Black As He Is Painted

III Catastrophe

The Ng’ombwanan Embassy had been built for a Georgian merchant prince and was really far too grand, Alleyn saw, for an emergent African republic. It had come upon the market at the expiration of a long lease and had been snatched up by the Boomer’s representatives in London. It would not have ill become a major power.

He saw a splendid house, beautifully proportioned and conveying by its very moderation a sense of calm and spaciousness. The reception rooms, covering almost the whole of the ground floor, gave at the rear on to an extensive garden with, among other felicities, a small lake. This garden had fallen into disrepair but had been most elegantly restored by Vistas of Baronsgate. Their associated firm, Décor and Design, also of Baronsgate, had been responsible for the interior.

“They must have got more than they bargained for,” Alleyn said, “when the occupants brought in their bits and pieces.”

He was casing the premises in the company, and at the invitation, of his opposite number in the Special Branch, Superintendent Fred Gibson, a vast, pale, muted man, who was careful to point out that they were there at the express invitation of the Ng’ombwanan Ambassador and were, virtually, on Ng’ombwanan soil.

“We’re here on sufferance if you like,” Gibson said in his paddy voice. “Of course they’re still a Commonwealth nation of sorts, but I reckon they could say ‘Thanks a lot, goodbye for now’ any time they fancied.”

“I believe they could, Fred.”

“Not that I want the job. Gawd, no! But as soon as His Nibs pokes his nose out-of-doors he’s our bit of trouble and no mistake.”

“Tricky for you,” said Alleyn. He and Gibson had been associates in their early days and knew each other pretty well.

They were at one end of a reception saloon or ballroom to which they had been shown by an enormous African flunkey who had then withdrawn to the opposite end, where he waited, motionless.

Alleyn was looking at a shallow recess which occupied almost the whole of their end. It was lined with a crimson and gold paper on which had been hung Ng’ombwanan artifacts — shields, masks, cloaks, spears — so assembled as to form a sort of giant African Trophy flanked with Heraldic Achievements. At the base of this display was a ceremonial drum. A spotlight had been set to cover the area. It was an impressive arrangement and in effect harked back to the days when the house was built and Nubian statues and little black turbaned pages were the rage in London. The Boomer, Alleyn thought, would not be displeased.

A minstrels’ gallery ran round three sides of the saloon, and Gibson explained that four of his men as well as the orchestra would be stationed up there.

Six pairs of French windows opened on the garden. Vistas had achieved a false perspective by planting on either side of the long pond — yew trees, tall in the foreground, diminishing in size until they ended in miniatures. The pond itself had been correspondingly shaped. It was wide where the trees were tall and narrowed throughout its length. The trompe l’oeil was startling. Alleyn had read somewhere or another of Henry Irving’s production of The Corsican Brothers with six-foot guardsmen nearest the audience and midgets in the background. The effect here, he thought, would be the reverse of Irving’s, for at the far end of the little lake a pavilion had been set up where the Boomer, the Ambassador and a small assortment of distinguished guests would assemble for an al fresco entertainment. From the saloon they would look like Gullivers in Lilliput. Which again, Alleyn reflected, would not displease the Boomer.

He and Gibson spoke in undertones because of the flunkey.

“You see how the land lies,” said Gibson. “I’ll show you the plan in a sec. The whole show — this evening party — takes place on the ground floor. And later in the bloody garden. Nobody goes upstairs except the regular house staff and we look after that one. Someone at every stairhead, don’t you worry. Now. As you see, the entrance hall’s behind us at a lower level and the garden through the windows in front. On your left are the other reception rooms: a smaller drawing-room, the dining-room — you could call it a banqueting hall without going too far — and the kitchens and offices. On our right, opening off the entrance hall behind us, is a sort of ladies’ sitting-room, and off that, on the other side of the alcove with all the hardware,” said Gibson, indicating the Ng’ombwanan trophies, “is the ladies’ cloakroom. Very choice. You know. Ankle-deep carpets. Armchairs, dressing-tables. Face-stuff provided and two attendants. The W.C.’s themselves, four of them, have louvre windows opening on the garden. You could barely get a fair shot at the pavilion through any of them because of intervening trees. Still. We’re putting in a reliable female sergeant.”

“Tarted up as an attendant?”

“Naturally.”

“Fair enough. Where’s the men’s cloakroom?”

“On the other side of the entrance hall. It opens off a sort of smoking-room or what-have-you that’s going to be set up with a bar. The lavatory windows in their case would give a better line on the pavilion and we’re making arrangements accordingly.”

“What about the grounds?”

“The grounds are one hell of a problem. Greenery all over the shop,” grumbled Mr. Gibson.

“High brick wall, though?”

