“Now you, Alphonse,” said Bathsheba as if there had been no moment of quiet.

  “Of course,” said Alphonse quickly. He made a signal to Jacinth. “You get on duty. I’ll be ready shortly.” With that, he closed the door behind him and almost at once the sound of water in the sink revealed his efforts.

  “Here’s coffee,” said Bathsheba, almost filling a large mug. “Bring it back when you’re done and I will give you more.”

  “Very good,” said Jacinth, trying to smile. “How soon will Mister Fleming be down?”

  Cesar peered at the kitchen clock. “Five minutes at most,” he said. “He’ll go right to the lounge for sherry.”

  “Do I need to speak to him again?” Jacinth wondered aloud, accepting his sandwich wrapped up in waxed paper.

  “Probably not,” said Cesar. “You might as well go up the drive toward the curve and find a place to watch. You’ll still be able to see the house and you’ll have a view of anything coming toward the house from the road. Alphonse can patrol the path to the beach.”

  “Very good,” said Jacinth. “I’ll be about it, then.”

  “Plan to come back at midnight. You’ll get your wages, another sandwich, all the coffee you can drink, and you can give a report.” Cesar turned as he heard Fleming coming downstairs. “Hurry along now.”

  Jacinth made for the kitchen door. “That I will.” As he stepped outside, the donkey Jonquil brayed fulsomely.

  Bathsheba gave Cesar a thoughtful look. “I know you, Cesar. You are troubled, and it isn’t only because of that knot on your forehead.”

  Cesar touched the sticking plaster as if he could not imagine how it came to be there. “I have nothing to tell you, yet. In time, I may.”

  She waggled a finger at him in admonition. “A fine thing, when a man keeps secrets from his wife.”

  “It may be,” he said, and started toward the corridor. “I must speak with Mister Fleming. Shall I tell him his dinner will be ready in—?”

  “Fifteen minutes,” Bathsheba declared. “He had best drink his sherry quickly.”

  “Very good,” said Cesar, hastening away from the kitchen. The hall clock chimed the half hour as he passed it, its muted voice seeming to come from a great distance. He thought that nine-thirty was an acceptable hour for an evening meal. As he stepped into the lounge, he became aware that water was no longer running in the house, and he assumed that Alphonse had left the half-bath and would shortly take up his watch on the beach path.

  Fleming had donned soft flannel trousers and a smoking jacket—no shirt beneath. His hair was damp and showed the furrows left by his comb. There was a half-empty sherry glass in his hand, and a lit cigarette on the lip of the ashtray. He smiled at Cesar. “Much better. How are things in the kitchen?”

  “Dinner will be on the table in a quarter of an hour, my wife says. She is about to saute the vegetables.” Cesar knew the sound of the sautéing, and now that the water was off, he recognized it.

  “I’ll be glad of it. I’m hungry.” He was about to tip back his head and toss off the rest of his drink when the roar of an engine came from the drive, answered at once by a stentorian bray from Jonquil. Fleming shook his head. “Bloody hell! What now?”

  Chapter 12

  “IT MUST be Henry Long,” said Cesar, his calm returning as quickly as it had failed him. “There was no outcry from Jacinth.”

  “Not that we would have heard it, had there been, with all this racket.” Fleming got up from the settee and went out through the open French doors onto the verandah in time to see Henry Long’s battered 1933 Aston Martin tourer heave around the corner of the house and pull up in a billow of dust.

  The big man extricated himself from his auto with habitual difficulty that made no impact on his huge grin. “Fleming!” he bellowed. “I have your kerosene!” If he thought Fleming’s clothes were an odd choice for receiving guests, he gave no indication of it.

  “Thank God for small favors,” said Fleming. “Come in, Henry, and tell me the news. Cesar will take care of the kerosene.”

  “You have better news than I have, man, from what I could see on the road,” Henry said. “The tin is in the boot. It’s open. Have one of your guards remove it for Cesar, and offer me a drink to wash the road out of my mouth.” He was already trudging up the steps, his massive body moving like a force of nature. “A fire at the dock. Do you know anything about it?”

