shirt tops open, waving across at her and winking.

“’
Owse
about it, love?” one of them called.

James hadn’t noticed. He paid the bartender and manoeuvred them both into some clear space. “But like I said, it was quite the spot in those days. My parents didn’t like me coming here, of course. Nor my wife.”

She almost dropped her glass. “Your what?”

“Relax,” he chortled. “Susan and I are divorced now. She’s still lives in our old home in Harrow.” He took a hefty draw of his beer. “A stuck-up little needle, was Susan. Glad to be shot of her.”

Tara was taken aback by this sudden, casual revelation. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He shook his head. “I’m not. She wasn’t right for me. The ideal woman only comes along once in a . . . blue moon? Isn’t that the expression?” He rubbed her shoulder. “Any fellow with sense should seize her as soon as he finds her.”