“Oh, yes. And iron spikes, but what of that? We’ll do a complete final search — number one job — at the last moment. House, garden, the lot. And a complete muster of personnel. The catering’s being handled by Costard et Cie of Mayfair. Very high class. Hand-picked staff. All their people are what they call maximum-trusted, long-service employees.”

“They take on extra labour for these sorts of jobs though, don’t they?”

“I know, but they say, nobody they can’t vouch for.”

“What about—” Alleyn moved his head very slightly in the direction of the man in livery, who was gazing out of the window.

“The Ng’ombwanan lot? Well. The household’s run by one of them. Educated in England trained at a first-class hotel in Paris. Top credentials. The Embassy staff was hand-picked in Ng’ombwana, they tell me. I don’t know what that’s worth, the way things are in those countries. All told, there are thirty of them, but some of the President’s household are coming over for the event. The Ng’ombwanans, far as I can make out, will more or less stand round looking pretty. That chap there,” Mr. Gibson continued, slurring his words and talking out of the corner of his mouth, “is sort of special: you might say a ceremonial bodyguard to the President. He hangs round on formal occasions dressed up like a cannibal and carrying a dirty big symbolic spear. Like a mace-bearer, sort of, or a sword-of-state. You name it. He came in advance with several of the President’s personal staff. The Presidential plane, as you probably know, touches down at eleven tomorrow morning.”

“How’s the Ambassador shaping up?”

“Having kittens.”

“Poor man.”

“One moment all worked up about the party and the next in a muck sweat over security. It was at his urgent invitation we came in.”

“He rings me up incessantly on the strength of my knowing the great panjandrum.”

“Well,” Gibson said, “that’s why I’ve roped you in, isn’t it? And seeing you’re going to be here as a guest — excuse me if my manner’s too familiar — the situation becomes what you might call provocative. Don’t misunderstand me.”

“What do you want me to do, for pity’s sake? Fling myself in a protective frenzy on the Boomer’s bosom every time down in the shrubbery something stirs?”

“Not,” said Gibson pursuing his own line of thought, “that I think we’re going to have real trouble. Not really. Not at this reception affair. It’s his comings and going that are the real headache. D’you reckon he’s going to co-operate? You know. Keep to his undertaking with you and not go drifting off on unscheduled jaunts?”

“One can but hope. What’s the order of events? At the reception?”

“For a kick-off, he stands in the entrance hall on the short flight of steps leading up to this room, with this spear-carrying character behind him and the Ambassador on his right. His aides will be back a few paces on his left. His personal bodyguard will form a lane from the entrance right up to him. They carry sidearms as part of their full-dress issue. I’ve got eight chaps outside covering the walk from the cars to the entrance and a dozen more in and about the hall. They’re in livery. Good men. I’ve fixed it with the Costard people that they’ll give them enough to do, handing champagne round and that, to keep them in the picture.”

“What’s the drill, then?”

“As the guests arrive from nine-thirty onwards, they get their names bawled out by the major-domo at the entrance. They walk up the lane between the guards, the Ambassador presents them to the President, and they shake hands and pass in here. There’s a band (Louis Francini’s lot, I’ve checked them) up in the minstrels’ gallery and chairs for the official party on the dais in front of the hardware. Other chairs round the walls.”

“And we all mill about in here for a spell, do we?”

“That’s right. Quaffing your bubbly,” said Gibson tonelessly. “Until ten o’clock, when the French windows will all be opened and the staff, including my lot, will set about asking you to move into the garden.”

“And that’s when your headache really sets in, is it, Fred?”

“My oath! Well, take a look at it.”

They moved out through the French windows into the garden. A narrow terrace separated the house from the wide end of the pond, which was flanked on each converging side by paved walks. And there, at the narrow end, was the pavilion: an elegant affair of striped material caught up by giant spears topped with plumes. Chairs for the guests were set out on each side of that end of the lake, and the whole assembly was backed by Mr. Gibson’s hated trees.

“Of course,” he said gloomily, “there will be all these perishing fairy-lights. You notice even they get smaller as they go back. To carry out the effect, like. You’ve got to hand it to them, they’ve been thorough.”

“At least they’ll shed a bit of light on the scene.”

“Not for long, don’t you worry. There are going to be musical items and a film. Screen wheeled out against the house here, and the projector on a perch at the far end. And while that’s on, out go the lights except in the pavilion, if you please, where they’re putting an ornamental god-almighty lamp which will show His Nibs up like a sitting duck.”

“How long docs that last?”

“Twenty minutes all told. There’s some kind of dance. Followed by a native turn-out with drums and one or two other items including a singer. The whole thing covers about an hour. At the expiration of which you all come back for supper in the banqueting room. And then, please God, you all go home.”