  “Only that it took over an hour to put out and it started with an explosion,” said Fleming, resigning himself to inviting Henry to dine with him, and hoping there was enough food in the house to do the job. He stood aside to let Henry enter the lounge. “What may I get for you?”

  “I see you’re having sherry. How English. I’d like something more vigorous, if you have it.” Henry smiled. “You’ve painted in here since I saw it last.”

  “Yes,” said Fleming, and took up a bottle. “Grand Marnier is your tipple, isn’t it? and what?”

  “Cognac, if you don’t mind,” said Henry. “What an infernal racket! I hope that’s not your animal.”

  “You mean Jonquil?” said Fleming as he poured out a generous libation for Henry. “No, that’s Bathsheba’s.”

  “Hum.” Henry took the glass Fleming handed to him. “Well, she must have her uses.”

  “I devoutly hope so,” said Fleming. He held up his sherry. “Chin-chin.” He had an eerie moment as he realized he had made just such a toast to Sir William. “I thank you for bringing the kerosene. Given what this day has been like, I don’t think I could have come to get it for another day or two.”

  “I said I would bring it to you. Do you have enough to last? Without what I have brought? You generally wait until you’re very low to replenish your supply.” Henry chose the most substantial chair in the room, a blocky, squat relic of the last century. He sank into it. “That fire certainly stirred up excitement. When I drove through the village, almost everyone wanted to talk about it. So, as you might suppose, there is all manner of gossip making the rounds.” This was an opening, one that invited response.

  Fleming did his part. “Oh, and what does it say?”

  Henry beamed. “There is no end of trouble in this part of the island. There is talk of Krandall’s murder, each retelling more lurid than the last, and there are many who say that Krandall was executed, but no one can say who has done it. Some say the Americans are behind it, others claim you British discovered he had sold secrets and was silenced, some say the Germans did it, some blame the Russians. By tomorrow the tales will be more fantastic still.” He chuckled. “Someone even said you were behind it.”

  “I?” Fleming was genuinely shocked. “I was on the bucket line for well over an hour.”

  “That only shows you’re a subtle one. And by tomorrow more people will repeat it,” said Henry, enjoying himself.

  “Dear God,” Fleming said. “You don’t suppose anyone will believe such rot? Why on earth would I do such a thing?”

  “Well, motives are not really an issue for such rumors,” said Henry. “And you’re more plausible than the mysterious Monsieur Soleilsur, who is another subject of rumor.”

  Fleming shook his head. “You aren’t serious, are you? He had already left when the explosion took place. He’d been gone a couple of days, I’m told.”

  “Yes, I have heard that, as well, and to the extent that these are the rumors, I have discounted it. But you know the popular mind. Truth is not the first thing it seeks. I cannot tell—nor can anyone else—which of the current crop of hearsay will attain the greatest currency.” He leaned as far back as the chair would allow. “Don’t worry, Fleming. I ate before I came. You may sit down to dine without offering me a place at your table.”

  Somewhat nonplussed, Fleming said, “You’re more than welcome, of course.”

  “Don’t be silly. You’ve postponed the meal for the fire, and by the smell of it, it’s ready to serve.” Henry displayed another grin. “If you don’t mind giving me a dish of soup, I’ll continue our conversation.”

  As if by plan, Cesar appeared in the door. “The tureen has been brought to the table,” he announced.

  Fleming signaled his readiness. “Henry would like some soup. I trust we can spare him some?”

  “Oh, yes, sah,” said Cesar, carefully avoiding Henry’s broad wink. “I’ll set a place for him at once.”

  “Thank you, Cesar. Henry, if you’ll join me?” Fleming indicated the way to the dining room just across the hall.

  “You’re good to me, Fleming, no doubt about it. I am grateful.” Henry rose out of his chair and followed his host. Cesar was putting down a cork-backed place mat on the right side of the table’s head. Henry stood back while Cesar attended to the work, aware that many of the English living on Jamaica would not receive a black man as a guest. He appreciated Fleming in a way that he doubted Fleming would understand.

