Blame The Dead

Thirteen

Saturday was a crisp, clear day; so far we'd had every sort of March weather except the traditional winds. Now it was blue and bright, but still with snow lying in the Kent fields and the farmers indoors swearing the hop harvest was fruz to hell and they'd have to sell the Rolls if the Government didn't increase the subsidy.

I had company heading down through South London, but he didn't really stand a chance in that Saturday shopping traffic; I lost him by real accident before we reached Bromley. And once I was on clear roads, I let the Escort go. Nothing too chancy, but just holding her on a chosen line through the bends a couple of mph before her back end would start hedge-climbing, the grass brushing the sides. It made me feel… well, maybe in control of something, for once.

A quarter of an hour before Kingscutt I slowed down; my left arm was starting to ache again anyway. I drove in like any sober City gent – apart from the car, my suit, and various purple marks on my neck; I put on my black sling once I'd parked, too.

It was a small village of varying styles up to and including advertising-agency weekend restoration, but the church was genuine Norman and The Volunteer pub, just across a triangular village green, was genuinely open. I took a large Scotch and soda.

A man in a black suit and a gin and tonic asked politely if I was there for the funeral. I said I was, then pinned him down before he could pin me: 'Did you know him in the City?'

'I'm in Lloyd's, yes. On the brokerage side. And you?'

I chose the opposite alibi. 'Just a friend of the family. Terrible business.'

'Yes. And that other chap with him, running away like that. Englishman, as well.'

I shrugged hopelessly. 'I suppose every country has its share of them.'

'Very true, very true. Well, I don't know, about you, but we're certainly going to miss old Martin.'

'Popular chap, was he?'

He chuckled briefly. 'Oh, everybody knew Martin and his little tricks.'

'He… what?'

'The last of the old-style underwriters. In the old building, where we were really crammed together, there was a great tradition of practical joking, you know. Real club-room atmosphere. Just about all gone since we moved to the new place -but Martin did his best.'

'Well, I'm damned.' I stared into my glass, but the dizzy feeling wasn't coming from there.

He smiled knowingly. 'Seemed a bit of a dull dog to you, did he?'

'Well, you know… nice bloke, straightforward… no real hobbies or anything…'

'I suppose that was his way of relaxing – just switching off the power. Rest is as good as a change, eh? But Lloyd's certainly won't be the same without him, and damned if you can say that for most of them. I mean us.' A church bell began to toll and he emptied his glass quickly. 'Sounds like action stations. You had a bit of an accident?'

I went with him to the door. 'Yes. Just met a ditch that was driving dangerously.'

He laughed cheerfully and we marched out towards the church. A convoy of big black cars was just closing up beside it, with a sizeable and well-dressed crowd spilling out and around. There was money in that mob; almost all the men had real black suits, like my brokerage friend, not just 'something darkish' like mine.

'See what I mean?' he said. 'They wouldn't turn out like that for most of us.'

I put on an impressed expression and managed to lose him on the fringes of the crowd. I took my time going in, which was a mistake: I'd forgotten the old English tradition of rushing for the darkest back pew, so I got a nice conspicuous seat in the middle. Paul Mockby spotted me coming past and said 'Jesus Christ', but not the way it usually gets said in church.

The service was the full works, and we sang, not muttered, the Twenty-third Psalm. Somebody with a voice so inbred that it could hardly climb out of his mouth read the lesson, and the vicar – a pleasant-looking fluffy old boy – gave an address.

He did his best, but he was carrying too much handicap for that course. Partly because it was soon clear that Fenwick had never been inside the church before, so we had the bit about pressures of honourable toil in the ancient market places of the City; and partly he was obviously scared that the Sunday papers might prove the corpse to have been the biggest frauds-man since the Swedish Match King. Over-all, he ran steadiest on the midst-of-life-we-are-in-death and cut-down-in-his-prime stretches.

I spent most of my time talent-spotting, but all I got was Hawthorn near me, David and young Harry Henderson up front beside a tall, slim woman. No Maggie Mackwood that I could find.

Then we were back on our feet and the coffin was processing past on top of six of the tallest, smoothest-dressed men I'd ever seen. They didn't come out of any Kent hopfield. You know, there is something about the rich being bigger than the rest of us; maybe their mothers' milk comes pasteurised.

