‘You have two hours,’ I said, pretty confident that: a) they’d never see a dodo; and b) they’d certainly never catch a dodo. ‘Three – two – one – go, go, go.’
And off they went, went, went.
I turned around to Mrs Partridge, impeccably attired in holiday gear, cream chinos, and a crisp white shirt, making Mauritius look scruffy by comparison.
We stepped outside. The day was warm and muggy and to some extent reminded me a little of the Cretaceous. Without the giant carnivorous lizards, obviously. I stood listening to the sounds of the forest and watching the sun filtering through the foliage, making golden patches on the forest floor. It was astonishingly peaceful.
‘Tea, Director?’
She’d procured a table – with a cloth – and laid for afternoon tea.
‘Mrs Partridge,’ I said, laughing.
She smiled. ‘It’s been a busy time for all of us and I know how fond you are of afternoon tea.’
I sat and she produced a plate of tiny triangular sandwiches. ‘Let me see, ham, egg, and salmon and cucumber. Please help yourself.’ She passed me a pretty, floral plate and a napkin. When Mrs Partridge does afternoon tea, she really doesn’t mess about. The sandwiches were delicious.
I sat back in my chair and sighed. ‘This is very pleasant, Mrs Partridge. Thank you.’
‘Your tea, Director, with lemon and three sugars.’
‘Thank you.’
In the distance, I could hear raised voices growing closer. Team History erupted out of the undergrowth and with substantial amounts of Mauritius in their hair.
Evan was gently rebuking his team.
‘I told you, stay left, you pillock. You let it get away.’
‘I was left.’
‘My left.’
‘You didn’t say.’
‘It should have been obvious, you moron. How could you not see it?’
‘Well, I can see it now. It’s behind you. Tally-ho!’
The clearing grew silent again.
‘So, how are you, Mrs Partridge?’
‘Very well, thank you.’
‘And your sister, Mrs de Winter?’
There was a slight chill to her voice. ‘Bolivia.’
‘Bolivia?’
‘Bolivia.’
‘But …’ I said, bewildered, although it doesn’t take much.
Mrs de Winter was my former teacher, recruitment officer for St Mary’s and Sibylline Oracle. What was she doing in Bolivia?
‘This happens – occasionally,’ said Mrs Partridge.
‘What does?’
‘Bolivia.’
I wasn’t getting any clues at all. Bolivia could be a country, an event, a person, a cat …
I opened my mouth to frame a careful question and had another sandwich passed to me. I took the hint. Even so – Bolivia?
‘Well,’ I said carefully. ‘Please pass on my best wishes when she returns from – Bolivia.’
She inclined her head graciously. ‘I shall certainly do so. She will be sorry to have missed you.’
I was conscious of a low drumming sound. Teacups rattled. Were we having an earthquake? The drumming drew closer. Hoof beats?
Nearly right. From around the corner galloped Team Security, going flat out, muddy faces set with determination.
‘Don’t let it get away.’
‘I’m not. Get the nets ready.’
‘We’re ready. Just tell us when. We can’t see from back here.’
‘Now! Quick!’
Three tablecloth-sized nets sailed gracefully through the air, floating slowly but surely over the entire team who, suddenly, were using the sort of language you would expect from a bunch of people who had gone from a flat-out gallop to a dead stop in less than a second. There was an enormous amount of flailing. Eventually, words were discernible.
‘Get off me. Bloody get off, will you?’
‘I can’t. You’re on my arm.’
‘Ow. Bloody hell. Watch your elbow.’
‘I swear, Russell, if you touch me there again …’
‘I can’t help it. And you can talk. Get your face out of my …’
‘Oh my God, is that your …? Oh, gross!’
Someone got an arm free. ‘I’ve got an arm free. Just keep still, the rest of you.’
‘Get me out of here.’
‘I’m trying. Just bloody keep still, for God’s sake.’
There was the sound of a ringing slap.
‘Ow! What the hell was that for?’
‘I warned you.’
‘Not my fault!’
‘Look. Look, over there. It’s by that tree.’
‘We’re in a forest, for crying out loud. Which tree?’
They heaved themselves to their feet, more or less extricated themselves from their own nets and set off in pursuit of something apparently only they could see.
Silence fell.
‘Would you like a scone, Director?’
‘Oh, how lovely. Do we have jam and cream as well?’
‘Of course.’
I spooned copious amounts of jam over my scone, being careful to snag a strawberry and finished it off with a small mountain of cream. Cholesterol holds no fears for me. I should live so long.
‘I’ve been meaning to ask,’ she said. ‘How is Dr Bairstow these days?’
‘He’s very well. Completely on top of his game. There’s a rumour he laughed last month.’
She smiled to herself and her eyes softened.
‘Do you miss him?’