“What are you going to do now?” Miller asked.
“I’ll be fine. I’m a nursing sister at Guy’s Hospital—isn’t it strange he should end up there? My consultant and matron have been very good. They’ve already arranged an undertaker. I’ll just have a few friends at the crematorium. Day after tomorrow. You’ll be going to Stokely, I suppose?”
“Later today. The funeral’s tomorrow,” Monica said.
“Ellis loved it at Stokely. It’s a funny old life, isn’t it?” She turned suddenly and walked away.
“Poor girl,” Monica said. “Now what?”
Miller held up the burial order. “We’ll deliver this to the undertakers Henry Frankel arranged for me. Ten Vine Street, Arthur.” They all got in the Mercedes.
HOWARD AND SON
it was called, an imposing Victorian townhouse, like another world once you stepped inside—a world of polished mahogany-paneled walls, an abiding smell of lilies, just a hint of music. They were greeted by a well-shaved, dark-haired man named Jarvis, wearing a black suit. “Would you care to view the deceased?” he inquired.
It was Senator Hunt who suddenly came to life, having hardly said a word all morning and nothing in court. “Oh, yes, most definitely.”
They were led to an arcade, chapels on each side and several occupied. Olivia was in the third. She lay at rest, garbed in a white robe, her hair neatly arranged, her face a mask of makeup.
“Our embalmer, Joseph Bilton, has done his very best with Mrs. Miller, Major. She required careful work, I’m afraid. There was damage.”
Miller looked down at her for only a moment or so, but this wasn’t his wife, not Olivia at all. The Senator said, “She looks lovely. She could be sleeping.”
Miller turned to the door, and Jarvis followed him and took the burial order he was offered. “You’ve been in touch with the vicar at Stokely, Mark Bond?”
“Yes, Major, we’re taking her down early tomorrow morning. The service will be at noon. Mr. Frankel from Downing Street arranged everything. He assumed that as a Catholic you would not want cremation?”
“Excellent.” Miller didn’t argue. “Anything else you need, deal with my sister, Lady Starling. I’ll be in my car.”
“Yes, Major, of course.” He turned back into the chapel, where Monica was hugging a very disturbed man indeed.
THE DRIVE DOWN
to Stokely was a miserable affair, mainly because Senator Hunt was really grieving, despair finally breaking through. Monica did her best to comfort him.
“How can life be so cruel?” he demanded, and there were tears on his face. “Everything to live for and the kind of success she’d always dreamed of finally achieved.” He shook his head. “All snatched away. It doesn’t make sense.”
Which it didn’t. He couldn’t be told the blunt truth. His heart was not good at the best of times; he’d already had one bypass. The knowledge that his daughter had met her death as the innocent victim of an assassination plot to kill her husband could well be enough to push him over the edge.
The very idea of having to tell Monica filled Miller with horror, and yet at some stage it would have to be done. He was here being driven through the Kent countryside, and his wife was in her coffin, and the truth was it should have been the other way around. He had chosen a way of life with great risks inherent to it, and it was Olivia who’d paid the price.
AUNT MARY WAS
like a ghost, drifting around the house, her voice a whisper. She and Hunt sat by the fire, totally at a loss. Fergus Grant and Sarah were deeply touched by events, already in mourning. They saw to Arthur Fox, giving him the second spare bedroom at the cottage, leaving the one Ellis had occupied locked out of respect.
Miller was having a cup of tea in the kitchen and Monica came in. “So, Badger’s End has been booked for the whole day.” It was a country hotel close to the church. “They’ll do a buffet for a hundred and fifty.”
“A lot of people will drive up from London, I suppose.”
“Of course they will, and many of her theater friends.”
“Have you spoken to the vicar?”
“He’s been very good. Managed to get Cooper’s to rush out an order of service. He’s choosing the hymns, because he said he knew what she’d like. I’ll go round and check the hotel. What about you?”
“I thought I’d look in at the constituency office. If there’s nothing doing there, I’ll drop in at the pub, get a sandwich, show my face.”
“Maybe I’ll see you there.”
“Why not?”
