Nothing Ventured(63)

While one waiter held back her chair, another one approached.

“Can I get you a drink, madam?”

“Just a glass of champagne, while I decide what I’m going to eat.”

“Of course, madam,” he said before melting away.

“I’m so glad you were able to join me for lunch, William,” she said as the waiter reappeared and poured her a glass of champagne. “I was afraid you might cancel at the last minute.”

“Why would I do that, Mrs. Faulkner?”

“Christina, please. Because Commander Hawksby might have felt it was inappropriate, considering how much is at stake.”

“You know the commander?” asked a surprised William.

“I only know my husband’s opinion of him, which is why I want him in my corner,” she said as the head waiter handed them both a menu.

“I’ll just have the smoked salmon, Charles,” she said, not even bothering to open the menu. “And perhaps another glass of champagne.”

“Yes, of course, madam.”

William studied the rows of dishes that gave no hint of their price.

“And for you, sir?”

“I’ll just have fish and chips, Charles.” He couldn’t resist adding, “And a half pint of bitter.”

Christina stifled a laugh.

“Yes, of course, sir.”

“Are you sure it isn’t Mike Harrison you should be having this lunch with?” asked William once the waiter had left them.

“Quite sure. If anything were to go wrong, I need to know the cavalry are on my side, not just a former foot soldier.”

“Then perhaps you should have asked Commander Hawksby to lunch.”

“If I had,” said Christina, “Miles would have known about it before they’d served coffee, and then I would have had no chance of pulling off my little coup.”

“But why me?”

“If Miles is told I was seen having lunch with a good-looking young man, he’ll assume we’re having an affair, because that’s how his mind works. And as long as you can convince your boss I’m not Mata Hari, there’s a good chance the Fitzmolean will get their Rembrandt back, and I don’t mean a copy.”

William wanted to believe her, but Lamont’s words, That woman’s up to something, lingered in his mind. “And what would you expect in return?” he asked.

“As I’m sure you know, my husband flew off to Monte Carlo last week with his latest tart, and I’ll be instructing Mr. Harrison to gather enough evidence to initiate divorce proceedings.”

So Jackie saw that coming, thought William.

“I also need to know where he is night and day during the next month.”

“Why is that so important?” asked William, as a plate of wafer-thin smoked salmon was placed in front of her, while he was served with cod and chips, not in a newspaper.

“I’ll come to that in a moment,” said Christina, as another waiter refilled her glass with champagne, and poured half a pint of bitter into a crystal tumbler for her guest.

“But first I have to let you know what I have in mind for Miles, whom I assume you despise as much as I do.”

William tried to concentrate, knowing that the commander would expect a verbatim account of what Mrs. Faulkner had said from the moment she’d arrived to the moment she left.

“Do you know the great Shakespearean actor Dominic Kingston?”

“I saw his Lear at the National last year,” said William. “Quite magnificent.”

“Not as magnificent as his wife’s recent performance.”

“I didn’t know she was an actress.”

“She isn’t,” said Christina, “but she does give the occasional performance that brings the house down.” William stopped eating. “It turns out that Mrs. Kingston knew her husband’s theatrical routine whenever he was performing, down to the last minute, and took advantage of it. I intend to do the same. When Kingston was playing here at the National, he followed a routine that never varied. He would leave his home in Notting Hill around five in the afternoon, and be in his dressing room at the theater by six, giving him more than enough time to transform himself into the aging king before the curtain rose at seven thirty.

“The first half of the show ran for just over an hour, and the curtain came down on the second half around ten twenty. After taking his bow, Kingston would return to his dressing room, re move his makeup, shower, and change before being driven back home to Notting Hill, where he was dropped off around eleven thirty. So, from the moment he left the house, to the moment he got back home was over six hours. More than enough time.”

“More than enough time for what?” asked William.

“One Thursday evening, just after six,” continued Christina, “three removal vans turned up outside Mr. Kingston’s home and left five hours later, by which time every stick of furniture and, more importantly, his celebrated art collection, had been removed. So when Mr. Kingston arrived home at eleven thirty, he found the cupboard was literally bare.”

“Would you care for another drink, sir?” asked the wine waiter.

“No, thank you,” said William, not wanting her to stop.

“I’m grateful to Mr. Kingston,” continued Christina, “because I intend to create even more devastation for Miles, and, more importantly, I’ll have seven days, not seven hours, in which to carry out my little subterfuge.”