I caught David's eye as he passed and got a quick, nervous smile. I tried to get a proper look at the tall woman – who must be Mrs Lois Fenwick – but she was wearing a proper veil, and all I did was confirm that tallness and slimness. And she moved well. A black, prim-looking governess dress that fitted the occasion nicely.

I hung back again, and was just about last out. We didn't have far to go: they'd found a plot in the churchyard itself. And, if you care, there're worse places than an old Kentish churchyard to go down for the last time.

'Can't stand this sort of thing. Harping on death and all that. Turns me over, rather. Sorry, old boy.'

He was standing deliberately well back, just as I was, and stirring a little heap of damp confetti with an elegant black shoe. The rest of him was tall, thin – and also mostly black, of course. Except the tangled fair hair, the blue eyes, the face with its mid-thirties boyish good looks.

'Three quick volleys, shoulder arms, right turn, and run for the canteen?' I suggested. It was a guess, but he was old enough to have done National Service.

'That's more like it,' he admitted, then grinned suddenly. 'What were you in?'

'I Corps.'

'Ah.' He nodded, like when you say you clean out dustbins. 'I was only National Service, of course.' He named a Lancer regiment where you have to prove your father was a colonel and your mother a horse, and one of them rich besides.

'Willie Winslow,' he added.

That struck a bell louder than the verger had done so far. 'You're in Fenwick's syndicate? I'm James Card.'

Automatically, he started to hold out a hand – then froze it halfway. His face got wary. 'You weren't the chap who…?'

'That's right.'

'Oh, I say.' He thought about it, frowning. 'It's all right for you to be here, is it?'

Tve got a better reason for feeling sorry than most here today.' Ineeded somebody in the syndicate, and if the Army Pals act wasn't going to work, then maybe the self-pity bit would.

He looked at me sharply, then relaxed into an uncertain smile. 'Well, I suppose that's right…'

In the middle of the black crowd the vicar's voice started buzzing.

I whispered loudly, 'Met a broker chap in the pub just now -he was telling me Fenwick had been the life and soul of the party at Lloyd's.'

Willie looked firmly front but sounded quite friendly out of the side of his mouth. 'Oh, rather. You should have been there the day they launched the new Cunarder. He kidded one old boy the thing had capsized, and the damned fool believed him for quite five minutes. Nearly went through the roof. Terribly funny.'

'Odd… he didn't seem like that to me.'

'Well, you hardly really knew him, did you, old boy?' He was letting me down lightly. Kindly.

Then there was the hollow sound of earth on the coffin lid, and that was the loudest bell of the day. Willie winced, but stiffened himself. 'Suppose I'd better…'

'Not me.' He looked rather relieved, then strode into the crowd with that loose-jointed action of a Lancer walking away from a dead horse.

The crowd began to break up, slowly but speeding up as they got away from the smell of mortality.

Mockby was one of the first going past me. 'What the hell are you doing here?'

'I didn't see Miss Mackwood,' I said pleasantly.

'At leastshe had the decency to stay away.' Thank you, chum – every little helps, even if it's only somebody else's conclusions. 'What happened to you?'

'Some mob tried the same thing that your boys did, only more so.'

He considered this, then nodded. 'Good.'

'Real pros – including the truth-drug bit.'

'My God,' he hissed. 'Did you talk?'

'Some. They didn't seem to think it was enough – so maybe they'll be back.'

'Look, boy, you're too small for this business.' He was talking fast and low. 'Come and see me back in London. Right?'

'Can I bring a bodyguard? '

He gave me a quick sneer. 'D'you know a good one?' and went away.

David Fenwick appeared at my elbow. 'You don't seem to get on with Mr Mockby, sir. Did you have an accident?'

'Nope. It was entirely intentional.'

His eyes opened wide. 'You mean it was to do with…?'

'Yes.'

'Oh. I didn't want you to get involved in-' And just then, Mrs Fenwick appeared behind him. She'd pushed back her veil and it was entirely an improvement; it isn't always, even at weddings. An oval face, almost little-girlish, with a small nose, large brown eyes, and sculptured Cupid's bow lips. She looked pale, but pale looked like her colour, and calm and dry-eyed.

She smiled gently in my direction and murmured, 'I don't think we've…' and let it fade away so I could ignore it if I wanted to. Her voice had a faint American accent.

