The Queen's Envoy (The Barsetshire Diaries) Page 7

  Picking it up, I found the safe. The key fitted perfectly. Inside the safe was a bundle of money, a small bag of stones which I knew to be uncut diamonds, and a group of paper files together with a little black book, which I guessed did not list his girlfriends.

  The cash and the diamonds went into my case to hand to Bertie and the files and book came with me through to the 'salon'. In the kitchen I found a little cream in the fridge that was still within date, so I made myself a coffee to help me concentrate.

  The book was full of dates and large figures that meant little to me in the way of events, but I was sure that they indicated when assassinations had been carried out and what payments had been received. Bertie's office would no doubt be able to put names to the dates and would probably be able to trace and recover the fees. The files were different. They contained many details of Her Majesty - size, weight and colouring, together with photographs of her taken with the Royal Protection Squad, and her itinerary for the coming months. I noticed little marks alongside Valentine's Day when she would be attending a special church service. It was very worrying that this information was in the public domain. Or perhaps the details had been provided by someone high-ranking in her service who possessed access to such information.

  I'd seen a little boulangerie close by as I'd drawn up in the taxi. I decided to get myself something to eat and take a quick look around the area to familiarise myself with it. I picked up a loaf and some croissants, and while trying to mentally record the details of the area, headed back to the flat.

  I had just arrived back when the phone rang. “Allo”, I answered it.

  “Le Corvin?” said an English voice. “You sound different”.

  “Huh, I still have a toothache”, I replied in my best French accent.

  “I wanted to check if you had received my information pack on the subject's movements”.

  “I have received them”, I told him, “but dropped some in the bath when I was reading them and may need a little further information”. It sounded pathetic even to me but it was all I could think of.

  “What is it you need?” he asked sounding angry.

  “Erm, give me a contact number or address and I will let you know when I finish reading if I do require more”.

  “I will not give you a contact number, but I have a Post Office Box you can send a letter to”, he said. “But hurry, man”.

  “Fine”, I replied taking down the address”, I will be in touch within a few days”. I put the phone down. I'd hoped for a telephone number that Bertie could have easily traced, but perhaps he could check a PO Box as well, though I doubted that the man would have used his real name to open it.

  I phoned Bertie and gave him the details but he told me that unless they could actually catch the person going to the box it would be hard, and anyway it was possible that someone else might be sent as a decoy. He said it would be better if I could arrange a meeting, preferably on home ground. I’ve retired to bed to think about how best to do it.

  Friday, January 3, 1992

  Fashion Parade

  This morning I ate the croissants and then settled to write a note to 'my client', saying that I needed a new list of church services that the subject would attend in the next three months. I also said it would be necessary for me to visit Angleterre to familiarise myself with the ground, so it would be feasible for him to give me the information at the same time if he agreed to meet me. If he were to give me a time and place, then I would make myself free. As I had no name, I just sent it to the PO Box number.

  That done, I spent the morning scouring the shops for a suitable gift for Ysabel, finally settling on a scarf with a famous name, which I thought she'd like, and was pleased to find in a small shop on the Rue de la Cochon. I lunched in one of the many street cafés but couldn't bring myself to try les escargots. After lunch I found myself near a shop in which a fashion show was about to start. The windows were curtained, so I had no idea what fashions were to be shown, but it was possible that there might be a nice hat for Lady J. I wandered in and found a seat. There seemed to be no men present and within minutes I could see why. Out came the various models dressed in girdles, bras and all the things that would make my face go beetroot. I stood, intending to make my way out in a hurry, when I was approached by the owner of the salon.

  “You see zumzink you like, monsieur? I see you iz ze English”.

  I guessed that she deduced this fact from my clothing and not from the colour of my face. I stuttered my reply, “It all looks wonderful, madame”.

  “Would you like to buy zumzink for your wife perhaps?” she asked.

  “One of everything in UK size 10”, I said, and handed her my cheque book to fill in the amount while I made the excuse of hiding, I mean going to the toilet.

  When I returned, the cheque was ready for signing and everything was neatly wrapped in little boxes. I signed the cheque and beat a hasty departure. I heard the salon owner call to my rapidly departing back “Come back soon mi lor’”.

  I went back to the flat to change as I wanted to spend an evening at the theatre. On checking Ysabel's scarf I could have kicked myself. I had not, as I thought, bought a scarf carrying the name of a god from the Greek Pantheon, but one carrying the name of a viral disease in the UK. (Hermes/Herpes). I knew that I would have to try again on the following day, as I couldn’t take that back for her to wear.

  I showered and changed, and then changed again. Perhaps an evening watching the cancan was not for the best. Perhaps a good meal was called for instead. I knew that the Hotel Angleterre was not too far away and I'd heard that they served a good meal. In truth, I can now vouch for that. It was an excellent meal and I walked back to the flat feeling replete.

  On one of the streets I walked through on my return journey, there were a number of women leaning casually against the walls. I thought it strange that so many should decide to take the evening air at the same time, especially as it felt quite cool.

