“It’s been alongblock.” Vidal adjusted the collar of his camel overcoat and fell into step beside him. “A punishing block, by Cardonan standards. In Cardona, a walk of this length would be followed by a three-course lunch and a nap of no fewer than ninety minutes. You have brutalised my dog with your Anglican commitment to suffering.”
Mercè, settled in the crook of Beauchamp’s arm, had already closed her eyes. He scratched behind her left ear and she made a noise somewhere between a sigh and a deflating balloon, her bald flank pressing warm against the front of his jacket.
It was a clear Sunday morning of the sort that London managed roughly four times a year before remembering itself, and reverting to its watery greyness. The pavements along Mount Street were empty enough that Beauchamp had allowed the outing without excessive negotiation, on the condition that Young shadowed them from the opposite side of the street.
Vidal had linked his arm through Beauchamp’s free one during the second minute of the walk, and Beauchamp had permitted this on the grounds that extracting himself would require dislodging Mercè, who had only just stopped trembling. He was aware that this reasoning would not survive scrutiny.
“Beauchamp.”
“Sir.”
“You are scratching her behind the left ear. She prefers the right.”
“Noted, sir.” He moved his thumb to her right ear. Mercè’s back leg kicked once.
“There. You see? She adores you. She has adored you since the night you arrived, when you held her at arm’s length and she repaid your stand-offishness by pissing —”
Beauchamp’s mobile went off in his jacket pocket in a sustained vibration that rattled against his ribs. Mercè flinched,her eyes snapping open, and let out a high thin whimper that cut the sentence out of Vidal’s mouth mid-syllable.
He fished his mobile out of his pocket, not needing to look at the screen. Hunter had been ringing at odd hours all week, outside his usual Sunday rhythm. Beauchamp rejected the call and slid his mobile back into his pocket in one motion.
Mercè was still whimpering. He shifted her higher against his chest and cupped a hand over the back of her head, as she buried her face into the gap between his collar and his jaw.
“That was your father.”
Beauchamp kept his eyes on the pavement ahead. “Sir.”
“Beauchamp, youmustring him back.”
“I’ll ring him later, sir.”
“You will ring himnow. I will walk ahead with Mercè, you will have all the privacy the pavement allows, and you will tell that delightful man that you have received his call and that you love him very much.” Vidal had stopped walking. He turned on the pavement to face Beauchamp. “You know, I have been meaning to say. We must have him to dinner. I will cook. I will do the partridge, the one with the sherry and the figs. I have beencravingan audience for that dish and your father is exactly the kind of man who would appreciate the effort. Tell me, does he eat game? Of course he eats game! He lives in Oxfordshire and probably shoots half of what he eats. He strikes me as a manly man. Beauchamp, ring him back this very minute and tell him he is to come to Mayfair on Saturday.”
Beauchamp’s stomach did an unhappy turn.
“It would be an enormous pleasure for me to spend more time with him, Beauchamp. He is the most interesting man I have met in this country to date. I want to know about the band, the records. This man has liveda life.”
“That he has, sir.”
“And you have been keeping him from me. I am beginning to take it personally. The man has come to London twice in three weeks and we have had one lunch, and on that occasion I was so busy entertaining Trevor that I barely got a moment with him. This will not stand. You will ring your father and you willfix it.”
Beauchamp had to get off this topic before Vidal started dreaming up sides for the partridge. “Sir…please, we need to talk about something important. It’s been a month and a half, sir.”
Vidal blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Since I started. The secondment is a three-month appointment. We’re halfway through, and once it’s up, the Palace will reassign me. Which means we need to start thinking about your private security arrangements. Your mother asked me to stay in the flat with you, and I’ve done that, but the arrangement was always meant to be temporary. You’ll need a private contractor. Someone who can manage the day-to-day without relying on Crown resources. It’s time for me to start putting names together, doing the vetting, making introductions.”
Vidal had gone very still beside him. His arm was still threaded through Beauchamp’s, but had stiffened. “You are leaving.”
“I’m being reassigned, sir. There’s a difference.”
“There is no difference whatsoever, Beauchamp, and the fact that you believe there is tells me everything I need to know about the poverty of the English language when it comes to — no.” He pulled his arm free. “No. We are not discussing this. Not today. Not on a Sunday when the weather is fine, and I wanted to take my dog for a walk with my favourite Major without talkinglogistics.”
“Sir —”
“I saidno, Beauchamp.” He held up one finger. “This conversation is over.” Vidal turned away from him and walkedthree quick strides ahead until he drew level with Young on the opposite pavement.
“Young!” He called across the street without breaking stride. “Tell me something. Do you have a middle name?”