  “There you are, sah,” said Cesar as he finished putting the soup plate on the place mat and reached to remove the lid of the tureen. “Shall I serve?”

  “No need,” said Fleming. “Bring in another two rolls, and butter, if you would, and wine.”

  “The ’thirty-six claret?” Cesar asked. “You are having chicken.”

  “Red with fowl?” Fleming asked. “Well, why not? We have more of it than my brother’s German whites.”

  “Very good, sah,” said Cesar, leaving Fleming alone with Henry.

  As he sat down, Henry reached for the ladle, and measured out two of them into his broad shallow bowl. “I hope you do not mind.”

  “Certainly not; you’re my guest,” said Fleming, helping himself. “I’m hungry myself.”

  “I shouldn’t be, not after my dinner, but there is a deal of me to keep up, as you know.” Henry patted his girth with pride.

  Fleming made a sound of approval, then said, “So what more have you heard, Henry? I don’t doubt that tales aplenty have been pouring into your ears.” He picked up his soup-spoon as a signal to Henry but did not actually taste the liquid himself.

  “More than about the fire, that’s sure,” said Henry, looking up as Cesar came back with a bread-basket and a ramekin of butter.

  “Thank you, Cesar,” said Fleming. “Have you decanted the wine?”

  “That’s next, sah,” said Cesar. “I’ve taken the liberty of preparing a bowl of broth for Jacinth and Alphonse.”

  “Very good,” Fleming approved. “Is Bathsheba doing well?”

  “She’s making a creme brûlée for your dessert,” said Cesar. “I told her you wouldn’t mind if all you had was pudding.”

  “Bathsheba is a treasure, Cesar,” said Fleming with feeling. “Tell her I thank her. And perhaps she will have enough for Henry?”

  Cesar winked at Henry. “I wouldn’t be surprised.” He turned and left.

  “You have a good man there, and he has a good woman. That is a rare thing, Fleming; I hope you know it,” said Henry. “He is loyal and dedicated. Taking in his nephew was a kindly act.”

  “You need not fear that I don’t know Cesar is a treasure. I am the envy of half my friends. And as to taking in his nephew—no one else was going to, and Joshua is a very promising lad,” said Fleming. “I know Cesar has high hopes for him.” He at last tasted the soup. “Now, what do you have to tell me?”

  “You won’t be pleased. It seems that the boys accused of killing Geoffrey Krandall were released from gaol this morning, very quietly. They’re supposed to be sent to England as soon as a school can be found to take them. They’re not going to be tried for the killing.” He coughed gently. “There is something going on there, you may make book on it.”

  “I would think so,” said Fleming. “Good Lord! What do you mean, there isn’t going to be a trial? Have things gone so far as that?”

  “There seems more to it than an attack.” Henry paused to rip apart a roll and dip it in his soup. “It isn’t simply a question of young men becoming violent, or that they attacked the man they did. Their reason is important.” He took the bread and began to chew it vigorously.

  “Do you think that’s the truth? Or is it only an excuse?” Fleming was more disturbed than he wanted to admit. “Whatever their motives might be, they would have to be significant for this kind of maneuvering to take place.”

  “As to that, who can say?” Henry dunked another section of bread.

  “I think you can,” said Fleming knowingly. “I don’t underestimate you, Henry Long. You have more information at your fingertips than half the government officials.”

  “True,” Henry conceded. “But that doesn’t mean that I have all the information, particularly in a case as strange as this one.” He paused in his energetic eating. “If you want me to tell you what I think, I will. But you must keep in mind it is only my opinion and nothing more. I do not offer you fact.”

  “I understand all that.” Fleming took another bit of soup, much more interested in what Henry had to say than in his dinner. He was becoming convinced that Sir William had come to him as much because he lived near Geoffrey Krandall than because he had been involved in spying during the war. Once again he began to consider the possibility that Sir William’s disappearance and Krandall’s death might be connected in some way. Too coincidental by half, he thought.