David stood forward. 'He's Mr Card, Mother. He was with Daddy when…'

For the moment her face went blank. Just zero. 'Oh… you're the… how nice of you to come.' She managed to look pleased.

'I invited him,' David said firmly, not letting me take any of the blame.

Mrs Fenwick nodded without looking away from me. 'Quite right, darling. I do hope you'll come up to the Manor now. I'm sure Willie will give you a lift…' She glanced over her shoulder and Willie appeared there.

'Willie, dear, have you met Mr Card?'

Willie said Yes, and went on looking at me as if I were something new at the zoo whose habits might not be suitable for children.

Mrs Fenwick smiled again and passed on. David gave me a glance and followed.

The crowd flowed around us. After a moment Willie took out a gold cigarette case, offered it to me, took one for himself. 'I suppose it's permitted on Holy Ground… I see you know young David.'

'Yes.'

He thought of asking me how, then didn't. 'Brave young fellow. What a business, what a business.' He puffed for a moment. 'I suppose there wasn't anything else you could do, really.'

'Except get stuck in Arras jail.'

'Oh yes, just so. Quite frightful. D'you think they'll catch the chap that did it?'

'Not unless somebody tells them what it was all about.'

We started to walk towards the gate. He said thoughtfully, 'I say – it couldn't have been anything to do with the syndicate, could it?'

'I'm bloody sure it was.'

He looked at me. 'Did Martin tell you, then, before he…?'

'No, but Mockby's as good as told me since.'

'Really?'

'Well, he's really been threatening me and sending his chauffeur round to sort me out and search my pad. To me, that's telling.'

He went thoughtful. I'd been piling it on a bit, of course. Our Willie seemed a little limp to use as a lever, but when you're trying to prise information out of men like Mockby you take whatever you can get, He went on being thoughtful about it until we reached the cars. There he waved a hand. This is my bus. Be a bit of a squeeze, but…'

The 'bus' was a long black-and-silver streak of pre-war Mercedes, all bonnet and exhaust pipes and huge headlights and twin horns and a sort of miniature engine-driver's cab stuck on the back as an afterthought. It was as old as I was, but lasting a hell of a sight better. I've never seen a car in more beautiful nick.

'Not really the thing for these occasions,' he said, vaguely apologetic, 'but it's the only black job I've got right now.'

I clambered in and he twiddled a few knobs and the engine went off like a peal of thunder, first time, just as you knew it would. We prowled gently round two sides of the green, then blasted off up a short hill. But he never got a chance to get really moving: we were part of a long queue of expensive transportation winding up to the top, turning right, then in through a pillared gateway.

The Manor turned out to be a square Victorian pile, built long after real manorial times. But solid under its Gothic trimmings, with well-kept sloping lawns and rosebeds and low garden walls. He parked on the gravel driveway – the forecourt was jammed already-and we walked round and up half a dozen wide stone steps and in.

The serious drinkers were already scraping the bottoms of their first glasses and the chatter was beginning to warm up. I caught Harry Henderson carting a tray around and latched on to a Scotch, then stood on the fringe of the crowd and looked around. We were in a tall, rather shapeless hallway, with a log fire burning in a grate at one side and a wide staircase on the other. A couple of pictures on the walls looked genuine, if a little pale, and were well lit. The furniture was thin on the ground, but good antique stuff. It hadn't been the same taste that had furnished the St John's Wood flat. And it hadn't been the income declared on those tax returns that had furnished here, either. What had Oscar implied about this house?

Behind me, a man's voice said, 'She makes a damn pretty widow, anyway.'

Another said, 'Don't suppose she'll make one for long.'

'Hardly. Wouldn't mind a nibble meself, if it comes to that.'

'Not quite the thing to say when you're standing here drinking poor old Martin's gin.'

'Hers, old boy, hers.'

The voices faded into the general babble and I drifted on through to a big, light corner room. It was sparsely furnished -even the concert grand didn't crowd you in that room – but all good stuff. I stared at a picture on the wall and decided it must be late Turner. And nobody got later than Turner.

David came up with a tray of drinks and I reloaded.

'Can I have a talk with you, sir? '

'Sure. I'll hang around until you're clear."

He pushed off; I collected a couple of classy canapés off a housekeeper-shaped woman and went on wandering gently. So far, I hadn't seen Mockby, and since he was difficult to miss I assumed he'd headed back to London to weed his money patch.

