It took Cesar a long time to come, and when he did, Fleming could see there was a bruise two shades darker than his skin forming under a lump on his forehead.

  “Pardon, sah,” he said somewhat breathlessly as he tugged the door open.

  “Good Lord, Cesar, what happened?” Fleming demanded as he stepped through into the foyer. “Let me have a look at that.” His intention to question Cesar about Krandall quite fled his thoughts.

  “It’s nothing, sah,” said Cesar faintly.

  “I doubt that; that’s a nasty bump and you cannot tell me you aren’t in pain,” said Fleming, taking Cesar by the upper arm and all but dragging him toward the kitchen. “I want to have a proper look at that, and I want you to tell me how you come to have it. Bathsheba would never let me hear the end of it if I don’t do this.”

  Cesar was becoming embarrassed. “It was nothing, sah,” he repeated emphatically. “Young hooligans, trying to kick up a little trouble. There were four of them, all under twenty. I will speak to their parents tonight, if you will give me an hour or two to attend to it. I warned them off with the shotgun—”

  “You mean you fired on them?” Fleming asked, less shocked than he would have been an hour ago. “And you knew them?”

  “No, sah. I did not fire. They were white. I could see the skin around their eyes through their masks.”

  “Did you recognize them?” Fleming asked. “Were their voices familiar?”

  “I think I might have heard one of them before. He had a Scottish burr, not very strong, but definite. Another was from the north of England. You know what family that must be, as you know who the Scot is. There are only two choices among the Scots, and one of the families only has daughters.” He set his jaw. “White or not, if they had tried to get in, I would have shot them. I’d aim for their legs,” he added, knowing how the law would frown on even that degree of resistance.

  “Good Lord!” Fleming expostulated. “It must have been a prank. What else could it be?” They had reached the kitchen, and Fleming all but shoved Cesar onto a stool so that he could examine the bump on his forehead. “What did they hit you with?”

  “A rock, sah,” said Cesar, wincing as Fleming gently touched the injury. “They had a pistol with them, but I didn’t pay any attention to it. They never so much as raised it.”

  “You should have assumed the worst. Not all whites are honorable, sad to say. I wouldn’t want you getting shot on my account.” He smiled tightly, thinking that Cesar had put himself in a precarious position no matter how the encounter turned out. “I don’t pay you enough for that.”

  “I wouldn’t have let them in, sah. I give you my word.” Cesar pulled away from Fleming’s careful inspection. “I should watch after your house, and keep it safe. Besides,” he added more sternly, “I wondered if they had something to do with Sir William’s disappearance.”

  “Why should you think that?” Fleming was mildly upset. “One need have nothing to do with the other.”

  “They happened so close together, and these young men were … I cannot describe it.”

  “Just so,” said Fleming, going to the drawer with the first-aid supplies and bringing out a sticking plaster, unconcerned about Sir William at present. “I’ll attend to that later. For now, I want to put some antiseptic on that bump of yours, in case you have—”

  Cesar took the sticking plaster and the tube of ointment Fleming had taken out of the drawer. “I’ll tend to it, sah. But I have a hard head. It will heal.”

  “I should hope so,” said Fleming. “Still, it makes sense to help it along.”

  “I’ll take care, sah,” said Cesar. He started in the direction of the half-bath just beyond the pantry. “I’ve arranged for Jacinth and Alphonse to keep guard tonight. They’ll be here at six.” The two brothers were the biggest men in the village, both Army veterans, now carpenters with strong backs and broad shoulders, men who would not hesitate to return force with force.

  “Very good,” said Fleming, relieved to hear this. “I think we may have need of them.” He hated to admit so much, but there had been too many incidents for him to dismiss with a shrug, as he often dismissed Cesar’s concerns.

  “So do I, sah.” He was about to go into the bathroom when he stopped. “The young men said they wanted the Englishman. I don’t know if they meant you, sah, or Sir William. I didn’t ask.”

