Page 42 of Fire Must Burn

‘Why do you think that is?’

‘He went to Singapore a few years later. I thought he was out of my life forever, and that I could forget that part of it.’

‘But this woman’s death was traumatic, wasn’t it?’

‘It was.’

‘And we don’t forget trauma, do we?’

‘No. Not really.’

‘If you feel that you’re taking vengeance upon him,’ he said, gesturing at her with his pipe, ‘maybe you’re not truly suited for this assignment.’

‘Well, Doctor, I wish you had been around to tell me that before I accepted it,’ she said.

The next afternoon, Gwen left The Right Sort at two, her portmanteau packed for a weekend in the country. Iris held the fort in case of any late Friday afternoon arrivals.

The telephone rang a little after four. Iris waited for Mrs Billington to field the call. A moment later, the intercom buzzed. She answered.

‘It’s Mr Danforth,’ said Mrs Billington. ‘Are you available?’

‘Of course,’ said Iris. She picked up the telephone’s handset. ‘Hello, Tony.’

‘Greetings, my Cupid,’ came his voice. ‘You have impressed me. I had the afternoon off to start moving things into the new flat. I collected my postbox key, tried it out, and what do I find waiting for me as my first letter? A missive from The Right Sort containing my first date! Very exciting!’

‘I hope you like her,’ said Sparks.

‘I find myself positively giddy at the prospect,’ he said. ‘Which leads me to a request: are you available for some sozzlement this evening? I need your advice.’

‘Advice? On what?’

‘It occurs to me— no, it’s been consuming my mind ever since I came in for my interview with the two of you that I haven’t gone out on a proper date with a proper Englishwoman since before the war. Hell, since before I left for Singapore. I need some tips on how it’s done nowadays before I blunder in. Could I barter drinks for some guidance?’

Bad idea, Sparks, she thought.

But combined with drinks, so a much worse idea.

‘Love to,’ she said. ‘But make sure I give you the advice before the second drink. The quality declines rapidly after that.’

‘As will my ability to remember it,’ he said. ‘How about meeting me at the Barley Mow at six?’

‘On Horseferry Road?’

‘That’s the one.’

‘I’ll see you there.’

After work, she walked south from Mayfair. Her route took her by Buckingham Palace. The betrothal of Princess Elizabeth to Lieutenant Philip Mountbatten of the Royal Navy had been announced the previous day, and crowds of people were gathering to launch cheers in the presumed direction of the happy couple and to leave bouquets of flowers at the gates.

Iris, remembering the small but significant roles she and Gwen had played in saving that romance the previous year, blew a kiss to the palace as she walked by. She wondered if they would receive an invitation to the wedding. She doubted it. That story was not meant for public knowledge.

Still, the ballyhoo over the wedding would undoubtedly drum up more business, she thought happily.

The weather was cool and cloudy, making the walk an easy one. Horseferry Road was in Westminster, running west from the Lambeth Bridge. The pub itself was in a corner building across the street from the Westminster Coroner’s Court, ominously enough. She anticipated overhearing conversations involving causes of death and bodily decay, with morbid jokes that were only funny to the macabre sensibilities of those in the trade.

Tony was waiting for her inside, having secured a table fortwo by a window on the Arneway Street side. The bar wrapped around the interior corner of the room with tables surrounding it throughout the L-shaped space, the dartboards in one corner already in heavy use.

‘A pint of ale to start?’ he asked.