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“Our friend in the box,” Niven said.
Charity looked as if she could not believe her ears.
“You want me to write a love letter to…a frozen dead man,” she said, clearly not believing what she was hearing.
“Actually, letters plural,” Niven said. “I’d have Ian here do it—he fancies himself the writer, you know—but I suggest that he’s not exactly skilled at writing from a woman’s point of view. And certainly nothing remotely involved with lustful prose”—he paused and grinned at Fleming before finishing—“from the viewpoint of either the female or the male.”
Commander Fleming made an obscene gesture with his hand at Major Niven.
“I do hope you’ll pretend that you did not see that, Charity,” Fleming said. “I like to believe I’m above such acts, but Niven here unfortunately brings out the Sandhurst lad in me.”
There was more laughter around the table.
Charity said, “You two were at the Royal Military Academy?”
Fleming nodded.
“We both attended Sandhurst,” he said, “but I did not fare as well there as David. We met elsewhere.”
Niven laughed.
“Indeed we did,” Niven put in. “Would you like to hear the story?”
Montagu was about to say something when Fleming replied, “Wild horses could not stop you from telling it again. You actors never quit. So out with it!”
Niven made a face at Fleming, then turned his attention to Charity.
“I’ll make it brief. I was visiting Boodles for my first time. They gave me a tour of the place, then let me loose. I decided to sit by the windows, to watch people walk past while I enjoyed my drink. I didn’t realize I was in the silence room.”
Yet another English item of note to add to my education, Charity thought.
She said: “The silence room? It must be the opposite of this place.”
“Quite. It’s where one may be left to his own thoughts,” Fleming explained. “The only speaking is with the waitstaff.”
“I thought this was my story!” Niven said, looking at Fleming.
Fleming shrugged but smiled, unapologetic.
Niven went on: “About the time I settled into a deep, soft leather chair and put my feet upon its ottoman, a large old gentleman with an impressively large walrus mustache came into the silence room. He appeared unhappy to have the company as he glared at me. He found a chair nearby and set about to stare at me—”
“Then began making a hurrrumph sound,” Fleming interrupted.
Niven picked up the story: “And hurrrumph after hurrrumph. He then set about to reading his newspaper, making all sorts of noise while flipping the pages. Finally, he called for the waiter, and as he again stared at me he said for the waiter to bring him the list of members. When he got it, and studied it, he made one last hurrrumph, glared at me, and left the room. I took advantage of this opportunity to also leave the silence room—only to run right into a rather rude gentleman who I found was laughing uncontrollably at me.”
He looked at Fleming, who now was laughing.
“True story,” Fleming said. “I stopped laughing long enough to say that I had waited an eternity for someone to be caught using the chair that the eldest member considered his favorite and thus his own! Oh, it was a sublime scene.”
“A true story indeed,” Niven said, shaking his head and grinning. “And ever since, Ian and I have had a history of running into each other. Such as now.”
Montagu looked a bit anxious.
“Yes,” he quickly put in, his tone serious, “can we get back to the matter at hand?”
Niven and Fleming made exaggerated motions for Montagu to take over.
“Thank you,” Montagu said, then looked at Charity.