  “Good for you. You don’t want to incite such rowdies, it only gives them an excuse to be more violent. You’re a sensible fellow, Cesar,” Fleming approved. “Did they venture anything else?” The headache he had been nursing had changed now, an element of anger in it as well as rum.

  “Not as such,” said Cesar. “They wanted to get their way, and that’s the whole of it.” He slipped inside the bathroom, leaving the door ajar. “I didn’t ask for particulars.”

  Fleming paced about the confines of the kitchen, making himself rein in his ire so that he would not take any of it out on Cesar, who had already suffered enough, and might soon be driven to panic if any more unpleasantness occurred. He went to the door and stared out into the afternoon, as puzzled as he was furious about the men who had hurt Cesar in his absence. He wanted to find them at once, to demand an explanation for what they had done, even though he was keenly aware that this would be foolhardy, particularly if he had truly been their intended target. He stopped to stare out the window by the sink, as if suspecting they might be lingering in the vicinity. Nothing, of course; he knew it was what he ought to expect.

  There was the sound of the front door opening, and Fleming swung around to face the hallway. He was startled to see Merlin Powell, his assignment editor, lumbering along as if he was expected and sure of his welcome. Fleming stared, trying to think why Powell might be here, but could not find an explanation for the man’s presence. Powell’s corpulent body and sedentary habits did not often bring him out of his office, let alone so far from Kingston.

  “Powell,” Fleming called out, leaving the kitchen behind and striding forward. “I didn’t hear you ring.”

  “The door was open,” Powell said, about to go into the lounge. “I need a word with you, Fleming.”

  Fleming covered his confusion with a simple nod. “Whatever you like.”

  In the lounge, Powell sank into the settee as if he intended to take root and grow there. “It’s a very unpleasant business.” He had taken off his straw fedora and was using it to fan his face.

  Alarmed, Fleming disguised his concern with a lightly sardonic tone. “What have you heard?” he asked, in order to find out what was troubling Powell.

  “Only that the poor devil was found with every bone broken. The police are keeping their mouths shut, but they are worried about this one, take my word for it.” Powell looked up. “When were you planning on telling me about it?”

  “If you mean when was I going to break the story about Geoffrey Krandall, I was hoping to have something solid to report about the police before I called you.” He almost sighed with relief at this save, but worried that he would be premature in his respite. Taking a Players and lighting it, he thanked Dominique in his thoughts; her casual remark had saved him from being completely foolish in Powell’s eyes. “How does it happen that you’ve come in search of the story?”

  Powell lowered his voice. “I wanted to see if I could speak to the parents of the young men in custody before the next edition is put to bed. No luck so far.” He coughed. “You should have undertaken the task yourself, Fleming. A murder like that shouldn’t wait for police endorsement to report. I should think you would be scouring the towns and villages for anything you can glean.” Powell looked annoyed, his large, square body showing disapproval in every line.

  “The trouble is,” Fleming improvised, “I think there is more to this story than anyone is letting on. I haven’t learned much, but what I have done gives me to wonder if there isn’t another level to the story.” He saw Powell was interested. “I believe that Krandall did something covert and important in the War, and I can’t shake the notion that his death was associated with his War-time activities. His actual duties are still protected by the National Securities Acts, and I don’t know what I’ll have to do to get through that mine-field, but I do think I should pursue it.”

  “What is it you think Krandall did?” Powell said, all but quivering with interest.

  “I think he was a spy-catcher. At the very least I think he was given encoded messages for decryption and translation.” He thought about what he had read in Sir William’s files, and began to realize that the figure known as Moan might well be Krandall. Nothing had been said about the three except that they had all retired. It was a plausible enough notion. “We can’t print that, of course, but we can say he was part of the War effort in London before moving out here.”

  “As you did?” Powell suggested archly. “How well did you know the man?”

  “Hardly at all,” Fleming admitted. “He was very reclusive. I don’t think we exchanged more than twenty words in the last year. He lived a very secluded life, and I respected that.” He looked about. “I can offer you something to drink. Tell me what you’d like.”

