“Describe them.”
“About his age, well dressed, attractive—the woman, particularly. She was quite beautiful, in fact.”
“Could you hear them talking?”
“No, but they didn’t seem to be speaking English. I couldn’t read their lips, and I’m quite good at that, even from a distance. I don’t know if I told you, but as a child I had some sort of flu or virus that resulted in a sharp hearing loss. My hearing came back after a few months, but during that time I became adept at reading lips. Most people couldn’t tell I was hard of hearing.”
Stone nodded in the direction of a young couple sitting on the opposite side of the garden. “Tell me what they’re talking about.”
Sarah squinted in their direction for a moment, then giggled. “She’s lying to him,” she said.
“How?”
“She’s saying they were just friends, that they never slept together, and he believes her, but she’s lying.”
“How do you know?”
“I can just tell.”
“You’re a woman of many talents,” he said.
“I thought you already knew that.”
“I had forgotten how many.”
“Don’t worry,” she said, “I’m going to remind you.”
25
THEY DRESSED FOR DINNER AND DINED in a smaller room than last time, at a round table, the heavy curtains drawn to shut out the night, in the English fashion. Stone didn’t understand why the Brits did that; he enjoyed the long summer twilights.
The talk ranged through politics, sport, and the relationship between the English and the Americans. Stone noticed that Lord and Lady Wight, during this part of the conversation, seemed to feel that Lance was on their side of things, while Stone and Erica occupied the other. It was as Sarah had said; the Brits were very comfortable with Lance, considering him one of their own. Stone couldn’t figure out why.
Port was served with Stilton at the end of the meal, and Stone sipped warily from his glass, his hangover having only just disappeared. At some invisible signal, the ladies rose and left the room. Stone nearly went with them, but Lance signaled him to stay.
“Over here, the ladies go somewhere, and the gentlemen stick around for cigars,” Lance explained, lighting something Cuban.
Stone despised cigars—smoking them or smelling somebody else smoking them.
Wight did not light a cigar, but sniffed at Lance’s. “My doctor has taken me off them,” he said. “Bloody cruel, if you ask me.” He looked at a pocket watch from his waistcoat. “If you gentlemen will excuse me, I’m turning in early. My respects to the ladies.” He got up and left.
They sat quietly for a moment, Stone playing with his port, Lance puffing his cigar and staring at the windows, as if he could see through the thick drapes and out into the night.
“You asked me a strange question the other day,” he said finally. “I’d like to know why.”
“About Hedger?”
Lance nodded almost imperceptibly.
“I have a lot to tell you about that,” Stone said.
Lance waved the cigar, as if motioning him onward.
“Last week a man showed up in my office, recommended by Woodman and Weld, and introduced himself as John Bartholomew.”
Lance shot him a glance.