The God of the Hive - Laurie R. King [104]
West himself appreciated symmetry, in death or in life. The arrangement of items on his desk was balanced: IN tray here, OUT tray there, pens beside the one, a framed photograph next to the other (small, showing himself shaking hands with Prime Minister Baldwin at a garden party). The furniture in his sitting room was similarly balanced: a settee bracketed by two chairs, a mirror facing a framed watercolour, two carved figures on the left side of the mantel balancing two porcelain vases on the right. His tie always complemented his suit; his shoes matched his belt; his overcoat, his hat.
In life, too, symmetry was both the means and the end. One presence removed, another takes its place.
Human beings were happiest when the shapes around them were familiar. This was as true for the men on the ground—the troops, if you will—as it was for those in command. Revolutions failed not when the change ushered in was too minor, but when the new social order became too grossly unfamiliar for comfort.
The current radical shift in deployment—men who were generally scattered in low-visibility positions around the globe, brought home for the effort—would be permissible only if it quickly faded. He had needed men—unusually large numbers of men—and his position had allowed him to summon them without question. But questions there would be, if the situation went on.
However, it should not be necessary. After this evening, those elements of change that did not fit would be quietly packed away. Tomorrow, or by Tuesday at the latest, Gunderson would return from his second trip to the Orkneys—this one a tidying operation—and the men who’d been quietly summoned from Paris and Istanbul and New York would be just as circumspectly returned to their places. Before the men above West could draw up their list of questions, the situation would have stabilised again, the turmoil smoothed over, the reins of authority—so much authority!—resting in new, more competent hands.
Mycroft Holmes would be mourned. Ruffled feathers would subside. The work of Government would go on.
A sharp knock came from the door. West raised his head: Who would come here on a Sunday afternoon? Even if Gunderson finished quickly, he knew not to come here. He slipped the knife into the closely worked Moroccan leather scabbard that he, like its previous owner, wore over his heart (another touch of symmetry), then stood. As he adjusted his clothing over the knife, he studied the perfect spiral its tip had picked into the green blotter, closing inexorably in on the centre. As his men would do at the funeral.
Peter James West went to answer the door.
BOOK FOUR
Sunday, 7 September–
Tuesday, 9 September
1924
Chapter 52
The file concerning the Honourable Winfred Stanley Moreton, also known as Robert Goodman.
Letter from “Robert Goodman” to Sir Henry Moreton, Moreton House, Richmond, Berkshire:
3 April 1917
Craiglockhart, Edinburgh
Dear H,
Sorry. Sorry, sorry, letting the side down and all that. A disappointment to all.
No, that’s not fair to you, not after you spent half your leave travelling the length of Britain to see your dodgy brother. Really you should’ve stayed at home with the children. Children are all that matter. Give yours their uncle’s love. Sal too, of course, although she won’t want it.
I was thinking of spending time in Cumbria, once they give me permission for a few days away. The house is closed, but I’d sleep rough in any event. Not sure when.
Sorry, again, to disappoint. Sorry my handwriting’s so bad. At least I can hold a pen now, more than I could when I got here. Sorry too you didn’t like my friends down the local, they’re not altogether a bad lot.
—me
Letter from “Robert Goodman” to Lady Phoenicia Moreton Browne, Moreton House:
15 May 1917
Craiglockhart
Dear Pin,
They told me today about Harry. I am sorry for Sal and the children,