  “Well,” Henry told him, his voice lowered, “I think that there is more to the story than they are letting on. Krandall kept to himself more than any other man I can think of, and I have supposed for some time he had good reason to do it. I don’t know what he was hiding from, or whom, but I have no doubt that he was trying to be as invisible as he could be.” He stopped talking while Cesar returned with the wine and went through the ritual of tasting and pouring with Fleming. Only when Cesar was gone did he continue. “I have heard from a very reliable person that the boys who killed him were told that Krandall had been working for the Russians all through the war.”

  “They were our allies,” Fleming pointed out. There had been plenty in Sir William’s files about the Russians.

  “The Russian people, yes. Comrade Stalin was not, any more than he is now,” said Henry. “He made a pragmatic arrangement to save his country while he went about killing as many as Hitler did—very likely more.”

  “Well, yes,” Fleming said. “I must agree with you on that point.” He sipped his wine and listened intently.

  “Anyway, the boys were told that Krandall had betrayed England, and that there was no way he would be brought to justice. That being the case, they were persuaded to support their country by killing him.” Henry drank half a glass of wine eagerly. “Very good.”

  “How much of that do you believe?” Fleming asked.

  “Most of it. I think the boys were convinced they were being patriotic, that killing Krandall was doing England a service,” said Henry. “How much of the rest is true, who knows? But there was a cloud over Krandall, and it was associated with what he had done in the War.” He finished the wine in his glass and smiled as Fleming filled it again.

  “Do you think those boys might have been told the same thing about other men on the island?” Fleming thought back to the events of the afternoon. What might those boys have been told about Fleming himself—if they were the same boys who had killed Krandall?

  “Something bothering you?” Henry asked, pausing in devouring the last part of the roll.

  “I was just thinking,” said Fleming as he reached for his wine, “that I had better get off this island before anything more appalling transpires.”

  “You mean before someone else gets killed,” Henry said, coming as close to endorsing Fleming’s decision as he could without revealing too much.

  “Yes,” said Fleming. “That is what I mean.”

  Chapter 13

  MERLIN POWELL looked up from his cluttered desk as Ian Fleming came through his door shortly after nine the following morning. He took in the tweed jacket and woolen slacks and the jaunty hat. “Going somewhere?” he joked.

  “America. New Orleans to start, and then points west. As you’ve arranged. I need my travel voucher and visa at once. I’ve booked my departure for eleven forty-five.” Fleming smiled his determination as he glanced at his watch. “That’s less than three hours from now, and I must present myself at the airport forty minutes before departure. My bag’s in the Rapier. All I need is money and authorizations.”

  “Well, you are keen on this. I didn’t think you were yesterday, not the way you were sounding then,” said Powell.

  “I’ve done a little digging in the nonce, and I think I’m on to something,” said Fleming. “You were right that there’s more to that killing than there seemed to be.”

  “Not buggery, I hope,” said Powell. “The parents won’t say anything to anyone if that’s the case.”

  “I wouldn’t have to go to America to find out about that,” Fleming scoffed. “It may be a rumor, that he tried nastiness with the boys, but I think there is more to it, less venal and more corrupt.”

  “Trying to have his way with the lads would account for the behavior of the police. Letting the boys out of gaol. No mention of a trial. Sounds like buggery to me.” Powell sighed.

  Fleming didn’t give in. “Too easy an explanation,” he said. “Not that there might not be an element of truth in it, but it is not the whole of it, I’ll wager my Rapier on it.”

  “You’re damned serious, then,” said Powell, his senses alerted. “You don’t risk your auto on anything but a sure bet.”

  “That’s true, and you may take it as indicative,” said Fleming. “So let’s get this done so that I can be on my way to America. I need a letter from you, saying I am traveling on business for you, to augment the visa and press credentials. I don’t want to have to explain everything to the Americans.”

  “God, no,” said Powell, and handed a slip to Fleming. “Take this down to Eccles in Accounting and tell him to step on it. I’ll have your letter ready as soon as you’re done.”

  “Thanks. If you’ll just call ahead, so I won’t have to try to persuade him to call up here?” Fleming took the slip and read the amount written in. “A reasonable amount for a change. Thank you, Merlin.”