“Good day, chaps. I’ve got a speaker coming in to Talk about winter sport, and some sound effects might be nice. Can you have a think on it?”
“Certainly, Miss Matheson.” Fowler nodded, eyes gleaming. “Does your dog bark?”
“Only when provoked. Or when he’s playing.”
“May we try recording him?”
“Certainly.”
Someone produced a large rope and tested Torquhil on his tug-of-war skills, while someone else paid attention to all the cheerful growls. Within minutes, the sound men being what they were, the usual noise had the improvement of Torquhil’s leaps and barks and all the men and dog scrabbling about in a game without rules.
“The letter got posted, but someone was definitely following me last night,” Maisie told her. “And Simon came to meet me, which can’t have been coincidence.” She still felt queasy. Maisie had upgraded the headache to the age-old excuse of “women’s complaints,” which rendered her free from any chance of supper or his flat. Simon had been repelled.
“Yes, I got wind of something along those lines, never mind how. I’ve arranged with Vita and Harold. We’re going to go there tonight and practice for your appearance at the drinks tomorrow. You’ll have to be ready for all possibilities.”
Fowler leaped right beside them, catching a ball. Torquhil leaped at it with an enormous bark, and they both crashed to the ground. And still Maisie and Hilda didn’t move.
“These people wouldn’t be following us if they weren’t worried, would they?” Maisie asked.
“That’s a fair assessment.”
“Which means you’re right, and they really are playing a big game. A nasty one, too.”
“It’s not always pleasant, being right,” Hilda said, as Torquhil circled her, with what looked like a gramophone arm in his mouth.
“I’m learning that.”
Despite the circumstances, it was quite pleasant to be in the Belgravia home of Vita Sackville-West and her husband, Harold Nicholson, on Ebury Street. They seemed hugely fond of each other, and Harold plainly adored Hilda.
“Miss Matheson says you’re a very good egg, Miss Musgrave, but I hope this level of Bohemian immorality doesn’t put you out.” Harold Nicholson handed Maisie a drink.
“Not at all. My mother is an actress.”
The other three burst out laughing, and Maisie felt she was part of the circle.
They had a superb meal, with Vita and Harold complimenting Maisie on her gastronomic capacity and discerning taste, but all the while the real reason for their visit hovered over the proceedings, twinkling in the chandelier.
“I have a few men on watch, just in case any of your friends think they can pay a visit here tonight,” Harold told Maisie, as she helped herself to roast chicken. “Part of the advantage of being in the diplomatic service, what? And my man Vaughn is an old hand with this sort of thing. Have some celery sauce. It’s a rather cunning little taste. I don’t think we’ll be troubled. I think they are hoping to take you by surprise. They may not know you know they know, that sort of thing.”
“Do you know how to fight at all, Miss Musgrave?” Vita asked with polite curiosity.
“I can run,” Maisie answered, making the company laugh again.
“Stoker—er, Hilda—tells me you’re engaged to Simon Brock-Morland. I’ve met his family a few times. How well do you know him?”
“I think not well enough. And too well, obviously.”
“I’m going to be blunt and tell you I don’t think much of him. It’s not my business, of course, but I like you and know Hilda does as well, and since your own mother sounds perfectly useless, someone needs to advise you on these things.”
“Miss Musgrave has a very sharp mind,” Hilda put in.
“I am well aware of it.” Vita grinned. “But we all know how the heart can interfere with the mind. Have you slept with him?”
Maisie fumbled her fork, sending leeks jetéing across the table.
“Now, Vita, really!” Harold shook his head at her.
“I have,” Maisie answered, locking eyes with Vita.
“And he was your first. Yes, we know how it can be. But you’re a levelheaded young woman, aren’t you? Not the type to go all moony and thinking it must have very great meaning and what?”
“I suppose it doesn’t mean anything at all,” Maisie said, rhythmically stabbing a potato.
“Well, maybe it did and maybe it didn’t. Can’t ever know with the fellows—sorry, Harold dear.”
“No, no, quite true,” Harold agreed.
“And you’re not an old-fashioned sort, thinking you’re now ruined or anything ridiculous like that?”
“Vita!” Hilda admonished her.
“No,” Maisie whispered. “I don’t think that.”
“Good. Because I’m going to be very impertinent, Miss Musgrave—”
“There’s a belated warning,” Hilda muttered.
“And tell you that you can do a great deal better.”