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I should be glad if you would make it possible to join us. We shall not however wait luncheon for you, so I trust that, if you are able to come, you will make a point of being punctual.
Your cousin Elizabeth Charity
* * *
“Elizabeth Charity?” Fleming said, reading over Niven’s shoulder. “Who’s that?”
Niven nodded at the Duchess and Charity, who clearly also were wondering about the mysterious but familiar-sounding relative.
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“May I finish without having my every period and comma called into question?”
They all suddenly looked like schoolchildren reprimanded by the headmaster.
Niven’s fingers flew on, the clack-clack-clacks filling the air:
* * *
Your cousin Elizabeth Charity has asked to be remembered to you. She has grown into a sensible girl, though I cannot say that her work for the Land Army has done much to improve her looks. In that respect, I am afraid that she will take after her father’s side of the family.
* * *
He pulled the sheet from the typewriter, picked up an ink pen, then handwrote the closing: Your affectionate Father.
The page was passed around the table for review. When Charity and the Duchess read the final paragraph, they both inhaled dramatically.
Niven stood his ground.
“If there can be a shiny balding David with a perky Adam’s apple,” he said, dramatically, “then, by God, there can be a homely Elizabeth Charity!”
Montagu didn’t know what to say.
Fleming shook his head, smiling, but said, “Well, mentioning the cousin—injecting a family oddity in an otherwise-businesslike message—does add an element of authenticity.”
“Very well,” Montagu said. “Next, we need a letter from the father to the solicitor—”
“A copy of the letter that went to the solicitor,” Ed Stevens put in.
“Right,” Montagu said. “Good touch, Colonel.”
Stevens shrugged. “I’ve been absolutely useless sitting here.”
“Nonsense,” Fleming replied. “Having a monitor is quite helpful. As you just proved.”
“So, a copy of a letter that the father sent to his counsel,” Niven said.
He looked at Montagu.
“I’ll of course require a sheet of copying paper,” Niven said.
Montagu produced a box of the papers and handed a single sheet to Niven.
Niven took it, put it between two fresh sheets of hotel letterhead, then, with some difficulty, fed all that into the Hermes. They went in slightly off center, and he pulled on the lever that allowed him to square the sheet to the platen. Then he made sure he had the McKenna letterhead handy in order to copy the address.
“Gwatkin?” Niven said to Montagu.
“F.A.S. Gwatkin,” Montagu confirmed, then spelled the last name for him.