THE CONSTITUENCY OFFICE
was closed. The notice on the door said
Out of Respect
and there was a black-ribboned mourning wreath with it. People passed to say how sorry they were, some actually dodged out of the way as if embarrassed; older women were the most upset, many of whom had known Miller since boyhood. He wandered into the churchyard of St. Michael’s. It was quite beautiful and dated from the fifteenth century. St. Michael’s was Church of England, not Catholic, but Olivia had always loved the place, had regularly put flowers on the family plot by the far wall, an old cypress tree extending over it. His father’s and mother’s remains were there by special dispensation, and the church verger was there with the local gravedigger. Everything was obviously ready, neatly covered with a green tarpaulin.
“Thank you,” he said.
The vicar, Mark Bond, came out of the side entrance, wearing a black cassock. He was bound for the rectory, but saw Miller and threaded his way through the stones, his face grave. He shook hands warmly.
“Are you coping?”
“Just about. We had the coroner’s inquest this morning on both of them. I presume you heard that the chauffeur died?”
“Yes, I heard from Howard’s in Westminster.”
“You realize the Prime Minister will be here, and that means the press?”
“It had come to my notice. A full house, Harry, she was greatly liked in Stokely. They’ll all turn out.”
“Obviously, Monica was at the court this morning, and Olivia’s father, Senator George Hunt.”
“Whom I met a couple of years ago. I’ll call round later on if I may?”
“Of course you can.” Miller shook his head. “I don’t know how you cope, Mark. The death business is a constant in your profession.”
“True.”
“But then, you have faith to support you.”
“And you don’t, Harry?”
“Lost it during the Falklands War, when the wind blew the mist away at Tumbledown and I saw the dead and wounded, heard the cries from both sides. I think that wind blew away my faith, too. Strange, as I’d been raised a Catholic, but I found I couldn’t pray anymore.”
Bond put a hand on his shoulder. “Then I’ll have to pray for you. I’ll come round later.”
He walked away and Miller stayed there, thinking, aware of the rooks calling to each other in the trees above, and he walked across to the Stokely Arms. Holly Green, the publican’s wife, another childhood friend, was behind the bar, it being the quiet half of the afternoon. She came around instantly and put her arms around him.
“God bless you, Harry,” she said, and that was all.
“I’ll have a large scotch.”
“Go and sit down, and I’ll bring it.”
There were perhaps a half a dozen people scattered around the ancient bar, a fire smoldering in the open hearth. He sat in the old oak booth in the corner and she brought the whiskey and Monica came in.
“That looks good, I could punish one. How are you, Holly?”
They embraced and Holly went to get another, and to Miller, everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. Monica received her drink. “Everything’s organized. What about you?”
“I’ve seen Mark Bond. It’s all in hand, he’s even got God on his side.”
“And you, Harry, are you all right?”
“I don’t think I ever will be again, but that isn’t the point. You’re still my dearly loved sister, even though you heard something about me from Olivia that truly shocked you. Now I’m going to shock you again, but it has to be done.”
“Then tell me.”
“It wasn’t an accident. The Amara was interfered with. The crash was an assassination attempt on my life in revenge for my success in doing away with some very bad people.”
There was horror on her face. “Oh, dear God.”
“There is no God, not for me. The Amara was waiting for me, but Olivia wanted to get to the hairdressers fast to prepare for her television appearance, and she asked me if she could have it. It was as simple as that.”
She took a breath. “Do you know who?”
“There are several possibilities, but it doesn’t matter. I’m going to get the lot if I can. It’s all my fault, you see that? If I hadn’t hurt them so badly, they wouldn’t have tried to get me. The guilt is on my head and not to be shared, but I’ll make them pay.”
“What about the Senator?”
“I’m not trying to avoid anything, I’ve proved that by confessing to you, but I don’t think it would help to tell him.”
“I agree.” She was quite calm now. “Tell me something. Is your friend Sean Dillon included in this business?”
“Well, he usually is. Does that bother you?”
“Not at all. If you’re going to war, you need the right troops.” She got up. “Don’t worry, love, whatever else, I’m your sister and I’m on your side. Now let’s get back.”
THE CORTEGE ARRIVED
at the house in good time and parked in the grounds, the great and the good arrived steadily from London, and in the unusual circumstances, Miller left Monica in charge at the hall and headed a reception committee at the church comprising a team of local men supplied by the constituency office.