Then I came on a collision course with Willie, wandering lonely as an upper-class cloud with a fixed half-smile on his face.

He looked at me. 'I say – you've had an accident.'

It was only the third time we'd met that day. I tell you, you could bleed to death in this country until somebody decides he knows you well enough to call an ambulance.

'Nothing too bad.' I reckoned he'd had enough horror stories for one day. 'Tell me – was Fenwick a good underwriter?'

'Oh, marvellous, old boy – quite the best. We're clear up the creek and grounded on a falling tide without him. He actually knew something about shipping, you see. Most of them don't know a bosun from a binnacle.'

'The underwriters? How the hell do they insure them, then?'

'Oh, experience, statistics, averages, you know. I mean, you don't have to know anything about life to write life insurance, do you, old boy?' He grinned in his mild way; you couldn't quite imagine Willie giving a real rollicking grin. Might frighten the horses; even the tanks. 'But Martin was really interested, particularly in the Norwegian companies. Made us a leader, far as Norway went.'

'Leader?'

'Yes. You know what I mean? Well, it means the syndicates that traditionally set the rates with the brokers, they're the leaders – what? Another underwriter sees a broker hawking around a slip for a Norwegian ship and he looks to see if Fen-wick's taken a line on it and if they have, well, he knows the premium's right – you know? Other syndicates are leaders in tankers or oil rigs or towing risks… but most just follow the lead of the leaders, what?'

I nodded. 'You sound as if you know something about shipping yourself,'

'The family used to be in it, old boy. But we got taken over in the fifties, so I just have to play with it at one remove instead of going for nice long cruises in the owner's cabin, what?'

He smiled and I smiled back. The politely vacant expression might be genuine, but I had a feeling there was something behind it. A man who knew himself, perhaps.

'How did the syndicate do, then?'

'I say, you're asking rather a lot of questions, aren't you, old boy?' But he was still perfectly pleasant with it.

'Guilt feeling, maybe. Wanting to know something about Fenwick, after what happened…' I dangled the bait.

'Oh, mustn't be hard on yourself, old boy. Sure you did everything…' He let his voice drift away.

'It just bothers me.'

'Well, it's no secret we were doing all right. At least Martin kept us afloat in the bad years – and some syndicates broke up then, you know – and we were just about to get going again… and well, you know?'

'How did Fenwick himself manage in the bad years -without profits?'

His eyes went cool and distant, but a fragment of smile remained. 'Just haven't the foggiest notion, old boy. Know I had to sell a few hunters, though. Do you hunt?'

It was a bloody silly question, but it made it politely clear he wanted a quick change of topic.

'Only fleas on cats."

'I… don't think I got that?'

'Fleas on cats. Great sport when I was in Cyprus. Get a light-coloured, short-haired cat – white or ginger's the best. And a pair of eyebrow tweezers, and track them through the undergrowth and – click!'

'Sounds rather sporting. But by rights there should be an element of risk in a blood sport.'

I shrugged. 'You could always try it on an unfriendly cat.'

He put on his vague smile and his eyes focused somewhere else. 'Just so, just so,' he murmured, then sort of faded away.

The party had thinned out a bit, but the remainder were settling in for the duration. David wandered past me, made a conspiratorial face, and led the way upstairs. He had a big room – well, I suppose there weren't any small rooms in that house, except for the servants' – nicely cluttered with the fallout of childhood. A worn old teddy-bear sat on the deep window-sill, a fancy electric train set was collecting dust in one corner, a battered control-line model Spitfire hung on the wall. And books; he had books the way Cyprus cats have fleas.

I picked up a fat volume from beside the bed: Barbara Tuchman's The Guns of August. 'Have you read this?'

'Only once so far, sir. Do you know it? '

'Marvellous book. I think she treads a bit gentle on the original Schließen Plan, though.'

He concentrated. 'I thought it only went wrong because… von Kluck came down east of Paris instead of west – and exposed his flank.'

'Maybe. But nobody seems to have asked what would have happened if he'd followed the Plan and gone west. He'd've been out of touch with the Second Army – or stretched pretty thin – and he'd still have been marching for a month and moving farther than anybody else. Either way, he'd got a damned tired Army. And that was the Plan's fault.'

'I suppose so.' He smiled. 'Can I quote you in my essay, sir? -as an ex-Major of Intelligence?'