“You couldn’t persuade them to modify their plans at all?”

“Not a chance. It’s been laid on by headquarters.”

“Do you mean in Ng’ombwana, Fred?”

“That’s right. Two chaps from Vistas and Décor and Design were flown out with plans and photographs of this pad at which the President took a long hard look and then dreamt up the whole treatment. He sent one of his henchmen over to see it was laid on according to specifications. I reckon it’s as much as the Ambassador’s job’s worth to change it. And how do you like this?” Gibson asked with a poignant note of outrage in his normally colourless voice. “The Ambassador’s given us definite instruction to keep well away from this bloody pavilion. President’s orders and no excuse-me’s about it.”

“He’s a darling man is the Boomer!”

“He’s making a monkey out of us. I set up a security measure only to be told the President won’t stand for it. Look — I’d turn the whole exercise in if I could get someone to listen to me. Pavilion and all.”

“What if it rains?”

“The whole shooting match moves indoors and why the hell do I say ‘shooting match’?” asked Mr. Gibson moodily.

“So we pray for a wet night?”

“Say that again.”

“Let’s take a look indoors.”

They explored the magnificence of the upper floors, still attended by the Ng’ombwanan spear-carrier, who always removed himself to the greatest possible distance but never left them completely alone. Alleyn tried a remark or two, but the man seemed to have little or no English. His manner was stately and utterly inexpressive.

Gibson re-rehearsed his plan of action for the morrow and Alleyn could find no fault in it. The Special Branch is a bit of a loner in the Service. It does not gossip about its proceedings, and except when they overlap those of another arm, nobody asks it anything. Alleyn, however, was on such terms with Gibson and the circumstances were so unusual as to allow them to relax these austerities. They retired to their car and lit their pipes. Gibson began to talk about subversive elements from emergent independencies known to be based on London and with what he called “violence in their CRO.”

“Some are all on their own,” he said, “and some kind of coagulate like blood. Small-time secret societies. Mostly they don’t get anywhere but there are what you might call malignant areas. And of course you can’t discount the pro.”

“The professional gun?”

“They’re still available. There’s Hinny Packmann. He’s out after doing bird in a Swedish stir. He’d be available if the money was right. He doesn’t operate under three thousand.”

“Hinny’s in Denmark.”

“That’s right, according to Interpol. But he could be imported: I don’t know anything about the political angle,” Gibson said. “Not my scene. Who’d take over if this man was knocked off?”

“I’m told there’d be a revolution of sorts, that mercenaries would be sent in, a puppet government set up, and that in the upshot the big interests would return and take over.”

“Yes. Well, there’s that aspect and then again you might get the solitary fanatic. He’s the type I really do not like,” Gibson said, indignantly drawing a nice distinction between potential assassins. “No record, as likely as not. You don’t know where to look for him.”

“You’ve got the guest list of course.”

“Of course. I’ll show it to you. Wait a sec.”

He fished it out of an inner pocket and they conned it over. Gibson had put a tick beside some five dozen names.

“They’ve all been on the Ng’ombwanan scene in one capacity or another,” he said. “From the oil barons at the top to ex-business men at the bottom, and nearly all of them have been or are in process of being kicked out. The big idea behind this reception seems to be a sort of ‘nothing personal intended’ slant. ‘Everybody loves everybody’ and please come to my party!”

“It hurts me more than it does you?”

“That’s right. And they’ve all accepted, what’s more.”

“Hullo!” Alleyn exclaimed, pointing to the list. “They’ve asked him!”

“Which is that? Ah. Yes. Him. Now, he has got a record.”

“See the list your people kindly supplied to me,” Alleyn said, and produced it.

“That’s right. Not for violence, of course, but a murky background and no error. Nasty bit of work. I don’t much fancy him.”

“His sister makes pottery pigs about one minute away from the Embassy,” said Alleyn.

“I know that. Very umpty little dump. You’d wonder why, wouldn’t you, with all the money he must have made in Ng’ombwana.”

“Has he still got it, though? Mightn’t he be broke?”

“Hard to say. Question of whether he laid off his bets before the troubles began.”

“Do you know about this one?” Alleyn asked, pointing to the name Whipplestone on the guest list.

Gibson instantly reeled off a thumbnail sketch of Mr. Whipplestone.

“That’s the man,” Alleyn said. “Well now, Fred, this may be a matter of no importance, but you may as well lay back your ears and listen.” And he related Mr. Whipplestone’s story of his cat and the pottery fish. “Whipplestone’s a bit perturbed about it,” he said in the end, “but it may be entirely beside the point as far as we’re concerned. This man in the basement, Sheridan, and the odious Sanskrit may simply meet to play bridge. Or they might belong to some potty little esoteric circle: fortune-telling or spiritism or what have you.”