Cars parked all over the place as people flooded in, so many from London. The cast of the play headed by the director, Colin Carlton looking pale and drawn, Ferguson, Roper in his wheelchair, Dillon, Harry and Billy Salter, a number of MPs, and Simon Carter, of all people, who shook Miller’s hand and said, “I had to pay my respects, and the PM offered me a lift.”
“Kind of you to come.” They touched hands, and then the Prime Minister arrived with his wife and several photographers stepped forward.
The ushers packed them in until it was standing room only and then the moment came; Mark Bond emerged from the door in his robes and stood waiting. Miller joined him, and the cortege came down the hill, and the men from London, headed by Jarvis, took over.
Monica, Aunt Mary, and the Senator got out of the front funeral Rolls and came forward. Miller gave Aunt Mary his arm, Monica and Hunt joined together, and they walked in behind Bond as the organ burst into sound.
WHEN IT WAS OVER
in the church, and the interment took place, the weather still held up. Standing with Monica at the graveside, Miller murmured, “They say it always rains at funerals, and especially with bad March weather. I was certain it would.”
She squeezed his hand. “Well, it didn’t, God rest her. Now let’s allow others to pay their respects and go and put a brave face on it.”
Which they did. The Prime Minister stayed for half an hour at the reception, then put an arm around Miller and kissed Monica. “So glad we could come. Sorry to rush off, but duty calls.”
Carter nodded, and looked a little frosty as Ferguson appeared and followed the Prime Minister and his wife to their limousine and the small entourage of security people and they were driven away.
Miller turned to Ferguson, who had been joined by Roper, the Salters, and Dillon. “Well, at least he came. Carter, I mean.”
“Come on, it would have looked bleeding bad if he hadn’t,” Harry Salter said.
Monica had joined them. “Succinct as usual, Harry.” Miller turned to Monica. “These are friends of mine you haven’t met, General Charles Ferguson and associates.”
“Lady Starling,” Ferguson said. “Your fame precedes you. I expect you know my cousin, another archaeologist, Professor Hal Stone of Corpus Christi?”
“Of course I do, the biggest rogue in Cambridge. Somebody shot him last year and—” She stopped, looked at them all, and said to Miller, “Are all of these people spooks?”
“No, the other Harry there used to be a gangster and then discovered it was just as easy to be rich in the business world.”
“Well, I can’t argue with that.” Monica suddenly discovered she was enjoying herself. “Is somebody going to offer me a glass of champagne?”
“That’s my pleasure.” Dillon took her arm and walked her away.
Ferguson nodded to Miller. “A word, Harry.”
He moved out into a large sun lounge and they followed, joining him when he sat in a corner. “Roper’s spread the word about what happened to this chap Bolton. It’s something we’ve all got to take on board.”
“I’d say it’s obvious what’s gone on,” Harry Salter said.
Billy nodded. “I agree. So what to do about it? It’s time we sorted the Army of God people and Ali Hassim.”
“Hold your horses.” Ferguson turned to Miller. “You made an assumption about Bolton at Folly’s End, that he was Army of God?”
“True, and I baited him by making a reference to the Brotherhood.”
“But you didn’t have any substantial proof that he was a member?”
“No, but Roper discovered his mother was Muslim.”
“So what? That wouldn’t have any significance legally. Legally, the Army of God is a registered religious charity that happens to be Islamic, and the Brotherhood is just a rumor. So I don’t want anybody going kicking any doors in.”
“That’s a pity,” Harry Salter said. “Last year when we had trouble with that worm Drecq Khan, he shot his mouth off big-time when we dangled him from the hoist over the stern of the
Lynda Jones
and dumped him in the Thames.”
“I want none of that,” Ferguson said. “And that’s an order. We need something more positive, a real breakthrough. I’ve got a feeling we’ll get one. We’ll have to wait.”
Monica, enjoying her glass of champagne on the patio with Dillon beside a half-open French window, had heard most of what they’d said, even though Dillon had tried to guide her away. Ferguson and company rose and followed Roper into the hotel, where the call to lunch had just been made.