'If you like. Now – d'you want to hear how I've been getting on?'

'I'd like to know why you were attacked like that.'

'They were after whatever Bertie Bear was supposed to be. They found the new copy in my flat, and I babbled about him when they hit me with the truth-drug technique, and they didn't want to know. So we know he was a blind, and there's something that size and shape around.'

'Not in Daddy's flat?'

'No. Somebody searched there before me, mind-' his eyes opened wide; '-but I got jumpedafter that, so if it was the same mob they didn't find it at the flat, either. And it can't be at Lloyd's or Mockby would have nicked it. He knows what it is, by the way.'

He thought about this. 'It might be in this house, then.'

'Yes. Can you go through his stuff here?'

He looked doubtful, but nodded slowly and fumbled at his inside pocket. 'I don't know if I should have done this, but – it's a letter my mother threw away.'

I suppose the code of the greater public schools doesn't encourage snooping through parents' wastebaskets, so I un-crumpled it – it had been screwed into a ball – and said quickly, 'Oh, yes, you were right,' long before I'd found out he certainly•was right.

It was on the office notepaper of Jonas Steen, Marine Surveyor (it actually said that in English), of Bergen, Norway. Handwritten, in the mature but slightly inaccurate style of a man who usually gets his thoughts typed out for him.

And it said:

Dear Madam,

May I express my great sorrow at the terrible death of your husband, whom I also knew? It must be a very great shock.

I would not trouble you more at this dreadful time but there was a certain book I think he was carrying to France when he died. If it was not taken by Mr Card who was with him, do you please know where it is?

Yours with great sorrow,

Jonas Steen

I read it twice, then said, 'A book. Just "a book". He's playing it pretty canny. Isn't he? Not much help to your mother in finding it. You don't happen to know if she wrote back?" He made a rueful face. 'I can't very well ask her.'

'No, I see that. Well, at least I can talk to this bloke Steen.'

'I'm not sure you really ought to go on, sir. I didn't know it would get as rough as… well, as beating you up.'

'Didn't know myself. But I can't stop as long as anybody thinks I've got this book.'

'You could say it was just a colouring book.'

'Yes? And you think they'd believe me?'

'I see, sir. I suppose they couldn'trisk believing you.'

'Anyway, as long as they think I've got it they'll keep coming to me – and they won't be looking too hard in other places. It's made Mockby commit himself. And the party of the third part.'

'Do you think it could have been Mr Mockby who sent those gangsters to beat you up?'

'Very much doubt it. It's more the style of the Arras boys.'

He went pale, blinked, and turned away quickly.

I said, 'So I'll ring this bloke Steen and – well, we'll see. One other thing: would you consider bringing Willie Winslow in on this? Tell him you've hired me and so on?'

He fiddled at the train layout, switched a couple of points, joined a couple of carriages. 'If you like, sir. Why, though?'

'We might need somebody to put pressure on Mockby. Winslow's one of the syndicate, and he seems a sympathetic enough bloke, so…'

He still hadn't turned around and wasn't going to until he'd found a way of wiping his eyes without me noticing. 'All right, sir. Will you talk to him or shall I?'

'Better be you. Get him to take you for a ride in that ruddy great Panzerkampfwagen of his. But ask him if he'd ring me.'

He managed to get his sleeve into his eyes fairly unobtrusively, then wandered on and twiddled the model Spitfire. 'Did you find out anything at the flat?'

Had I? Had I honestly found out anything except a lot of figures that barely added up even into guesses?

'Not really. Just a general picture of your father's pattern of life… I hadn't known your mother was American until today. Do you know her side of the family well?'

Tve met some of them. They're rather rich, I think. Mummy goes over to see them every year but… but I don't think Daddy got on with them very well. I don't think he wanted me to go. I haven't been since I was… nine, I think.'

Mummy flies over every year, does she? Which would mop up half her investment income for the year in itself – unless somebody over there sent her a ticket. And if they're rather rich, why shouldn't they? Why shouldn't they send her more than airline tickets? Like late Turners for the wall of the house. Like the house itself. And money to run it.

How would a man like Fenwick have taken that?

I said, 'Here – you'd better have the key of the flat back. The solicitors'll want it sooner or later.'

He turned and took it, looking no more than a little red-eyed.

As gently as I could, I said, 'I've seen soldiers cry in action. The best ones, too. I'll keep in touch.'