“That’s what Sanskrit first got borrowed for. Fortune-telling and false pretences. He did his bird for drugs. It was after he came out of stir that he set himself up as a merchant in Ng’ombwana. He’s one of the dispossessed,” said Gibson.

“I know.”

“You do?”

“I think I saw him outside his erstwhile premises when I was there three weeks ago.”

“Fancy that.”

“About the ones that get together to belly-ache in exile — you don’t, I suppose, know of a fish medallion lot?”

“Nah!” said Gibson disgustedly.

“And Mr. Sheridan doesn’t appear on the guest list.

What about a Colonel and Mrs. Montfort? They were in Sheridan’s flat that evening.”

“Here. Let’s see.”

“No,” Alleyn said, consulting the list. “No Montforts under the M’s.”

“Wait a sec. I knew there was something. Look here. Under C. ‘Lt. Col. Cockburn-Montfort, Barset Light Infantry (retd).’ What a name. Cockburn.”

“Isn’t it usually pronounced Coburn?” Alleyn mildly suggested. “Anything about him?”

“ ‘Info.’ Here we are. ‘Organized Ng’ombwanan army. Stationed there from 1960 until Independence in 1971 when present government assumed complete control!’ ”

“Well,” Alleyn said after a longish pause, “it still doesn’t have to amount to anything. No doubt ex-Ng’ombwanan colonials tend to flock together like ex-Anglo-Indians. There may be a little clutch of them in the Capricorns all belly-aching cosily together. What about the staff? The non-Ng’ombwanans, I mean.”

“We’re nothing if not thorough. Every last one’s been accounted for. Want to look?”

He produced a second list. “It shows the Costard employees together. Regulars first, extras afterwards. Clean as whistles, the lot of them.”

“This one?”

Gibson followed Alleyn’s long index finger and read under his breath, “ ‘Employed by Costards as extra waiter over period of ten years. In regular employment as domestic servant. Recent position: eight years. Excellent references. Present employment—’ Hullo, ’ullo.”

“Yes?”

“ ‘Present employment at 1, Capricorn Walk, S.W.3.’ ”

“We seem,” Alleyn said, “to be amassing quite a little clutch of coincidences, don’t we?”

“It’s not often,” Alleyn said to his wife, “that we set ourselves up in this rig, is it?”

“You look as if you did it as a matter of course every night. Like the jokes about Empire builders in the jungle. When there was an Empire. Orders and decorations to boot.”

“What does one mean exactly, by ‘to boot’?”

“You tell me, darling, you’re the purist.”

“I was when I courted my wife.”

Troy, in her green gown, sat on her bed and pulled on her long gloves. “It’s worked out all right,” she said. “Us. Wouldn’t you say?”

“I would say.”

“What a bit of luck for us.”

“All of that.”

He buttoned up her gloves for her. “You look marvellous,” he said. “Shall we go?”

“Is our svelte hired limousine at the door?”

“It is.”

“Whoops, then, hark chivvy away.”

Palace Park Gardens had been closed to general traffic by the police, so the usual crowd of onlookers was not outside the Ng’ombwanan Embassy. The steps were red-carpeted, a flood of light and strains of blameless and dated melodies streamed through the great open doorway. A galaxy of liveried men, black and white, opened car doors and slammed them again.

“Oh Lord, I’ve forgotten the damn’ card!” Troy exclaimed.

“I’ve got it. Here we go.”

The cards, Alleyn saw, were being given a pretty hard look by the men who received them and were handed on to other men seated unobtrusively at tables. He was amused to see, hovering in the background, Superintendent Gibson in tails and a white tie looking a little as if he might be an Old Dominion Plenipotentiary.

Those guests wishing for the cloakrooms turned off to the right and left and on re-entering the hall were martialled back to the end of the double file of Ng’ombwanan guards, where they gave their names to a superb black major-domo who roared them out with all the resonant assurance of a war drum.

Troy and Alleyn had no trappings to shed and passed directly into the channel of approach.

And there, at the far end on the flight of steps leading to the great saloon, was the Boomer himself in state, backed by his spear-carrier and wearing a uniform that might have been inspired by the Napoleonic Old Guard upon whom had been lightly laid the restraining hand of Sandhurst.

Troy muttered: “He’s wonderful. Gosh, he’s glorious!”

“She’d like to paint him,” thought Alleyn.

The patently anxious Ambassador, similarly if less gorgeously uniformed, was stationed on the Boomer’s right. Their personal staff stood about in magnificent attitudes behind them.

“Mis-tar and Mrs. Roderick Alleyn.”

