“Sasha, don’t—”
Sasha struggled upward. The boat made some lurch and sent him spilling onto the deck—he staggered forward and caught himself on the edge of the small table—his eyes blazed. “He’s a snitch. Sell his soul for what? Approval from women like you—rich and idle—bigots—bluebloods—no idea what’s going on among regular people—”
“I imagine I know a lot more about regular people than you do, Sasha Digby. I was a typist when I met Charlie, and your kind never forgave me for it.”
“Not because you were a typist. Because you married him for his money.”
“Stop it!” said Iris. “Both of you, just stop.”
“And your mother married for money, Sasha, and her mother before her. Every woman does—she has to.”
“Because the system’s corrupt.”
“No, because humans are corrupt. We are all of us selfish, ignorant beasts, loyal only to ourselves and our own kind, interested only in getting a leg up on others, whether it’s money or status or moral virtue. That’s why we’ve got religion, to discover our better angels, and in the absence of religion I guess you’ve turned to communism. All right. I mean, you’ve got to believe in something. Some people are just born zealots. But you’re wrong, my dear. Argue all you want, but you’re wrong, and what’s worse is that you’ll never admit it. Like that fellow who combs his last remaining hair over the top of his head and tells himself he’s not bald.”
Sasha turned and hurled the bottle of champagne through the deckhouse window.
The captain dumped them ashore at the nearest possible landing, about a mile from Abingdon’s place by the water. They argued for nearly an hour about which direction to take, until Aunt Vivian settled matters by saying she would follow an army major over a diplomat any day, and anyway Davenport was the most sober.
Sasha was quiet. Iris would almost have said contrite, except her husband was never really contrite, was he? She walked alongside him to make sure he didn’t say anything else, didn’t expose himself any more than he already had. Burgess kept up a merry conversation with Aunt Vivian and Major Davenport as they picked their way along the shingled beach, carrying the picnic basket between them.
“Buck up!” he called back to Sasha and Iris. “Nearly there! Can’t wait to see the look on old Abby’s face when we turn up at last.”
“Oh, he’ll be delighted,” said Aunt Vivian. “Everybody wants a gang of drunken louts to turn up at his home at two o’clock in the morning.”
Sasha said to Iris in a low voice, “I want her out of the house as soon as we get back.”
“Sasha, she’s my aunt. And the girls!”
“She goes or I go.”
“You’re hardly ever there to begin with.”
He reached into his jacket pocket and tore out a packet of cigarettes. He was down to the last two. He jiggled them a moment and took one out and lit it, and when he smoked it was as if he were sucking life into himself.
“She doesn’t mean what she says, you know. She just likes to stir people up.”
“She’s exactly what I’m fighting against. Don’t you see? That kind of ignorance and . . . and willful selfishness . . . that individualism that’s got no regard for the common good—”
“Not now, Sasha. For God’s sake.”
“Chambers is a rat, a goddamn rat. He’s going to get people killed. Innocent men killed, just for believing in something.”
“Please, Sasha—”
Burgess cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted a halloo. “There we are! Thank God. Abby! Abby, old boy!”
“He can’t hear you, you sod,” said Davenport.
Iris squinted into the distance and didn’t see much, just shadows next to the moon-speckled Solent. “I think everyone’s gone to bed.”
“Nonsense.” Burgess jogged heavily ahead. Davenport shrugged and followed him, then Sasha chased them both down the narrow, rocky strip of shore.
Iris ranged up next to Aunt Vivian. “Can you see anything?”
“There’s a house there, all right, but I don’t see a single light. This should be good.”
Iris squinted harder and discovered the outline of a large, rectangular, symmetrical building, maybe Palladian, right on the brink of the water. The moonlight glinted white on its edges and corners. There seemed to be a terrace of some kind. Already the men had reached it. Iris caught their movement up some steps—heard their drunken shouts for the owner.
“God help us,” she said.
They’d left the picnic basket on the shingles near the terrace steps. Aunt Vivian perched on one side and Iris on the other. More shouting. A spotlight flashed on, illuminating the terrace. Someone cried out—stumbled—a couple of thumps—a howl of pain.
Iris leapt from the basket and ran to the steps. Guy Burgess staggered up, clutching his head. Blood streamed out between his fingers.
“My God, he’s hurt!” she screamed. “Somebody get help! Aunt Vivian, the napkins!”
Aunt Vivian opened the picnic basket—rummaged around until she found the napkins—bounded triumphantly to Iris and Burgess, who lurched away.
“S’fine—s’fine—”
“You’re not fine, you’re bleeding to death—my God—hold still—”
Iris stuck a napkin to the side of his head. The blood soaked right through and she told him to sit down, for God’s sake. He sat. Above her head, there was more shouting, a new voice. Abingdon, in his dressing gown, roaring like an elephant.
“What the devil’s going on here? Burgess?”
“He’s fallen off your step,” said Davenport. “Haven’t got a doctor about, have you?”
Abingdon swore. “Lay him out on the chaise—that’s it—Christ, what the devil d’you think you’re doing, turning up at this hour? Everyone’s long gone, you bloody fools!”
Iris grabbed another napkin and Davenport supported Burgess to some kind of chaise, like a deck chair. Burgess shouted out obscenities.
“We’ve got to use your telephone,” Sasha said to Abingdon.
“Who the devil are you?”
“Chap from the American embassy,” said Davenport. “I say, that’s an awful lot of blood.”
Iris was starting to get woozy from the coppery smell of Burgess’s blood. She handed the napkin to Aunt Vivian and stepped to the edge of the terrace, where she vomited onto the shingles. When she looked up, she saw another man bounding up the steps, followed by a man in a constable’s uniform.
“What the devil’s going on here?” said the constable.
“It’s a private matter, damn it!” said Abingdon.
“Caught these drunkards coming up the beach! Trespassing on the terrace!” yelled the other man.
“For God’s sake, Houlihan!” Abingdon shouted. “If I wanted you to call the constabulary, I’d have done it myself!”
“It’s my duty to protect this property, sir, and by God—”
“Oh, shut up, you idiot!” Sasha yelled.
“Shut up? I’ll not be told to shut up by some bloody American!”
Sasha lurched forward, grabbed the baton from the constable, and started to beat Houlihan about the shoulders.
Burgess shouted to Davenport, “For God’s sake, take him down!”
Davenport made a lunge for Sasha and the baton, but Sasha had several inches on him, to say nothing of all that pent-up drunken fury. He roared in rage and turned on Davenport. They crashed to the stone terrace together in some kind of struggling, punching tangle—not unlike last night’s lovemaking, Iris thought loopily—then she screamed and reached for Sasha’s shoulder. He rolled away from her, right on top of Davenport.
A sickening crunch escaped one of them.
Davenport howled in agony and went limp.
Abingdon let Iris use the telephone, not because he was any less angry but because he wanted them gone. They carried Davenport into the nearest room and laid him out on a sofa, where Sasha sat beside him, apologizing and berating himself. She dialed the operator and asked for Highcliffe. The operator asked her name and she said simply, “Iris.”
A moment later, Philip Beauchamp’s voice came down the line. “Iris! What’s the matter?”