Chapter Seventy-Eight
As I emerge from the bathroom, my Master buttons up his shirt then slides a tie around his collar, fumbling the task of making the knot. “Damn thing… Are you coming into the office with me today?”
I take the ends of the tie, sliding the narrow end to rest over his navel… “I feel a little in the way working there. It’s not as though I’m with any particular department anymore. And I can download anything I didn’t bring home with me.” … then loop the wide end over.
His lips twitch as he watches me lift it up through the neck loop, then around the tail, over again and through. “You’re perfectly welcome to work in my office, my Love. Or take up one of the conference rooms. And there’s nothing preventing you having an office of your own in the building if you prefer. It’s not as though we’re short of space.”
“Actually, I rather like working here. At home. This is my own territory. And when I’m ready for a break, I can stroll around the garden. It helps me think. Besides, Claudia’s calling by later. She said she’d like a chat.” I ease the knot into a nice, symmetrical half-Windsor, then pat his chest. “Done.”
He tucks the tail of the tie inside his shirt. “Your choice.” He kisses my lips, then my forehead. “I’ll see you this evening, then.” He hovers… “I could be late back, so I’m leaving Ross with you, just in case.”
“In case of what, Master?”
“In case… In case you need an extra pair of hands with Claudia.”
Why would I need that?
*****
Mid-afternoon and a mess of files, maps and plans laid out over the dining room table, I work on my project for Will Stanton. My collection of papers is growing more congested than the streets they’re documenting, appended with an ever-multiplying rat’s nest of annotations and sticky notes, I rub at my forehead.
Maybe I should move this onto a computer…?
One set of solutions for now, while the City is cut in half by the river and the traffic-bearing limitations of the old bridge…
Another series of answers for when the new bridge is completed…
My head’s spinning.
I simply can’t visualise all the variations and see where each leads. Or how it might tie in with my possible solutions for police satellite stations.
It’s just too much.
What are my options?
Not looking a gift horse in the mouth.
*****
I tap in the number. “Hello, I’d like to speak with Chancellor Wilmore, please. Tell him it’s Beth Haswell.”
A routine, ‘One moment. I’ll see if he’s available,’ is followed by a tinny rendition of ‘The Four Seasons’, then a cheerful voice. “Beth, good to hear you. I did wonder if you would call. I imagine I can guess what this is about?”
“Hello, Leo. I’m sure so. You offered me the services of your math department in a possible traffic modelling exercise…”
“That’s right. As I mentioned to you when we first met, your project would be an ideal exercise for some of my post-grads. It’s a variation on a knotty mathematical puzzle known as the Travelling Salesman Problem…”
My brain glazes… “Sorry?”
“The travelling salesman problem,” he repeats. “The question seeks an answer to this dilemma: Given a list of cities, what is the optimal route to include all destinations, taking into account the distances between each city, while visiting every location only once and returning to the starting point…?"
“Um…”
But he’s still talking, the bit between his teeth… “…The problem was first presented in 1930 and is often used as a gauge of how well optimization methods perform. It’s a tricky one to solve, but there are multiple techniques and algorithms that can be applied or adapted. Heuristics have been found to be effective…”
I break in before he leaves me behind entirely. “Chancellor, I lost you after the first dozen words. But you’re saying that you have something ready-made that could be modified to what I need?”
“That’s right. If you would forward your existing data, I could take a look and…”
The front doorbell rings, Ross’ footsteps clip through…
“That would be great. I’ll do just that. Can you excuse me, please. There’s someone at the door.”
“Of course. I’ll look forward to receiving your information.”
As I tap off, Ross’s voice travels down the hall. “Yes, she told me to expect you, Miss Schmidt…” and after a few moments, Claudia enters, clutching a wine bottle, bubbling enthusiasm, her smile broad and bright. “Beth, that interview you fixed for me with Richard. It worked like a charm. My uncle’s not just going to publish. He’s giving me the centre spread in next week’s Sunday glossy edition. He said I’d gotten more out of your husband than anyone else has for the last two years.”
“Anyway…” She brandishes the bottle… “... I got you this as a thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Claudia. But I didn’t do it because I was angling for a present.”
“I know that, but how else can I show some appreciation to the woman who already has everything?” Abruptly, she stops, swallowing her words. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that as it came out sounding.”
“It didn’t sound like anything.” She hovers, looking awkward. Her mouth opens. Then closes again. “Claudia, is there something else I can do for you?”
“You’re already doing it. Giving me this interview with you. First the man. Then the woman behind him. What more could a budding reporter ask?” She nods toward my table of maps and sticky notes. “What on earth’s that lot? It looks… different…”
“It is different,” I laugh. “I got involved almost accidentally. I made a suggestion on a problem, then found I was sucked right in. And now the university chancellor seems to think I’m some kind of research project…” I wave her across to a seat. “Here, let me show you…”
*****
Claudia has her phone set on Record, a notepad on her knee and a twinkle in her eye as Ross brings in a tray of coffee. “So, what you’re saying is that you’re still making the transition from Jane Doe to Billionaire’s wife and pillar of society?”
I chuckle into my cup. “That’s right. I married him and never gave a thought about what that implied…”
The doorbell rings. Ross glances out, then back at me, brows arched.
“I’m not expecting anyone.”
Tugging his cuffs and jacket straight, I suck in my cheeks against a smile as he pastes on what I’m coming to think of as his Jeeves Face, and exits the room.
The Clunk of the front door opening, then I hear Ross’ voice, followed by another, higher, reedy-sounding.
Ross re-enters, now speaking in his Jeeves Voice. “You have a visitor, Mrs Haswell. A Mr Pensby.” He glances behind himself into the hall then, more quietly, “Beth, he seems to be some kind of official. He asked first for Richard. I told him he’s not here and he said he’d speak with you instead. I’ve put him in the lounge.”
“That’s fine, Ross. I’ll talk with him. Whatever it is, I’ll give Richard a message this evening. Or we can call him if it seems urgent.” Then, as Claudia begins tucking up her notebook, I wave her outside. “Why don’t you take a stroll around the garden while I see what this is about. We can continue afterwards.”
She beams. “Sure thing.”
Strolling through to the lounge, I find a thin-faced individual already seated in my Master’s armchair, rummaging through a briefcase. He sports an off-the-peg suit and the kind of haircut that suggests his mother did it around a pudding bowl.
I offer my hand. “Mr Pensby, is it? I’m Elizabeth Haswell. My husband isn’t here right now, but I can give him a message.”
“Officer Raymond Pensby…” Face to face, his voice is beyond reedy. Precisely enunciated, but nasal and sharp, although he is of at least average height, his words sound as though they belong to a much smaller man… “… That is correct. May I ask when are you expecting your husband?”
“This evening, when he returns from work. But… Officer Pensby did you say? What kind of officer?”
He sniffs. “It’s not a problem, Mrs Haswell. My colleague can speak with Mr Haswell at his place of work. But perhaps you could spare me a few minutes?”
It creeps over me that, total stranger as he might be, I don’t care for this man. “Yes, a few minutes, but I’m in the middle of something else…” I take the armchair opposite… “What’s this about? And who are you exactly? Do you have a card? Or some ID?”
As though I’d not spoken, he delves back into his briefcase, producing a clipboard, thick with what look like tick-box forms. “I am attached to the mayor’s office and I’ve been requested to investigate certain allegations made regarding the conduct of Mr Richard Charles Haswell.” His pen hovers over a pad. “That is his full name? Am I correct?”