That huge and beguiling smile opened and illuminated the Boomer’s face. He said loudly, “No need for an introduction here,” and took Alleyn’s hands in both his gloved ones.

“And this is the famous wife!” he resonantly proclaimed. “I am so glad. We meet later. I have a favour to ask. Yes?”

The Alleyns moved on, conscious of being the object of a certain amount of covert attention.

“Rory?”

“Yes, I know. Extra special, isn’t he?”

“Whew!”

“What?”

“ ‘Whew.’ Incredulous whistle.”

“Difficult, in competition with Gilbert and Sullivan.”

They had passed into the great saloon. In the minstrels’ gallery instrumentalists, inconspicuously augmented by a clutch of Gibson’s silent henchmen, were discussing The Gondoliers. “When everyone is somebodee, then no-one’s anybody!” they brightly and almost inaudibly chirped.

Trays with champagne were circulated. Jokes about constabular boots and ill-fitting liveries were not appropriate. Among the white servants it was impossible to single out Fred Gibson’s men.

How to diagnose the smell of a grand assembly? Beyond the luxurious complexity of cosmetics, scent, flowers, hairdressers’ lotions, remote foods and alcohol, was there something else, something peculiar to this particular occasion? Somewhere in these rooms were they burning that stuff — what was it? — sandarac? That was it. Alleyn had last smelt it in the Presidential Palace in Ng’ombwana. That and the indefinably alien scent of persons of a different colour. The curtains were drawn across the French windows, but the great room was not overheated as yet. People moved about it like well-directed extras in the central scene of some feature film.

They encountered acquaintances: the subject of a portrait Troy had painted some years ago for the Royal Commonwealth Society, Alleyn’s great white chief and his wife. Someone he knew in the Foreign Office and, unexpectedly, his brother, Sir George Alleyn: tall, handsome, ambassadorial and entirely predictable. Troy didn’t really mind her brother-in-law but Alleyn always found him a bit of an ass.

“Good Lord!” said Sir George. “Rory!”

“George.”

“And Troy, my dear. Looking too lovely. Charming! Charming! And what, may one ask, are you doing, Rory, in this galère?”

“They got me in to watch the tea-spoons, George.”

“Jolly good, ha-ha. Matter of fact,” said Sir George, bending archly down to Troy, “between you and me and the gatepost I’ve no idea why I’m here myself. Except that we’ve all been asked.”

“Do you mean your entire family, George?” enquired his brother. “Twins and all?”

“So amusing. I mean,” he told Troy, “the corps diplomatique or at least those of us who’ve had the honour to represent Her Majesty’s Government in ‘furrin parts,’ ” said Sir George, again becoming playful. “Here we all are! Why, we don’t quite know!” he gaily concluded.

“To raise the general tone, I expect,” said Alleyn gravely. “Look, Troy, there’s Sam Whipplestone. Shall we have a word with him?”

“Do let’s.”

“See you later, perhaps, George.”

“I understand there’s to be some sort of fête champêtre.”

“That’s right. Mind you don’t fall in the pond.”

Troy said when they were at a safe remove, “If I were George I’d thump you.”

Mr. Whipplestone was standing near the dais in front of the Ng’ombwanan display of arms. His faded hair was beautifully groomed and his rather withdrawn face wore a gently attentive air. His eyeglass was at the alert. When he caught sight of the Alleyns he smiled delightedly, made a little bow, and edged towards them.

“What a very grand party,” he said.

“Disproportionate, would you say?” Alleyn hinted.

“Well, coming it rather strong, perhaps. I keep thinking of Martin Chuzzlewit.”

“ ‘Todgers were going it’?”

“Yes.” Mr. Whipplestone looked very directly at Alleyn. “All going well in your part of the picture?” he asked.

“Not mine, you know.”

“But you’ve been consulted.”

“Oh,” said Alleyn, “that! Vaguely. Quite unofficial. I was invited to view. Brother Gibson’s laid on a maximum job.”

“Good.”

“By the way, did you know your man was on the strength tonight? Chubb?”

“Oh, yes. He and Mrs. Chubb have been on the caterer’s supplementary list for many years, he tells me. They’re often called upon.”

“Yes.”

“Another of our coincidences, did you think?”

“Well — hardly that, perhaps.”

“How’s Lucy Lockett?” Troy asked.

Mr. Whipplestone made the little grimace that allowed his glass to dangle. “Behaving herself with decorum,” he said, primly.

“No more thieving sorties?”

“Thank God, no,” he said with some fervour. “You must meet her, both of you,” he added, “and try Mrs. Chubb’s cooking. Do say you will.”

“We’d like that very much,” said Troy warmly.

“I’ll telephone tomorrow and we’ll arrange a time.”