  As I walked past one she spoke to me. “You want some sport, Englishman?” It being late, and I not being the biggest fan of football, which I suspected was on the television, I declined with thanks and walked on. Another, a little further on, asked, “You want a little fun?” to which I replied I was a little tired and again declined. But what a friendly bunch these French women were. So inviting to a stranger. I must remember to tell Lady J.

  Back at the flat I realised how tired I was, and so have written this quickly before bed which is where I'm going now.

  Saturday, January 4, 1992

  A Chance Encounter

  First thing this morning the phone rang. It was HIM. My letter had arrived and though he was reluctant to meet me face to face, he would do so, today, in France. I agreed of course and he told me to carry a copy of any British newspaper, folded so that the title would show, and to be at the entrance to Maxim's at 1.00 pm.

  I formulated a plan in my head.

  I spent most of the morning wandering about, looking for a replacement to Ysabel's infectious scarf. I found a little boutique and was able, between my poor French and their equally poor English, to secure a very chic pair of jeans that they assured me would fit. For some reason they kept winking at me and laughing when I said they were for my daughter. I almost had a fit when they told me the price at the end. I didn't realise that I was buying the building too.

  So, after a coffee and a Pernod at a street café, and deciding I didn't actually need a security firm to accompany me and the jeans, I made my way to Maxim's, collecting a paper from a kiosk on the way.

  I had decided in my plan to arrive a few minutes early and to keep the paper in my pocket until I should see someone arrive, and to give me the opportunity to look around first. When I arrived it was five to one. I saw a bench nearby and went to sit down so that I could watch Maxim's entrance casually. There was someone else on the bench, and as I looked up, I saw the face of Sir Reginald (Reggie) Dingbat.

  “Reggie, old chap”, I said, “such
a surprise. Are you meeting someone?”

  “David, old boy”, he replied. “Yes, what a coincidence. No, I'm not meeting anyone. Just relaxing before I see if they have a free table. Are you here to meet someone?”

  “Me? Oh no”, I said, “just having a break from shopping”, and indicated Ysabel's box beside me. “Can I treat you to lunch?”

  “Very kind”, he replied, “but no. I shall have a very quick lunch and start my own shopping expedition”.

  By now it was five minutes past the hour and no one else had appeared. I realized that I had my quarry. I excused myself, and turning the corner, I ran back to the flat.

  The phone was ringing as I arrived gasping for breath.

  “Allo”, I said.

  “You did not attend our meeting”, said the voice that I could now identify.

  Thinking quickly I replied, “Non, I did not see you at the doorway, and there were two people sitting close by who seemed to be watching and I was suspicious”.

  “I was there”, he said, “but I met someone I knew and couldn't get away from the fool. I couldn’t risk letting him see me meet someone”.

  My confirmation from his mouth.

  “No matter”, I told him, “I have now decided when I shall strike so I shall need nothing more”.

  I put the phone down and rang Bertie. He was frankly amazed when I told him who it was.

  “The Comptroller of the Privy Purchases” he said. “We shall arrange to meet him on his return”.

  Knowing I need not stay in France any longer, I told Bertie I'd also arrange a flight home without delay. He asked if I wouldn't like to stay on a while longer in case any more of Le Corvin's clients should get in touch. “I don't think so”, was my response.

  I phoned the airport and found a convenient flight home, packed my case, gathered my parcels, leaving the scarf behind, and locked up the flat. There was a handy taxi just dropping off a passenger which I grabbed and shouted to the driver, “Charles de Gaulle Airport, s'il vous plait”. I sat back, eyes closed for the ride.

  At the airport I paid the taxi as best I could with shaking hands, and went inside.

  Realising I hadn't got the Chanel No 5 for Lady J, I went to the duty free shop to rectify my error, and picked up a box of chocolates for Grizelda as well.

  As the plane started to board, I noticed Reggie amongst the passengers and as (bad) luck would have it, we were seated together. I was tempted to admit to my part in his forthcoming downfall, but instead had to make do with innocuous talk about the weather as we Brits do.

  When we landed, I realised that I had not rung Julia to arrange to be collected. That was fortunate, as when we disembarked, Reggie and I were approached by four burly policemen under the direction of Bertie.

  “Take them into custody”, he told them pointing at Reggie and me.

  “What the…?” I started, but a look from Bertie shut me up. Reggie said nothing at all as we were escorted to two cars parked outside the terminal. All I could think of was that at least I'd avoided customs and paying duty on the jeans.

  Reggie was put in one car and I in the other, accompanied by Bertie.

  “Sorry about that, David”, he said, “but I thought it would divert suspicion from you being responsible for giving him away if you were arrested as well. This driver has instructions to take you home and I will see you there this evening”. So saying, he got out of my car and entered the one carrying Reggie”.

  The drive home was smooth, so unlike the Parisian taxi rides, and my driver joined me for a cup of tea before leaving.

  Lady J commented, “You have a strange taxi driver there dear, have you been in trouble again?”

  “No my dear”, I told her, “just one of the privileges of rank”. She snorted at that.

