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“Oh, good,” she said. “I was afraid you were getting bored.”
“So was Lance.”
—
After lunch, eachtoting a bag, they set off in Stone’s Hinckley 43 down the Beaulieu River. The weather was perfect, and the Solent was flat for the crossing. They pulled into the squadron’s marina, and their lines were taken, then they walked the short distance to the castle. Inside, they were shown to their rooms, then went down to lunch in the ladies’ dining room. A lot of boats on the Solent filled the view from their table, and they were nearly alone in the dining room.
Stone filled in Vanessa. “The Royal Yacht Squadron is the second-oldest yacht club in the world, having been formed in 1815. The oldest is the Royal Cork Yacht Club, in Ireland, formed in the eighteenth century, 1729, I believe. The castle was built by Henry the Eighth, to defend against the French, whom Henry distrusted, but it has never been fired on. The row of brass cannon out front are used for starting yacht races.”
Lance’s phone buzzed, and Stone shook his head. “Not in here.”
“I’ll just look at the text,” Lance said, and glanced at his phone. “You’ll be glad to know that the coast is clear.”
“Oh, good,” Vanessa said.
“If we return to Windward Hall in one piece and without incident tomorrow, perhaps we’ll hazard a jaunt to London,” Lance said.
—
They dined thatevening in the members dining room, at a round table set for twelve, stared down on by fine portraits of past commodores, some of them kings. The décor was candlelight and old silver.
“What is the significance of the uniform all the men, except Lance, are wearing?” she surreptitiously asked Stone.
“It is the dress uniform, or mess kit, of the squadron, worn in the castle or on other formal occasions in a nautical setting.”
—
After they weredone with the port and Stilton, they took their cognac on the front terrace, overlooking the starting cannon. No one shot at Stone.
37
The following morning,Stone took Vanessa out onto the lawn, where they spread a blanket and watched the start of several yacht races, then they walked up to the pavilion for some lunch, where Lance joined them.
“I’ve made some calls,” Lance said, “and I’m advised that Russians are thin on the ground in London, so if you want to go up for a couple of days, I think it will be all right.”
Stone immediately phoned the Connaught and booked a suite. “Are you coming?” he asked Lance.
“All right.”
Stone booked a room for him, too.
After lunch, they went for a drive around the island for acouple of hours, with one of Lance’s cars staying a hundred feet behind them. They drove up to the Needles, the chalk rocks at the western end of the island, which had been worn down to lumps over the decades. Stone and Vanessa got out of the car and walked down to the big rocks and watched the waves break over them for a while. Then, as they turned to walk back to the car, Stone saw a man get out of Lance’s pursuit car and dive to the ground, sighting his rifle.
Stone hurried Vanessa into the car, and they accelerated quickly. His cell phone rang, and he answered it.
“False alarm,” Lance said coolly. “Some fellow with a shotgun out for rabbits.”
“I’m glad your people are alert,” Stone said, then hung up.
“Are we safe?” Vanessa asked.
“Yes, it was a false alarm; someone shooting rabbits.”
“I’m glad we weren’t the rabbits.”
—
They drove upto London the following day, uneventfully, with Lance riding shotgun and the pursuit car where it was supposed to be. They checked into the Connaught and ordered a room service lunch, then had a nap.