“By the way,” Alleyn said, “talking of Lucy Lockett reminds me of your Mr. Sheridan. Have you any idea what he does?”

“Something in the City, I think. Why?”

“It’s just that the link with the Sanskrit couple gives him a certain interest. There’s no connection with Ng’ombwana?”

“Not that I know.”

“He’s not here tonight,” Alleyn said.

One of the A.D.C.s was making his way through the thickening crowd. Alleyn recognized him as his escort in Ng’ombwana. He saw Alleyn and came straight to him, all eyes and teeth.

“Mr. Alleyn, His Excellency the Ambassador wishes me to say that the President will be very pleased if you and Mrs. Alleyn will join the official party for the entertainment in the garden. I will escort you when the time comes. Perhaps we could meet here.”

“That’s very kind,” Alleyn said. “We shall be honoured.”

“Dear me,” said Mr. Whipplestone when the A.D.C. had gone, “Todgers are going it and no mistake.”

“It’s the Boomer at it again. I wish he wouldn’t.”

Troy said: “What do you suppose he meant when he said he had a favour to ask.”

“He said it to you, darling. Not me.”

“I’ve got one I’d like to ask him, all right.”

“No prize offered for guessing the answer. She wants,” Alleyn explained to Mr. Whipplestone, “to paint him.”

“Surely,” he rejoined with his little bow, “that wish has only to be made known — Good God!”

He had broken off to stare at the entrance into the saloon where the last arrivals were coming in. Among them, larger, taller, immeasurably more conspicuous than anyone else in their neighbourhood, were Mr. Whipplestone’s bugbears: the Sanskrits, brother and sister.

They were, by and large, appropriately attired. That is to say, they wore full evening dress. The man’s shirt, to Mr. Whipplestone’s utterly conventional taste, was unspeakable, being heavily frilled and lacy with a sequin or two winking in its depths. He wore many rings on his dimpled fingers. His fair hair was cut in a fringe and concealed his ears. He was skilfully but unmistakably en maquillage, as Mr. Whipplestone shudderingly put it to himself. The sister, vast in green fringed satin, also wore her hair, which was purple, in a fringe and side-pieces. These in effect squared her enormous face. They moved slowly, like two huge vessels shoved from behind by tugs.

“I thought you’d be surprised,” Alleyn said. He bent his head and shoulders, being so tall, in order that he and Mr. Whipplestone could converse without shouting. The conglomerate roar of voices now almost drowned the orchestra, which pursuing its course through the century had now reached the heyday of Cochran’s Revues.

“You knew they were invited?” Mr. Whipplestone said, referring to the Sanskrits. “Well, really!”

“Not very delicious, I agree. By the way, somewhere here there’s another brace of birds from your Capricorn preserves.”

“Not—”

“The Montforts.”

“That is less upsetting.”

“The Colonel had a big hand, it appears, in setting up their army.”

Mr. Whipplestone looked steadily at him. “Are you talking about Cockburn-Monfort?” he said at last.

“That’s right.”

“Then why the devil couldn’t his wife say so,” he crossly exclaimed. “Silly creature! Why leave out the Cockburn? Too tiresome. Yes, well, naturally he’d be asked. I never met him. He hadn’t appeared on the scene in my early days and he’d gone when I returned.” He thought for a moment. “Sadly run to seed,” he said. “And his wife, too, I’m afraid.”

“The bottle?”

“I should imagine the bottle. I did tell you, didn’t I, that they were there in Sheridan’s basement that evening when I called. And that she dodged down?”

“You did, indeed.”

“And that she had — um—?”

“Accosted you in the pet-shop? Yes.”

“Quite so.”

“Well, I daresay she’ll have another fling if she spots you tonight. You might introduce us, if she does.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

And after about ten minutes Mr. Whipplestone said that there the Cockburn-Montforts, in fact, were, some thirty feet away and drifting in their direction. Alleyn suggested that they move casually towards them.

“Well, my dear fellow, if you insist.”

So it was done. Mrs. Cockburn-Montfort spotted Mr. Whipplestone and bowed. They saw her speak to her husband, obviously suggesting they should effect an encounter.

“Good evening!” she cried as they approached. “What odd places we meet in, don’t we? Animal shops and embassies.” And when they were actually face-to-face: “I’ve told my husband about you and your piteous little pusscat. Darling, this is Mr. Whipplestone, our new boy at No. 1, the Walk. Remember?”

“Hiyar,” said Colonel Cockburn-Montfort.

Mr. Whipplestone, following what he conceived to be Alleyn’s wishes, modestly deployed his social expertise. “How do you do,” he said, and to the lady: “Do you know, I feel quite ashamed of myself. I didn’t realize, when we encountered, that your husband was the Cockburn-Montfort. Of Ng’ombwana,” he added, seeing that she looked nonplussed.