Downstairs, the party had dwindled to a handful who were sitting down by now and looking as if they'd move when the liquor ran out. Mrs Fenwick caught us at the bottom of the stairs and looked at David with a slightly reproachful smile.

'You've been monopolising Mr Card, dear. Now run along and see if anybody wants a drink.'

David said dutifully, 'Yes, Mummy,' and pushed off. Around her, he seemed to drop a couple of years. But maybe most children do around most mothers.

Mrs F sat firmly but elegantly on a long bench sofa and patted the space beside her. 'Do you want to tell me what happened that day?'

And that was as much choice as I got about speaking to her or not. So I told her – most of it, anyway. I left out Bertie Band some of the colourful bits when Fenwick died, but she got the rest pretty straight.

She sipped her gin and tonic and listened carefully, nodding occasionally. When I'd finished she just said, 'I'm sure you did everything you could.'

It was nice to hear, but a bit unexpected. 'He obviously wasn't expecting anything like that,' I said defensively.

'I'm sure he wasn't,' and she smiled reassuringly. It was a nice, easy, little-girl smile, and she looked as if she could laugh out loud without spoiling anything. Most women look either as if they're acting or trying to call the fire brigade.

I asked, 'Have you any idea of who could be involved?'

'I'm afraid not.' A rather sad smile this time. 'He didn't talk about his work much. If it was anything to do with the syndicate, Willie might know. Mr Mockby certainly would.'

'Yes, and what he'd tell me you could write on a pin-head and leave room for all those angels, too.'

'You don't like Mr Mockby?' She looked almost mischievous.

'Only on first and second impressions.'

She nodded. 'I sometimes wish he hadn't joined the syndicate. Of course, he did bring in a lot of money…'

That was as good a cue as I was ever likely to get. I ahetned and asked, as politely as I could, 'Are you… going to have any problems that way?'

For a moment her face went blank again, like when she'd first found out who I was. But then she smiled again. 'Oh, I think I'll manage. David's schooling will be covered by insurance… I may leave this house; it seems a bit of a waste to keep on such a big place… and Martin's deposit in Lloyd's will come back to me, of course.'

'Of course.' Then I realised what she'd said. 'Come "back", was that?'

The smile got a little wistful. 'Oh, yes. It was always mine to start with. You have to be born with money these days, and Martin wasn't.'

I picked my words like a man pulling thorns out of a lion's paw. 'You helped start Mr Fenwick up in Lloyd's, then?'

'He was already a broker there when we married, but he wanted to become an underwriter and they have to have capital, you see. So of course he had to have mine.'

I'd've liked to know what thatof course meant, but maybe I'd gone far enough in the thorn country. 'How long have you been living in England, Mrs Fenwick?'

'About sixteen years now. Are you going on trying to find out what happened to Martin?'

'Well, sort of. You haven't heard anything about why he was going to France? What he was taking, or anything like that?'

She looked at me for a moment, then said, 'No. I haven't heard a thing, I'm afraid.'

I just nodded, letting the lie sink in. It had been beautifully done; if I hadn't known it was there I'd never have felt it hit.

'I'm not really being much help, am I?' she asked kindly.

'Oh, I don't know-'

'Had you thought he could have been being blackmailed?'

I paused and just looked at her sweet smile. She sipped her gin calmly.

'No,' I said slowly. 'I hadn't really thought that. Why should I?'

'Well, it does sound so much like it. He's taking something to a secret rendezvous to hand over to strangers… that was right, wasn't it?'

'Blackmailers aren't killers. The golden goose and all that.'

'I suppose not.' She sighed, as if sorry to see a good theory go down.

'Anyway – blackmailed for what?'

'How would I know? What do men with a flat in town get up to?'

'I don't know," I said carefully.

'Have you met Miss Mackwood? '

I suppose if she'd painted it on a board and then hit me over the head with it, I might have got the message stronger. Just might.

I nodded.

'Pretty little thing, isn't she?'

I nodded again.

'Have you got a cigarette?'

'Sorry. Don't smoke.'

'Clever you.' She stood up with an easy flowing movement. 'I'll just… would you like Willie to run you back down the hill?'

Upon the command 'Dismiss!' you execute a right turn, a normal salute, then break off and proceed in an orderly fashion back to your quarters.

I said, 'That would be very kind.'