The Game - Laurie R. King [80]
“Miss Russell.” I blinked and looked across at Tommy Goodheart. “That is right, isn’t it? You prefer Miss?”
“Generally, yes.”
Mrs Goodheart raised her head sharply. “I thought you were married?”
“I am, I just—”
“A lot of married women keep their names, Mother,” Sunny explained.
“But—”
Her son ignored her confusion. “Your husband and I spent a lot of time together, but I’m afraid that you and I never had much of a conversation. You’re English?”
“I live in England and my mother was English, but my father was American. From San Francisco.”
Mrs Goodheart said doubtfully, “I don’t know any Russells from San Francisco.”
“His family was from Boston originally,” I admitted, and saw the woman’s eyes go bright.
“The Boston Russells? Well, well. I wonder if I ever met your father? I went to any number of parties there, when I was young.”
“I doubt it,” I said firmly. “His parents moved out to California when he was very small. So yes, I regard myself as English. Proudly so, particularly at the present.”
As I hoped, Goodheart took the bait of distraction. “Are you referring to the Labour Party’s victory?”
“Yes. Extraordinary, isn’t it? I’ve heard it called a bloodless revolution.”
He was launched: For the first time, he betrayed a degree of animation, and the rest of the meal was dominated by his questions about the English working classes (about whom I knew little, other than farm labourers and London cabbies) and whether or not I had met MacDonald or a dozen other men, most of whom, indeed, I had never heard of. Then one name caught my ear.
“Yes, I believe I’ve met him,” I said. “At a fancy-dress party in a Berkshire country house, just before Christmas. He was dressed, let’s see—oh yes. He was in a very chilly costume, that of a pyramid builder, complete with red-paint whip marks on his back.” And a very unsuitable costume it had been, too, for the man was pudgy and his back showed acne beneath the paint.
“Strange place to find him.”
“He was probably experimenting with subversion from within,” I told him, keeping my face completely straight.
“I suppose. Odd, that your husband didn’t seem all that interested in politics.”
“Well,” I said, “he’s on the conservative side. I wouldn’t call him a reactionary, exactly . . .” This was by no means the first time I’d had to deny Holmes in the course of a case. And as before, no cock crew.
Goodheart’s face was, as always, remarkably difficult to read, but I thought his interest was piqued. If so, it would be understandable: A woman abandoned—even temporarily—by her considerably older husband, who then expresses an interest in radical politics, might be worth cultivating. I still couldn’t tell if he knew who Holmes actually was, but if this young man had indeed tried to murder us in Aden, separating myself from Holmes in his mind might stop him from pulling another balcony down on my head in Khanpur. Mrs Goodheart, however, was not pleased at what she perceived as the intimacy of our glance. She fixed me with a sour gaze, and demanded that Thomas search out a deck of cards. I subsided and went back to my window.
At long last, the train slowed, and sighed, and came to a stop. Noses pressed against the windows (all except the proud Thomas, who nonetheless watched with great interest), we waited to see what manner of royal vehicle would come for us. Sunny was hoping for camels and elephants, although I thought a Lagonda or Rolls-Royce more likely—and less crippling, considering we were still more than fifty miles from Khanpur city.
What came for us was an aeroplane.
Chapter Fifteen
We heard it first, above the shouts of the coolies and the dying huff and hiss of steam from the engine, a rising and directionless mechanical presence among the wooded peaks. We peered and craned our necks, Thomas Goodheart no less than the lowliest of coolies, and then suddenly the noise had a source as a wide pair of brightly painted red-and-white wings shot from behind a hill and swept in our