“Oh. Didn’t you? We rather tend to let people forget the Cockburn half. So often and so shy-makingly mispronounced,” said Mrs. Cockburn-Montfort, gazing up first at Alleyn and then at Mr. Whipplestone, who thought, “At least they both seem to be sober,” and he reflected that very likely they were never entirely drunk. He introduced Alleyn, and at once she switched all her attention to him, occasionally throwing a haggard, comradely glance at Troy, upon whom, after a long, glazed look, the Colonel settled his attention.

In comparison with the Sanskrits they were, Mr. Whipplestone thought, really not so awful, or perhaps more accurately, they were awful in a more acceptable way. The Colonel, whose voice was hoarse, told Troy that he and his wife had been hard on the Alleyn’s heels when they were greeted by the President. He was evidently curious about the cordiality of their reception and began, without much subtlety, to fish. Had she been to Ng’ombwana? If so, why had they never met? He would certainly have not forgotten if they had, he added, and performed the gesture of brushing up his moustache at the corners while allowing his eyes to goggle slightly. He became quite persistent in his gallantries, and Troy thought the best way to cut them short was to say that her husband had been at school with the President.

“Ah!” said the Colonel. “Really? That explains it.” It would have been hard to say why she found the remark offensive.

A hush fell on the assembly and the band in the gallery became audible. It had approached the contemporary period and was discussing My Fair Lady when the President and his entourage entered the salon. They made a scarcely less then royal progress to the dais under the trophies. At the same time, Alleyn noticed, Fred Gibson turned up in the darkest part of the gallery and stood looking down at the crowd. “With a Little Bit of Luck,” played the band, and really, Alleyn thought, it might have been Fred’s signature-tune. The players faded out obsequiously as the Boomer reached the dais.

The ceremonial spear-carrier had arrived and stood, motionless and magnificent, in a panoply of feathers, armlets, anklets, necklets and lion-skins against the central barbaric trophy. The Boomer seated himself. The Ambassador advanced to the edge of the dais. The conductor drew an admonitory flourish from his players.

“Your Excellency, Mr. President, sir. My Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen,” said the Ambassador, and went on to welcome his President, his guests and, in general terms, the excellent rapprochement that obtained between his government and that of the United Kingdom, a rapprochement that encouraged the promotion of an ever-developing — his theme became a little foggy round the edges, but he brought it to a sonorous conclusion and evoked a round of discreet applause.

The Boomer then rose. Troy thought to herself: “I’m going to remember this. Sharply. Accurately. Everything. That great hussar’s busby of grey hair. Those reflected lights in the hollows of temple and cheek. The swelling blue tunic, white paws and glittering hardware. And the background, for Heaven’s sake! No, but I’ve got to. I’ve got to.”

She looked at her husband, who raised one eyebrow and muttered: “I’ll ask.”

She squeezed his hand violently.

The Boomer spoke briefly. Such was the magnificence of his voice that the effect was less of a human instrument than of some enormous double-bass. He spoke predictably of enduring bonds of fellowship in the Commonwealth and less formally of, the joys of revisiting the haunts of his youth. Pursuing this theme, to Alleyn’s deep misgiving, he dwelt on his school-days and of strongly cemented, never to be broken friendships. At which point, having obviously searched the audience and spotted his quarry, he flashed one of his startling grins straight at the Alleyns. A general murmur was induced and Mr. Whipplestone, highly diverted, muttered something about “the cynosure of all eyes.” A few sonorous generalities rounded off the little speech. When the applause had subsided the Ambassador announced a removal to the gardens, and simultaneously the curtains were drawn back and the six pairs of French windows flung open. An enchanting prospect was revealed. Golden lights, star-shaped and diminishing in size, receded into the distance and were reflected in the small lake, itself subscribing to the false perspective that culminated, at the far end, in the brilliantly lit scarlet and white pavilion. Vistas of Baronsgate had done themselves proud.

“The stage-management, as one feels inclined to call it,” said Mr. Whipplestone, “is superb. I look forward excitedly to seeing you both in the pavilion.”

“You’ve had too much champagne,” Alleyn said, and Mr. Whipplestone made a little crowing noise.

The official party passed into the garden and the guests followed in their wake. Alleyn and Troy were duly collected by the A.D.C. and led to the pavilion. Here they were enthusiastically greeted by the Boomer and introduced to ten distinguished guests, among whom Alleyn was amused to find his brother George, whose progress as a career-diplomat had hoisted him into more than one ambassadorial post. The other guests consisted of the last of the British governors in Ng’ombwana and representatives of associated African independencies.