  I gave Ysabel her jeans and with a delighted squeal and a hug she went to try them on. I gave Grizelda her chocolates and was rewarded with a smile as she disappeared to the kitchen to test them.

  That left me with Lady J to whom I gave the perfume and the nicely packed parcels from the fashion show salon.

  “Really, David”, she said as she unpacked the parcels, “a girdle! Are you insinuating I've gained weight? And all these frilly items, most unlike you. Did you have a woman out there with you to help?”

  “No, my dear, I chose them all myself”, I lied.

  She tut-tutted a while longer but gave me a nice hug before going to put them all away.

  It was about 6 o’clock when Bertie arrived, and after brief hellos to the girls, he walked with me to the study.

  “Well David, he confessed in the end”, he told me as we sat down. “He's been fiddling the accounts for ages, and with a review coming up thought the books would be closed if Her Majesty were dead. He hoped to be home free but now I don't think he'll be free for a while. You did a damned good job, thank you”.

  I handed over the cash and the diamonds I'd found. He handed the money back to me, calling it 'my fee', and said that the diamonds would go to the Crown. I wished Her Majesty well of them.

  Bertie said his goodbyes 'till the next time' and left.

  Feeling rather flush from the 'fee', I suggested a meal out to the girls at which suggestion they both jumped. Ysabel wore her new jeans which fitted well. I don't know if Lady J was wearing her new garments but I could smell the perfume.

  We had a delightful meal and got home quite late. As I write this and prepare for bed I wonder if they knew that for a few hours they had been in the company of Le Corvin, one of the most dangerous men in Europe?

  Sunday, January 5, 1992

  The Quick Trim

  Ah, the pleasures of being at home with the family. I wondered what sin I had committed to deserve this.

  I got up at seven and made a coffee for myself and one to take through to Lady J.

  “Thank you dear”, she said, “I notice that you will need a trim before we go to church”.

  Trim? Church? Was I in a parallel universe? “What church, my dear?” I asked. “And are we talking about today because if so my tonsorial surgeon doesn't work on Sundays?”

  “Oh, nothing to fret about dear, I have some clippers somewhere. I can do it for you; after all I must have mentioned I used to do it for my father”.

  Never! I thought, and certainly you've never done it while we've been married. Though what I actually said, to save an argument was, “Yes dear”.

  After breakfast I obligingly sat on a chair in the utility room. Julia draped a towel around my shoulders while Ysabel and the cat arranged themselves comfortably in the doorway to watch the event or to prevent my escape - I'm not sure which.

  I heard a click as Julia attached the blade to the clippers while she was talking to Ysabel and asking why she was smiling. I heard the buzz as the clippers were turned on and suddenly found I couldn't swallow.

  The clippers touched my head and I felt Julia plough a pathway. My hair felt as though it was being pulled out by the roots.

  There was a gasp and I saw Ysabel's eyes slowly widen. The cat just smirked.

  “Never mind”, I heard Julia mutter, “soon even it out”.

  “Pardon?” I asked, hoping I hadn't heard right.

  “Nothing to worry about dear, do sit still”, she said.

  The clippers carried on with their task and Ysabel's mouth did not close. I still could not swallow and the cat just chuckled and lay down. I had visions of him rolling on his back and gripping his stomach while laughing uncontrollably.

  Finally it was over. Julia brushed my collar and removed the towel. Ysabel disappeared...rapidly.

  “What's happened dear?” I asked Julia.

  “Just a little hiccup with the grading, dear. I put a grade 2 on thinking it was a grade 4. It'll soon grow back”.

  That last statement did it. I ran for the nearest mirror.

  “Arrrgh!” I heard myself cry in a strangely high-pitched voice. I looked like an escaped convict. I heard a muffled snigger and saw Ysabel's head around the edge o
f the bathroom door with her hand held tightly over her mouth.

  A HAT! That's the answer, I told myself, and ran, both hands covering the vast expanse of forehead that receded into the distance, to my room.

  My top hat will distract people, I thought, putting it on and then using both hands on the brim to pull it back up over my nose from whence it had fallen.

  Perhaps a flat cap? No, that just moved around and polished my head to a glossy shine.

  At a few minutes before nine we left the house. As the door closed I'm sure I heard the cat laughing out loud. Perhaps I should have worn him as a Davy Crockett hat.

  Julia told me we were attending church to show support for the temporary vicar while ours was away on holiday. Because of this my attendance was mandatory and my begging and pleading to remain at home had not borne fruit.

  The replacement vicar was the Rev Mistlethwaite. He had called Lady J last week to introduce himself. It occurred to me at this point that had I remained one more day in Paris I'd have been safer.

  The church wasn't as crowded as usual, but it wasn't too bad except for the stares I drew as I entered. I'm sure Rev Mistlethwaite was a pleasant man but in villages like ours people tended to stick to those they know.

  I can now attest that there was no chance of falling asleep unnoticed during the service. There were so many prayers followed by hymns that I was getting more exercise getting up and down again than an Olympic athlete. And the man was boring. He took longer to read his sermon than it took God to create the world. Still. There was always the hope that my hair would have re-grown before we got out.