“We had better sort out our cover story before we have to use it,” Shirley says, the day before their ship is to land on the Indian coast. “I daresay you will make me a lovely wife,” he adds with a schoolboy wink at Margaret. “And I should be proud to have Miss Garcia as a niece. Margaret, I think your sister married a rich Spaniard, though I hope we will not need to explain that.”
He picks up the railway timetable and leafs through it a moment. “My mother’s maiden name was Hampstead; it should do as well as anything. And my father’s given name was Augustus, which is awful but will do.”
Margaret bursts out laughing. “Well,” she says, “we could always take a leaf from the Scarlet Pimpernel and call you Percy!”
“You had better not!” he barks in mock dudgeon.
“Archibald, then?”
#8220;Hmph. Better stay with Gus.”
“But as to names; my middle name is Annabel, so ‘Belle’ will do nicely for me.”
“Most fitting,” says Shirley gallantly.
“Thank you, kind sir. Esperanza, you are fortunate; since the opposition does not know your name, you needn’t remember to answer to a different one! You may choose one for fun though, if you like. Just remember to refer to us as Aunt and Uncle.”
“Careful,” Shirley warns. “Her name was in the Times. ‘Hope’ is too obvious; I suggest ‘Faith.’”
Margaret looks chagrined. “I had forgotten the Times. But ‘Faith’ is far too English. Esperanza, do you have a name you fancy? Or would ‘Carmela’ or ‘Teresa’ suit you?” They settle on “Maria.”
Margaret has obtained a suitable rattan case with a secure latch, and busies herself transferring the contents of her medical bag into it. “You know,” she tells Shirley, “this is more practical anyway. It is much lighter than my black bag, if less durable in the long run. And it is certainly less obvious! If anyone even notices it, I shall look like a seamstress.”
One of Shirley’s first acts on reaching India is to purchase the back issues of the Times for perusal on the train to Madras. He rigidly refuses to read any of them until the three of them are in a screened train compartment by themselves. Then he devours them like Brixby a burnt pudding, chuckling and muttering ominously by turns.
“Well, if we had convinced Brixby it would have done no good,” he remarks at one juncture. “I daresay Percy’d got past Rangoon by then.”
Margaret looks over his shoulder and frowns a little. “I suspect he will have passed Osaka by the time we reach Madras, as well. I daresay the Steppe will slow him down, though, and perhaps we can come up with some other means to slow him down. I don’t particularly care if I win, but I will be rolled in flour and fried before I see that arrogant idiot crowing about London without at least some attempt to prevent it!”
Shirley lifts his thermos-jug of water in silent assent to this. He shows Margaret the story about the Egyptian suspects in the Alexandria rail bombing without comment.
She reads it and nods. “You were right; it was not aimed at us.”
Later, he shakes his head in distaste over the investigation of Wilcox. “Judgeship opening up,” he says, sounding wholly unsurprised. “Shame it had to be this way. It does keep Finnegan in custody longer, which must make the Yard happy.”
“It sounds as if you’ve had some encounters with the Judge.”
“Mmm. One does not like to cast aspersions, you understand, and my clients are generally too poor to attract—or afford—such attentions. But one does hear stories.”
“Percy may find himself in the proverbial soup yet; the Yard’s in on this, and even the Times tried to ask Carter what was what. Bribing a judge is not a light matter; the Yard could arrest Percy anywhere for that. If Percy’s smart he’ll put the whole thing on Carter. That will lose him the Davies case, though; no one else who could win it will touch it, or him, for any money. Tainted. Especially since Carter will turn on him in return.”
“It couldn’t happen to a nicer individual,” says Margaret ironically, when she has read the article. “I confess that I would not be heartbroken to see Lord Percy humbled somewhat.”
“I should not break my heart to see him cast into the Channel with a cannonball chained to his feet, myself. Which could happen, if he’s fingered in the Wilcox business. The Yard will grab him as soon as he walks onto British Embassy soil.”
“One may always hope!”
“Confound it, the Times will be after me again in Madras. I shall have to think of a statement I can give without contradicting the Yard or making myself out the village idiot.”
“Well, you can always simply say that you are sure the Yard has matters well in hand. The real problem I see is that if the reporter is alert, he will see us arrive incognito, and report it. That will eliminate any benefit of the ruse.”
“I doubt it—the reporting, at any rate. I rather suspect the Yard is leaning somewhat on the Times; I enter as evidence this load of poppycock regarding Lady Davies. Oliver Harris is smarter than that; he must be helping the Yard conceal what little it does know of the Causes of Things. And you notice the article about Madras does not even hint that we might be travelling together, though I can hardly doubt Wesley Michaels knows.”
When he has read and reread the entire stack, he sighs. “Not a word about Addison,” he says. “Not one word. Our competitors have almost all got through Madras all right, for which I thank heaven. But I wish the Yard had him; I truly do.”
“So do I.” She is thinking, but does not say, that Addison may be lying in wait for them in particular, or be travelling disguised and has managed to slip past the Yard’s detectives. Neither possibility is comforting. Or he may be at Rangoon, or even somewhere later. There still isn’t enough information, damn it! She is sure Shirley has thought of the options, and sees no reason to further frighten Esperanza. The slight weight of the pistol in its pocket is both reassuring and terrifying in its implications.
Shirley is thinking about his will, and about how Margaret can keep his secret if he dies… he has quite resigned himself to being a dead man walking… Margaret notices that Shirley has become introspective. She touches his hand lightly, but says nothing. She is only reminding him that she is there, and that he matters to her. She knows she finds his presence a comfort, as much for what she need not say as for what she can, and only hopes she can give him the same gift. After a moment, awareness comes back into his eyes. He inhales deeply, as much to remind himself he is indeed still breathing as anything else, and returns Margaret’s caress furtively, out of sight of Esperanza.
On the train to Madras one afternoon, Margaret touches Shirley’s arm to get his attention.
“Hmm?”
“When we reach Madras, I’d like to check one extra possible source of information. My family has a Man of Business there. If my brother has heard anything he thinks I should know about, that is where he will send word. I thought to send a messenger and ask if he might have an opportunity to come see me.”
“By all means. Pity we didn’t telegraph him from the coast.”
“I didn’t think of it. On the other hand, we can probably do so from our next stop. I’ll put together a note that we are coming, and that he should expect a messenger asking him to come to me—we don’t know exactly where we will be able to arrange a meeting yet, and it hardly seems prudent to go out about Madras under the circumstances. More’s the pity; I really wanted to pick up some silks while we were here. You know, this cloak-and-dagger business is a bother.” Then she said, more quietly, “My family doesn’t know about you, of course, and probably best to keep it that way. Arthur would tell our mother, and she’s a terrible gossip.”
“Well, as yet there is hardly a great deal to gossip about, nor can we expect to remain out of the Times forever—but I see no reason you should call attention to me, worthless young pup that I am.” His eyes are twinkling.
“Hmph. Let the Times spread the word, then. I thought the purpose of these personae was to prevent people from figuring out that we were travelling in company?” And then, muttering, with a slight, twinkling smile of her own, “and there are no ‘worthless pups’ in this compartment that I am aware of!”
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