Our Woman in Moscow(81)

“He can’t hear you, you sod,” said Davenport.

Iris squinted into the distance and didn’t see much, just shadows next to the moon-speckled Solent. “I think everyone’s gone to bed.”

“Nonsense.” Burgess jogged heavily ahead. Davenport shrugged and followed him, then Sasha chased them both down the narrow, rocky strip of shore.

Iris ranged up next to Aunt Vivian. “Can you see anything?”

“There’s a house there, all right, but I don’t see a single light. This should be good.”

Iris squinted harder and discovered the outline of a large, rectangular, symmetrical building, maybe Palladian, right on the brink of the water. The moonlight glinted white on its edges and corners. There seemed to be a terrace of some kind. Already the men had reached it. Iris caught their movement up some steps—heard their drunken shouts for the owner.

“God help us,” she said.

They’d left the picnic basket on the shingles near the terrace steps. Aunt Vivian perched on one side and Iris on the other. More shouting. A spotlight flashed on, illuminating the terrace. Someone cried out—stumbled—a couple of thumps—a howl of pain.

Iris leapt from the basket and ran to the steps. Guy Burgess staggered up, clutching his head. Blood streamed out between his fingers.

“My God, he’s hurt!” she screamed. “Somebody get help! Aunt Vivian, the napkins!”

Aunt Vivian opened the picnic basket—rummaged around until she found the napkins—bounded triumphantly to Iris and Burgess, who lurched away.

“S’fine—s’fine—”

“You’re not fine, you’re bleeding to death—my God—hold still—”

Iris stuck a napkin to the side of his head. The blood soaked right through and she told him to sit down, for God’s sake. He sat. Above her head, there was more shouting, a new voice. Abingdon, in his dressing gown, roaring like an elephant.

“What the devil’s going on here? Burgess?”

“He’s fallen off your step,” said Davenport. “Haven’t got a doctor about, have you?”

Abingdon swore. “Lay him out on the chaise—that’s it—Christ, what the devil d’you think you’re doing, turning up at this hour? Everyone’s long gone, you bloody fools!”

Iris grabbed another napkin and Davenport supported Burgess to some kind of chaise, like a deck chair. Burgess shouted out obscenities.

“We’ve got to use your telephone,” Sasha said to Abingdon.

“Who the devil are you?”

“Chap from the American embassy,” said Davenport. “I say, that’s an awful lot of blood.”

Iris was starting to get woozy from the coppery smell of Burgess’s blood. She handed the napkin to Aunt Vivian and stepped to the edge of the terrace, where she vomited onto the shingles. When she looked up, she saw another man bounding up the steps, followed by a man in a constable’s uniform.

“What the devil’s going on here?” said the constable.

“It’s a private matter, damn it!” said Abingdon.

“Caught these drunkards coming up the beach! Trespassing on the terrace!” yelled the other man.

“For God’s sake, Houlihan!” Abingdon shouted. “If I wanted you to call the constabulary, I’d have done it myself!”

“It’s my duty to protect this property, sir, and by God—”

“Oh, shut up, you idiot!” Sasha yelled.

“Shut up? I’ll not be told to shut up by some bloody American!”

Sasha lurched forward, grabbed the baton from the constable, and started to beat Houlihan about the shoulders.

Burgess shouted to Davenport, “For God’s sake, take him down!”

Davenport made a lunge for Sasha and the baton, but Sasha had several inches on him, to say nothing of all that pent-up drunken fury. He roared in rage and turned on Davenport. They crashed to the stone terrace together in some kind of struggling, punching tangle—not unlike last night’s lovemaking, Iris thought loopily—then she screamed and reached for Sasha’s shoulder. He rolled away from her, right on top of Davenport.

A sickening crunch escaped one of them.

Davenport howled in agony and went limp.



Abingdon let Iris use the telephone, not because he was any less angry but because he wanted them gone. They carried Davenport into the nearest room and laid him out on a sofa, where Sasha sat beside him, apologizing and berating himself. She dialed the operator and asked for Highcliffe. The operator asked her name and she said simply, “Iris.”

A moment later, Philip Beauchamp’s voice came down the line. “Iris! What’s the matter?”

“I can’t even begin to tell you. I don’t suppose you’ve got some kind of motorboat handy, have you?”

The thing about Philip, he didn’t ask why, or how. He gathered the necessary details and told Iris he’d be there as quickly as he could. He showed only a single sign of humanity—or maybe this matter-of-factness was itself one giant example of humanity—when Iris, by now on the brink of tears, thanked him for his kindness.

“All you ever have to do is ask me, my dear,” he said.



Iris, Sasha, and Aunt Vivian returned to Honeysuckle Cottage just as the sun cracked pink above the eastern horizon. Aunt Vivian climbed the stairs without a word and found her bedroom. Sasha had already downed most of a bottle of gin from Abingdon’s private stock, and Iris had to support him up each step—not an easy task.