prepared to sacrifice as many bottles of Burgundy as are necessary to produce a confession!”
Harris Butterworth raised his eyebrows and looked at her, continuing to eat as he did so.
“Well,” he said at last, “I’ll tell you the chap’s name, or his Christian name, anyway. He is called Kingdom – after the engineer, one presumes. But no amount of Burgundy, pleasing though it is, will produce an account of the work I do. That probably tells you all you need to know.”
“You said it was to do with your old regiment. Is that true?”
“Slightly.”
“How can something be slightly true? Well, it is a challenge for my powers of deduction.”
“Humph!” responded Harris Butterworth.
When they had finished the meal, which they both declared to be excellent, Anna made some coffee and poured the port. Whilst she did so she observed the unusual sight of Harris Butterworth tapping his fingers on the table to the sound of the music she was playing.
“I’ve always wondered,” she ventured, “if food and wine would mellow you. It seems they do, just a little.”
She was treated to the raise of one of the Brigadier's eyebrows by way of comment.
“A very little!” she added with a smile.
“Do I need to be mellowed?”
“Well, you are very nice, but such a very military man through and through. It has long been one of my ambitions to see you a little ruffled, if you know what I mean.”
“I’m not sure that I do. But you don’t have to call me Brigadier all the time. Andrew only used to do that to annoy me, and you seem to have picked up the habit.”
“I couldn’t possibly call you Harris.”
“It is my name. I’m used to the sound of it.”
Anna shook her head solemnly.
The conversation seemed to lose momentum and Harris Butterworth stood up and went over to the window, the curtains still being open. Anna watched his back as she had done the evening before, wishing that she had some idea of what he was thinking. Something to do with the work he could not talk about, perhaps. She stood up herself and went over to where the port decanter stood on her desk. She refilled her glass and turned to the window, half sitting on the desk top. Harris had turned and came over to her. He said not a word, but walked up to her and put his hands on her shoulders. For a moment he merely studied her face as if to gauge her reaction to his move. She could see the lines about his eyes, the fair eyelashes, the thin lips set as firmly as ever. The fairness of his face was offset by the taut self control which governed every feature. It was neither a beautiful nor a handsome face, but it expressed intelligence and strength of character.
Exactly what he read in her face she could not tell, but instead of stepping back, or transmuting the gesture into one of mere friendship, as could so easily have been done, he bowed his head to kiss her. He kissed, not her lips, but first the nape of her neck and then just below her ear. He lifted his head and looked at her again, but this time his expression was not so guarded. She had not the skill to guard hers, and he did not move away. Instead, he put one hand behind her head, the other moving round her waist, pulling her closer to him as he kissed her, at last, on the lips. It was, she reflected later, a great deal more disturbing than even the best vintage port.
How much more disconcerting Harris Butterworth might have become was to remain a mystery. With the sort of timing that only an unconscious Toby could manage, the young viscount arrived on the doorstep below just as this intriguing unthawing process was taking place in the Brigadier in the room above. He was, for one blissful moment, quite ruffled. But Anna was not to be permitted to enjoy this fulfilment of her spoken wish. She was obliged to go down and open the door and admit the boisterous Toby. By the time the two of them rejoined Harris Butterworth, he was as self-composed and stony-faced as ever.
“Hallo, Harris! Didn’t expect to see you here. Has Anna fed you? Anything left?”
“Not a scrap. Except bread and cheese or chocolate mousse,” said Anna.
“That will do admirably. What’s the wine,” he picked up the bottle and studied the label. “Mother’s ever so pleased,” he called out to Anna, who had gone to collect the required fodder. “I’m jolly impressed with your sleuthing. But what a damned shame about old Percy! Who’d have thought it? The viper in our bosom! Oh, thanks awfully.” The food had arrived. Toby settled himself down comfortably and Anna filled a glass with wine and handed it to him. “Cheerio!” he said, happily, taking a gulp.
Toby dominated proceedings for about ten minutes, at which point Harris Butterworth glanced at his watch, observed the lateness of the hour and, thanking Lady Quartermain for the game of chess and the meal, prepared to take his leave.
“Perhaps we can have another game sometime, with all my brain present and correct,” suggested Anna.
“Yes, I should like that. Goodnight. Goodnight Toby.”
“G’night,” called Toby, his mouth full of bread and cheese. “I say, I didn’t break up the party, did I?” he enquired of Anna after the Brigadier had left.
“Not at all,” she replied with a smile. She was quite happy to be generous to Toby. She may have lost the Brigadier for that evening, seen him raise his guard and retreat in an orderly manner; but she knew now that his defences were not impregnable. At least, not to her. She would see him again soon. The thought stirred in her feelings which were quite new to her; strange feelings. It was a little unnerving, but not wholly unpleasant.
The Quartermain Mysteries: written circa 1987
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