Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less

“You don’t need us for part (a) of the Oxford plan, only (b)?” asked Robin, checking Stephen’s notes.

“That’s right. I can manage part (a) on my own. In fact, it will be better if you all remain in London on that night, well out of the way. Our next priority must be to think up some ideas for James or he might, heaven preserve us, even think up something for himself. I’m becoming very concerned about this,” continued Stephen, “because once Harvey returns to America we’ll have to deal with him on his own ground. To date he’s always been at the venue of our choosing. James would stick out like a sore thumb in Boston, even though he’s the best actor of the four of us. In Harvey’s words, ‘It would be a whole different ball game.’”

James sighed lugubriously and studied the Axminster carpet.

“Poor old James—don’t worry, you drove that ambulance like a trooper,” said Robin.

“Perhaps you could learn to fly a plane and then we could hijack him,” suggested Jean-Pierre.

Miss Meikle did not approve of the laughter coming from Doctor Oakley’s room and she was glad to see the oddly assorted trio leave. When she had closed the door finally on James she returned to Robin’s room.

“Will you see your patients now, Doctor Oakley?”

“Yes, if I must, Miss Meikle.”

Miss Meikle pursed her lips. Whatever had come over him? It must be those dreadful types he had started mixing with lately. He had become so unreliable.

“Mrs. Wentworth-Brewster—Doctor Oakley will see you now, and I’ll have the pills for your trip to Italy ready for you when you come out.”

Stephen returned for a few days’ recuperation to Magdalen College. He had started the entire exercise eight weeks before and two of the Team had succeeded far beyond his expectations. He was conscious that he must crown their efforts with something that would live on in the legends of Oxford long after his departure.

Jean-Pierre returned to work in his gallery in Bond Street. Since he only had to deliver one sentence at Ascot he was not going to be overtaxed, although part (b) of Stephen’s Oxford plan kept him nightly in front of a mirror rehearsing his role.

James took Anne down to Stratford-upon-Avon for the weekend. The Royal Shakespeare Company obliged with a sparkling performance of Much Ado about Nothing and afterward, walking along the banks of the Avon, James proposed. Only the royal swans could have heard her reply. The diamond ring James had noticed in the window of Cartier while he had been waiting for Harvey Metcalfe to join Jean-Pierre in the gallery looked even more beautiful on her slender finger. James’s happiness seemed complete. If only he could come up with a plan and shock them all, he would want for nothing. He discussed it with Anne again that night, considering new ideas and old ones, still getting nowhere.

But an idea was beginning to formulate in her mind.

Chapter Fourteen

ON MONDAY MORNING, James drove Anne back to London and changed into the most debonair of his suits. Anne had to return to work, despite James’s suggestion that she should accompany him to Ascot. She felt the others would not approve of her presence and would suspect that James had confided in her.

Although James had not told her the details of the Monte Carlo exercise, Anne knew every step of the planned proceedings at Ascot and she could tell that James was nervous. Still, she would be seeing him that night and would know the worst by then. James looked lost. Anne was only thankful that Stephen, Robin and Jean-Pierre held the baton most of the time in this relay team—but the idea that was taking shape in her mind just might surprise them all.

Stephen rose early and admired his gray hair in the mirror. The result had been expensively achieved the previous day in the hairdressing salon of Debenhams. He dressed carefully, putting on his one respectable gray suit and blue checked tie. These were brought out for all special occasions, ranging from a talk to students at Sussex University to a dinner with the American Ambassador. No one had told him the colors clashed and the suit sagged unfashionably at the elbow and knees, because by Stephen’s standards it was elegance itself. He traveled from Oxford to Ascot by train, while Jean-Pierre came from London by car. They met up with James at the Belvedere Arms at 11 A.M., almost a mile from the course.

Stephen immediately telephoned Robin to confirm that all three of them had arrived and asked for the telegram to be read over to him.

“That’s perfect, Robin. Now travel to Heathrow and send it at exactly 1 P.M.”

“Good luck, Stephen. Grind the bastard into the dust.”

Stephen returned to the others and confirmed that Robin had the London end under control.

“Off you go, James, and let us know the minute Harvey arrives.”

James downed a bottle of Carlsberg and departed. The problem was that he kept bumping into friends and he could hardly explain why he was prevented from joining them.

Harvey arrived at the members’ car park just after midday, his white Rolls Royce shining like a Persil advertisement. The car was being stared at by all the racegoers with an English disdain which Harvey mistook for admiration. He led his party to the private box. His newly tailored suit had taxed the ingenuity of Bernard Weatherill to the utmost. A red carnation in his buttonhole and a hat to cover his bald head left him nearly unrecognizable, and James might have missed him had it not been for the white Rolls Royce. James followed the little group at a careful distance until he saw Harvey enter a door marked “Mr. Harvey Metcalfe and Guests.”

“He’s in his private box,” said James.

“Where are you?” asked Jean-Pierre.

“Directly below him on the ground level by a course bookmaker called Sam O’Flaherty.”

“No need to be rude about the Irish, James,” said Jean-Pierre. “We’ll be with you in a few minutes.”

James stared up at the vast white stand, which accommodated 10,000 spectators in comfort and gave an excellent view of the racecourse. He was finding it hard to concentrate on the job in hand as once again he had to avoid relations and friends. First was the Earl of Halifax, and then that frightful girl he had so unwisely agreed to take to Queen Charlotte’s Ball last spring. What was the creature’s name? Ah yes. The Hon. Selina Wallop. How appropriate. She was wearing a miniskirt that was a good four years out of fashion and a hat which looked as if it could never come into fashion. James jammed his trilby over his ears, looked the other way and passed the time by chatting to Sam O’Flaherty about the 3:20, the King George VI and Queen Elizabeth Stakes. O’Flaherty quoted the latest odds on the favorite at the top of his voice: