Distant Thunder

36

When Stone awoke from his nap, Vanessa had been replaced by Lance, who now occupied a facing chair. He was doing the Times of London crossword, and quickly, which annoyed Stone, because he had never been able to get a single word on an English crossword.

“A good ride, I hope,” Lance said, tossing the puzzle into the fireplace before Stone could rescue it for the answers.

“Yes, good. Things are so quiet here that I wonder if we haven’t brought off this disappearance thing.”

“Possibly, but in my experience, Russians are a patient lot. They’re probably just sitting around, waiting for you to pop up, like one of those ducks at a carnival.”

“Not a sitting one, I hope.”

“Well, I had three guns, all sharpshooters, out there this morning, two in the forest and one in the Arrington, up high. They spotted nothing, somewhat to their disappointment. They had hoped for something to shoot at.”

“Does that mean they believe that I’m not in England, or just here, in Hampshire? Can we safely pop up to London for a few days?”

“They may believe you’re not here, but I wouldn’t chance a trip to London just yet. Too many ways and places to get spotted.”

Stone sighed. “Oh, well.”

“Why can’t you be satisfied with a little peace in this gorgeous place? Isn’t that why you bought it?”

“Part of the ‘why’ is that it’s close to London.”

“Is this you or Vanessa talking?”

“It’s all me. She hasn’t said a word or dropped a hint. Do you think we’d be safe for a night in Cowes?”

“Probably, as long as you stick to the squadron. I’ll come along and deal with your lines if you like.”

“Good idea.” Stone called Major Bugg and asked him to book marina space and rooms in the castle.

Vanessa came in, still in her riding clothes, but looking refreshed.

“Our fearless leader has approved an excursion to Cowes,” Stone said. “After lunch, pick out a dress.”

“Oh, good,” she said. “I was afraid you were getting bored.”

“So was Lance.”

After lunch, each toting a bag, they set off in Stone’s Hinckley 43 down the Beaulieu River. The weather was perfect, and the Solent was flat for the crossing. They pulled into the squadron’s marina, and their lines were taken, then they walked the short distance to the castle. Inside, they were shown to their rooms, then went down to lunch in the ladies’ dining room. A lot of boats on the Solent filled the view from their table, and they were nearly alone in the dining room.

Stone filled in Vanessa. “The Royal Yacht Squadron is the second-oldest yacht club in the world, having been formed in 1815. The oldest is the Royal Cork Yacht Club, in Ireland, formed in the eighteenth century, 1729, I believe. The castle was built by Henry the Eighth, to defend against the French, whom Henry distrusted, but it has never been fired on. The row of brass cannon out front are used for starting yacht races.”

Lance’s phone buzzed, and Stone shook his head. “Not in here.”

“I’ll just look at the text,” Lance said, and glanced at his phone. “You’ll be glad to know that the coast is clear.”

“Oh, good,” Vanessa said.

“If we return to Windward Hall in one piece and without incident tomorrow, perhaps we’ll hazard a jaunt to London,” Lance said.

They dined that evening in the members dining room, at a round table set for twelve, stared down on by fine portraits of past commodores, some of them kings. The décor was candlelight and old silver.

“What is the significance of the uniform all the men, except Lance, are wearing?” she surreptitiously asked Stone.

“It is the dress uniform, or mess kit, of the squadron, worn in the castle or on other formal occasions in a nautical setting.”

After they were done with the port and Stilton, they took their cognac on the front terrace, overlooking the starting cannon. No one shot at Stone.