Jonathan Barnes - The Domino Men

One moment, sir.”

There was a click and a pause before Beth spoke again. “His private line’s working fine, sir. I’ll look into it and get back to you.”

“Many thanks to you, Beth. I’m most grateful.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The prince set down the receiver, paced, vacillated, chewed his fingernails, watched the little hand on his watch go 360 degrees, then picked up the telephone again. He tapped in a number which rang interminably before it was answered.

His wife sounded out of breath. “Who is this?”

“Laetitia?”

“Arthur? Is that you? Where have you been?”

Strangely, Arthur thought he heard a male voice on the other end of the line. His wife’s breathing seemed to grow heavier. “Darling? What are you doing?”

“Nothing. I’ve just woken up.”

“Nothing? Is that the truth? Is there something going on I don’t know about?”

“Of course not. I told you. Anyway, shouldn’t I be the one asking you that question?”

Arthur heard what sounded like a grunting sound on the other end of the line. “I rang to ask for your help,” he said, disgust pushing its way into his voice.

“I’m so sorry, Arthur. This isn’t really a good time. I don’t feel at all well. I’ve got to go.”

Without warning, the line went dead.

Forced, without Silverman, to make his own decisions, the prince had picked out a charcoal-colored suit and was dallying by the mirror, trying everything he could to make himself appear less pop-eyed and exhausted, when the telephone rang again.

“Laetitia?”

“It’s Beth here actually, sir.”

“Beth?”

“We spoke a moment ago, sir. I’m calling from the switchboard.”

“Beth! Of course.”

“I’ve located the whereabouts of Mr. Silverman, sir.”

The prince brightened. “Splendid. Where is he?”

There was a moment’s hesitation. “He’s in the Princess of Wales’s quarters, sir. He’s with your wife.”

Arthur crept along the corridor which led to the large suite of rooms occupied by his wife, unsure of what he would say to her, struggling, like some Canute of infidelity, to hold back the tides of suspicion. The prince was not a man who sought or thrived on confrontation. If things had turned out differently, we suspect that he would have said nothing at all and done his best to ignore the telltale signs, perhaps returning to his apartment to wallow in melancholia. But, as you shall see, that is not how events unfurled.

When the door to his wife’s suite was unlocked from the inside, Arthur scurried back along the corridor, pressed himself flat against the wall and peered around the corner.

The door opened and Silverman strolled out, chased by the laughter of the prince’s wife. He tried to remember the last time he had made Laetitia laugh like that and came to the knife-twist conclusion that he never had. Not once.

Silverman was saying something impossible. It was hard to tell at such a distance and the prince was no lip-reader, but it looked like an invitation. An invitation and a promise. The equerry winked in a manner which we can only think of as salacious.

“It’s got to be our secret.” This was Laetitia, calling from inside.

The equerry snorted, winked again, closed the door and swaggered away down the corridor, upon which the prince had no choice but to emerge from his hiding place.

The man did not even have the decency to seem embarrassed. “Good morning, sir.”

“What were you doing in my wife’s quarters, Silverman?”

“She required my advice, sir.”

“Your advice?”

“That’s correct, sir.”

The prince looked at his old friend and now saw no treachery in his face, no skullduggery or lecherous deceit. “I needed someone to dress me and you weren’t there.”

“I’m so sorry, sir. I was on my way. You are not usually awake so early.”

“What time is it, Silverman?”

“Barely seven, sir.”

“Barely seven? Good God.”

“Is everything all right, sir? Is there anything I can attend to?”

“Of course not,” Arthur snapped. “How can everything be all right? I needed you to dress me and, as you can see, I’ve had to do that myself.” Without giving the equerry a chance to reply, the prince turned on his heel and stalked back to his rooms.

Inside, for a heartbeat, the mask slipped. He collapsed on his bed and let out a moan, the doomed cry of an animal dying in a trap. Then he collected himself, took a deep breath, reached for the phone and waited for his last true friend to speak.

“Yeah?”

“Mr. Streater. So glad you’re awake.”

“Just got up. What can I do you for?”

“Please. Come to my rooms. I need you.”

“Sure. I’ll get dressed. Be right over.”

“And Mr. Streater?”

“Yep?”

“Bring me some ampersand.”

Down the telephone line, the prince could almost hear Mr. Streater’s smile.

At nine A.M., the last of the Directorate gathered in the Eye for a council of war.

When the pod doors opened and Miss Morning and I walked inside, Jasper was already waiting. He was wearing the smug, self-satisfied expression of a man who’s just had a long-cherished dream rubber-stamped by someone who can actually make it happen. I didn’t like that look, as you can imagine. I didn’t like it at all.

Dedlock swiveled in his tank and splashed noisily through the fluid. “Henry Lamb! Miss Morning!”

“You seem cheerful,” the old lady said, understandably suspicious.

“Mr. Jasper has good news.”

“You’ve found the Prefects?” I asked.

“My jackboots have yet to track them down. But Jasper… Jasper may have given us the means.”

Miss Morning stepped up to Mr. Jasper, a wrinkled Holliday at the OK Corral. “What exactly,” she said, “are you proposing?”

“The Blueprint Programme,” said the smooth-skinned man, a gleam of triumph in his voice.

As usual, it was left to me to ask the necessary questions. “And what’s the Blueprint Programme exactly?”

“To track the Prefects,” Jasper explained, “we need a hunter. Someone ruthless. Someone tenacious. Someone with a talent for getting their hands dirty.”

Dedlock chipped in. “The Directorate may have lost Estella in 1967. But we did not let her make her sacrifice without persuading her to leave us with a memento.”

“A memento?” Miss Morning’s wizened frame seemed suddenly animated by rage. “What did you do?”

Dedlock spoke lightly, conversationally, like he was discussing the weather or the football or giving directions to tourists. “We made a copy of her etheric signature.”

“Her what?” I asked.

“Her essence, Mr. Lamb. Her animus.”

Miss Morning was furious. “Why?”

“So we could copy her abilities. So we could replicate the highlights of her mind in someone new. And we’ve finally found a way to do it.”

“But we’re looking for Estella,” I said. “Aren’t we? I mean, isn’t that what all this has been about?”

“We need her in physical form, yes,” said Dedlock. “We need the real Estella. But this is something quite different. I take it you’ve heard the phrase, ‘set a thief to catch a thief’?”