  “Anything wet, cool, and alcoholic,” said Powell. “Not too strong. I have a busy evening ahead.”

  “Let me see what I can concoct.” He went to the bar and looked at what was stored there. He began with the cooler, and noticed that there was a fresh pitcher of orange juice in it, sitting on top of the block of ice. “How about orange juice with a touch of gin?” He put out his cigarette.

  “Add a little tonic, and it will suit me down to the ground,” said Powell. He put his hat on the coffee table. “Thanks, Fleming. The afternoon is a bit close.”

  “I could almost wish for a proper storm, to clear the air.” He went about making the drink for Powell, giving the lion’s share of the glass to the orange juice.

  “So, Fleming. Get on with it. You think there is more to this Krandall killing than simply a burglary gone wrong? That’s what the police are bruiting about—robbery botched and a tragic result. The parents aren’t talking to anyone but solicitors and barristers.” Powell waited for a long moment, his manner expectant. “Well?”

  “Yes, Powell, I do; I think his death is only a small part of the puzzle,” said Fleming, handing his editor the drink he had made. “Sorry it isn’t colder, but …” He shrugged.

  “You could get a generator,” said Powell.

  “And spend my entire salary on petrol, as well as keep half the village up at night? No, thank you. I bought this place for privacy as much as beauty. When I have finished my renovations, perhaps I’ll be able to have it wired, but I can see no use in a generator, much as electricity would be handy. What would be the point in having a machine so loud that it trumpeted my presence? Eventually we’ll have electricity, never fear, and telephone lines, and all the rest of it. For now, I am content with things as they are. At least there is running water. That much is a help.” He poured himself a glass of orange juice, thinking he had mixed enough drink for one afternoon.

  “You have a point, though I would find it inconvenient,” said Powell, and sipped. “Tell me more about Krandall.”

  Fleming had been thinking furiously, trying to tie Krandall’s murder to Sir William’s disappearance without having to reveal anything more than absolutely necessary, and now he said, “I may have to travel to get all the information I need. This story has more to it than it appears to have, I assure you, Powell. That’s probably why the parents are incommunicado. I am certain I am on the trail of something very big. I need you to back me up.”

  “I don’t know,” said Powell. “They’re cracking down on expenses, you know. What kind of travel were you considering?” He was wary, remembering how eager Fleming was to run up his expense account in all manner of ways. “I don’t need to remind you that we’ll have to be careful about this.”

  Fleming put it as bluntly as he could. “I think it would be wise of me to go to the States, to Los Alamos.”

  “God in heaven!” Powell sputtered. “Why?”

  “Because that’s where a lot of those code-cracking johnnies were used, and I will get more information there than I will from MI5 in London. And Robertson was there.” Fleming held up his hand. “I may have come across some information that isn’t generally known, and it points directly to Los Alamos and the Atomic Bomb.”

  “Robertson.” Powell went a lighter shade of pink. “That’s … damned serious stuff, Fleming,” he managed to say. “If it is true, we still might not be allowed to print it.”

  “Very true. But think of the coup if we may,” said Fleming, knowing he had Powell hooked.

  Chapter 10

  WHEN POWELL left it was about an hour before sunset and the sky was obscured by massing clouds. Fleming had secured a promise of a travel voucher for New Orleans, and money for a stay of four days maximum, a concession that Powell had given reluctantly, though he could not argue with Fleming’s assessment of the distances he would have to travel; he had required daily reports to which Fleming had agreed, secure in the knowledge that he could be able to extend his stay if he filed stories that satisfied Powell’s demands. It would also return him to Jamaica in time for his appointment with Lord Broxton. He sought Cesar out in the kitchen, where the houseman was busy with preparing dinner.

  “It ought to rain by tomorrow, sah,” said Cesar. “That will make everything more pleasant.”