It would be incorrect to say that the Boomer was enthroned in his pavilion. His chair was not raised above the others, but it was isolated and behind it stood the ceremonial spear-bearer. The guests, in arrow formation, flanked the President. From the house and to the guests seated on either side of the lake they must present, Alleyn thought, a remarkable picture.

The musicians had descended from their gallery into the garden and were grouped, modestly, near the house, among trees that partly concealed the lavatorial louvre windows Gibson had pointed out to Alleyn.

When the company was settled, a large screen was wheeled in front of the French windows facing down the lake towards the pavilion. A scene in the Ng’ombwanan wild-lands was now projected on this screen. A group of live Ng’ombwanan drummers then appeared before it, the garden lights were dimmed, and the drummers performed. The drums throbbed and swelled, pulsed and thudded, disturbing in their monotony, unseemly in their context: a most unsettling noise. It grew to a climax. A company of warriors, painted and armed, erupted from the dark and danced. Their feet thumped down on the mown turf. From the shadows, people, Ng’ombwanans presumably, began to clap the rhythm. More and more of the guests, encouraged perhaps by champagne and the anonymity of the shadows, joined in this somewhat inelegant response. The performance crashed to a formidable conclusion.

The Boomer threw out a few explanatory observations. Champagne was again in circulation.

Apart from the President himself, Ng’ombwana had produced one other celebrity: a singer, by definition a bass but with the astonishing vocal range of just over four octaves, an attribute that he exploited without the least suggestion of break or transition. His native name, unpronounceable by Europeans, had been simplified as Karbo and he was world-famous.

He was now to appear.

He came from the darkened ballroom and was picked up in front of the screen by a strong spotlight: a black man in conventional evening dress, with a quite extraordinary air of distinction.

All the golden stars and all the lights in the house were out. The orchestra lamps were masked. Only the single lamp by the President, complained of by Gibson, remained alight, so that the President and the singer, at opposite ends of the lake, were the only persons to be seen in the benighted garden.

The orchestra played an introductory phrase.

A single deep sustained note of extraordinary strength and beauty floated from the singer.

While it still hung on the air a sound like that of a whiplash cracked out, and somewhere in the house a woman screamed and screamed and screamed.

The light in the pavilion went out.

What followed was like the outbreak of a violent storm: a confusion of voices, of isolated screams, less insistent than the continuous one, of shouted orders, of chairs overturned, of something or someone falling into the water. Of Alleyn’s hand on Troy’s shoulder. Then of his voice: “Don’t move, Troy. Stay there.” And then, unmistakably, the Boomer’s great voice roaring out something in his own tongue and Alleyn saying: “No, you don’t. No!” Of a short guttural cry near at hand and a thud. And then from many voices like the king and courtiers in the play: “Lights! Lights! Lights!”

They came up, first in the ballroom and then overhead in the garden. They revealed some of the guests still seated on either side of the lake but many on their feet talking confusedly. They revealed also the great singer, motionless, still in his spotlight, and a number of men who emerged purposefully from several directions, some striding up to the pavilion and some into the house.

And in the pavilion itself men with their backs to Troy shutting her in, crowding together and hiding her husband from her. Women making intermittent exclamations in the background.

She heard her brother-in-law’s voice raised in conventional admonition — “Don’t panic, anybody. Keep calm. No need to panic” — and even in her confusion thought that however admirable the advice, he did unfortunately sound ridiculous.

His instructions were in effect repeated, not at all ridiculously, by a large, powerful man who had appeared beside the singer.

“Keep quiet and stay where you are, ladies and gentlemen, if you please,” said this person, and Troy at once recognized the Yard manner.

The screaming woman had moved away somewhere inside the house. Her cries had broken down into hysterical and incomprehensible speech. They became more distant and were finally subdued.

And now the large purposeful man came into the pavilion. The men who had blocked Troy’s view backed away, and she saw what they had been looking at.

A prone figure, face down, arms spread, dressed in a flamboyant uniform, split down the back by a plumed spear. The sky-blue tunic had a glistening patch round the place of entry. The plume, where it touched the split, was red.

Alleyn was kneeling by the figure.

The large purposeful man moved in front of her and shut off this picture. She heard Alleyn’s voice: “Better clear the place.” After a moment he was beside her, holding her arm and turning her away. “All right?” he said. “Yes?” She nodded and found herself being shepherded out of the pavilion with the other guests.

When they had gone Alleyn returned to the spiked figure and again knelt beside it. He looked up at his colleague and slightly shook his head.

Superintendent Gibson muttered, “They’ve done it!”

“Not precisely,” Alleyn said. He stood up and at once the group of men moved further back. And there was the Boomer, bolt upright in the chair that was not quite a throne, breathing deeply and looking straight before him.

“It’s the Ambassador,” Alleyn said.