Ted Bell - Tsar

“Good Lord,” Congreve said, the three men suddenly at his side.

“Yes,” Hawke said. “Little we can do now I’m afraid.”

“The ring,” Congreve said, all of the life, all of the fight, gone out of his voice.

“What?”

“Diana’s engagement ring. The D Flawless. You told me to stow it somewhere safe until I was ready to present it to her. I wrapped it in one of my handkerchiefs and stowed it forward of the anchor locker. A little cubby hole in the bow.”

“It’s a diamond. We’ll buy her another.”

“It belonged to my mother, Alex. It’s all I have from her.”

“Then we’ll find it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure,” Hawke said, and put a comforting arm round his friend’s shoulder. “We’ll get you in the dinghy and back to the airport. You’re going straight to hospital, and then I’ll take you home and we’ll split a bottle of rum. Sound good?”

“It does, Alex,” he said, his eyes filling with tears as he watched the beautiful old Swagman sailing for the far horizon in flames.

“Undeserved fate for a lovely old boat,” Hawke said, his eyes on her. “Diana will be devastated,” Congreve added. “ Swagman will burn to the waterline and then slip beneath the waves forever.”

And his mother’s precious diamond would become just another bauble among countless jewels scattered across the sandy floor beneath the turquoise sea.

“Pelham?” Anastasia said, as the weathered cedar door swung inward to reveal a sweet-faced man, quite elegantly dressed in a white dinner jacket and black bow tie. He had a fringe of soft white hair and the palest blue eyes, and he held himself very erect. He did have the loveliest smile. This was Hawke’s “partner”? He had to be eighty if he was a day. In the beginning, she’d been exceedingly curious about Hawke’s roommate. Now, based on recent events, she found herself considerably more than curious.

“I’m Asia Korsakova. How do you do?”

“Very well, indeed, Madame. Won’t you come in?”

The invitation from Teakettle Cottage, surprisingly engraved on a stiff cream-colored card from Smythson of Bond Street, a good London stationer, had arrived with her mail yesterday. Her beautiful beach bum had his stationery engraved at Smythson’s? It had said “Dinner at Eight.” She was a little early, she knew, but she’d been unsure of finding her way through the maze of sandy lanes that wound through the overgrown banana groves. She knew that one of them would lead eventually to Teakettle Cottage, but which one? So here she was, at his door at a quarter to the hour.

“You may want to keep your wrap,” Pelham said. “You’ll be dining al fresco, and it’s a bit cool out on the terrace this evening.”

“Thank you, I will.”

She followed him into a large circular room with high ceilings and lovely old beams supporting the domed roof. In the fireplace, a blazing fire took the damp chill off the room. The views of the ocean and sky beyond the terrace were beautiful in the evening light. The sun had set over the turquoise sea, leaving a stage backdrop of brilliant pinks and corals.

“May I offer you something to drink, ma’am? A cocktail, perhaps? I’ve been accused of making a mean Dark and Stormy, if I may say so.”

“Lovely. But I’ll have vodka and tonic. Over ice, please.”

Pelham nodded and went behind the curved monkey-wood bar. There were two sturdy bamboo stools, and she perched on one while he fixed her drink.

“Slice of lime for you, then?” Pelham asked, regarding her out of the corner of his eye.

“Why not? So. How many are you two expecting this evening?”

“I beg your pardon, ma’am?”

“How many other guests for dinner?”

“Just you, Madame.”

“Just me?”

“Yes, Madame.”

“Oh. Well. I thought it was to be more of a party.”

“I’ve no doubt it will be, Madame.”

“Ah. Well, then.”

“Here you are, a lovely vodka and tonic. I hope it will prove satisfactory.”

Pelham went silently about his mixology as she sipped her drink, tidying up, slicing some more limes, getting out a beautiful old sterling cocktail shaker, filling it with shaved ice, black rum, and ginger beer.

“Interesting pictures,” Asia said, leaning forward to look more closely at a particular photograph. Any number of black-and-white framed candid shots hung on the raffia-covered wall adjacent to the bar. The old photos, mostly of American and English film stars, were faded and water-stained and looked as if they’d been hanging right where they were for centuries.

“Errol Flynn, isn’t this one?”

“Yes, ma’am. All former tenants and guests at the cottage, mostly. The subject of a good deal of gossip, I gather.”

“I adore gossip,” she said, and downed the rest of her drink. She slid the empty glass toward him. “Any of the good stuff left?”

“A pleasure,” Pelham said, reaching for the Stolichnaya. For the first time, he noticed her long red fingernails. He was acutely aware that she was an extraordinarily beautiful woman, prodigiously possessed of what they used to call, in his day, animal magnetism. Suddenly, a good deal of his lordship’s recent behavior came into somewhat sharper focus.

“Pelham, may I ask a rather personal question?”

“I endeavor to be candid on any subject, Madame.”

“How long have you two been-together. You and Alex, I mean.”

“Together?” he said, seemingly surprised by her choice of words.

“Yes. Together. I mean, how long have you and Alex been…close? I’m just curious about the length of your…relationship. The duration. Roughly speaking, of course.”

“Well, I can be very precise about it. Come December 24, at precisely seven o’clock in the evening, it will be thirty-three years to the minute, Madame.”

She put down her drink, a little vodka sloshing over the rim of the glass.

“ Thirty-three years ? Is that what you said?”

“Precisely. I was present at his birth. He was born at home. His mother was having a rather difficult time, you see, and the doctors required me to-”

“His birth?”

“Yes, Madame. How time flies. Hard for one to believe that his lordship will turn thirty-three in just-”

“His what?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Sorry. What you just called him. Called Alex. I thought I heard you use the phrase ‘his lordship’?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Charming. A joke between you two?”

“I beg your pardon, Madame? A joke?”

“One of your pet names for each other, I mean. I know couples do that after years together.”

“Couples? I have no idea what you’re talking about, Madame. I don’t wish to be rude, but I must say this conversation is-”

“You don’t mean to say he’s titled?”

“Indeed, Madame.”

“My beautiful beach boy is, in fact, Lord Hawke?”

“He is Lord Hawke, indeed. I’m hardly surprised you were unaware of it. He prefers not to use the title. If I may be so bold, I suggest you refrain from using it yourself, Madame. I myself absolutely insist upon this form of address, only as I believe it de rigueur for someone of my station.”

“And what, if I may be so bold, exactly is your station, Pelham?”

“I am in service, ma’am. I should have thought that much, at least, would have been somewhat obvious. I’ve been in service to the Hawke family for most of my eighty-four years. As, I daresay, were my father before me and his father before him.”

“In service. A butler, do you mean?”

“Rather more than that, Madame, but I suppose that appellation will suffice.”