  Fleming regarded Cesar narrowly. “So tell me, Cesar, when were you planning to inform me of Geoffrey Krandall’s murder? In all the excitement, I forgot to ask.”

  Cesar shrugged and went on chopping squash. “I didn’t want to pass on all the rumors. I supposed your people would tell you about it, while you were in Kingston. It must be in their hands by now.”

  “Or did you hesitate because the young men detained are white?” Fleming asked softly. “Do you think I am unaware of the shortcomings of my people?”

  This time Cesar hunched his shoulders. “I didn’t want to make matters more difficult, sah. You had Sir William to worry about.”

  “And it never occurred to you that the two events might be connected, that I might need to know of his death?” Fleming said, his tone dangerously cool. “Or that there might be something in common with what has happened here? Those boys breaking in on you? Did you think there could be a link from the death to your intrusion?”

  “No, sah. Not until the youngsters left. It was not the same problem, these boys were not the suspects, for those boys are in gaol, and you were gone. I did think it was an easy matter to see the two events as linked, although they might not be so.” He stared down at the chopping block. “Then I thought it was my apprehension, not the events, that troubled me.”

  “Did it occur to you because you were struck with the rock?” Fleming could see that Cesar was miserable. He relented. “I’m sorry, Cesar. You did your best, I’m sure. This whole farrago has me going round in circles, I’m afraid.”

  “Small wonder, sah,” said Cesar, putting his knife aside and turning to Fleming. “Jacinth and Alphonse should be here shortly. That should make the evening easier.”

  “I hope so; I don’t look forward to sleeping with one eye open and a pistol under my pillow for a second night, thank you,” said Fleming, another thought crossing his mind. “Has Henry Long been here today? He’s supposed to deliver kerosene.”

  “No, sah. He has not,” said Cesar.

  “Strange,” said Fleming.

  “Henry has many things to do, and it is a long way from Kingston,” Cesar pointed out. “He will probably come later, when his shop is closed.”

  “Well, you had better warn Alphonse and Jacinth that he’s coming, in any case. I don’t want them challenging him at the head of the drive.” He did his best to appear at ease about the coming delivery.

  “Of course,” said Cesar, and took a more formal tone. “Dinner will be ready in an hour, sah.”

  Fleming nodded absently. “Where’s Joshua?” he asked, realizing he had not seen the lad that afternoon.

  “He is with his aunt this evening. You remember her: Lolanda? She gives him a dinner from time to time,” said Cesar. “She misses her sister, and it does her good to see her nephew.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Fleming. “Is she doing better?”

  “As to that, who can say? She complains little, and she asks for nothing more than to keep her house and enough money to live on,” Cesar answered, and Fleming knew the woman was not improving.

  “That’s unfortunate,” he said, and turned to leave the kitchen.

  “So it is. Bathsheba spends afternoons with her, when she can,” Cesar added, pleased that his wife was so attentive.

  “That’s good of her,” said Fleming, and went on more crisply, “I am going up to shower and change. I’ll take sherry in the lounge in half an hour.”

  “Very good, sah,” said Cesar, glad to be back on such familiar ground. “There is a nice bit of swordfish and a stuffed chicken.” He waved his employer away, and picked up his knife again, busying himself with executing his menu, his mind on his routine as a way not to be worried about the events of the last twenty-four hours. A little while later the rush of water in the pipes added a soothing purr to the kitchen that Cesar welcomed as he took a chicken from the icebox and began to cut it into thin slices. When this was done, he took a tub of fresh-churned butter out of the icebox to soften. He was beginning to feel a bit more comfortable and was glad of his routine, for it helped him to set aside the events of the day and he relaxed into it.

  A sharp rap on the kitchen door pulled him out of his reverie. Cesar put his knife aside next to the heap of chopped squash, celery, and cardunes. He wiped his hands and went to answer the summons, pausing to call out, “Who is it?” before lifting the latch. It was a foolish precaution, but his disruption earlier in the day had made him jumpy and more suspicious than he liked.