Chapter Eighty-Nine
“Where did the cat come from?”
Ross shrugs, fishing a bit of chicken from the pot and tossing it across. “He was lurking in the vegetable garden. He’d taken a liking to the birds down there. I preferred them in the nesting boxes I put up. So, I fed him, and he decided to move to more congenial quarters.”
“You didn’t invite him in?”
“It was a unilateral decision.” His brows beetle. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“Why would I?”
The cat finishes the chicken, turns his back, aims his butt at us, then swiping over his face, licks at his paws.
*****
Dinner with Will and Grace is a pleasant change of pace.
“So…” Will props himself, chin on fist, elbow on table, “Irene was responsible for the whole mess?”
“Pretty much,” says my Master. “Of course, it required Pensby’s collusion to pull it off, but yes, she was the instigator.”
“What about the other officer?” asks Grace. “The one who turned up at your office and interviewed you.”
“So far as we can tell, it was a case of just following orders. Pensby gave him the instruction and he followed the routine he’d previously used at Immigration.”
“Just following orders?” Grace hisses the words. “There’s something badly amiss with the system if people can be treated in that way at the whim of some official. Not even an elected official.”
“Even the unelected officials are often empowered by the elected officials, this being a case in point. I’m quite sure Jack, and hence, Barclay, only intended to improve the City finances and had no idea of what they’d unwittingly let loose. Nonetheless…”
“I think he was prompted by Irene down the path he followed,” I say. “That was my impression at least.”
“I’m quite sure that’s the case,” says Grace. “And at least on this occasion, it happened first to people able to fight back…”
Will chuckles. “Picking a fight with one of the most powerful men in the City wasn’t the brightest move…”
My Master’s reply is dry. “That’s as may be, it was Elizabeth and her friend Claudia that got to the bottom of the matter.”
“Nonetheless,” says Grace, “what if this had happened to someone more vulnerable? Less able to defend themselves?”
“As must surely be happening all the time to those targeted by the Immigration Department,” I say. “Immigrants and refugees are as a group, vulnerable. And the tactics being used to separate scams from genuine cases are downright vicious.”
Will sits back in his seat. “Yes, and it needs dealing with. However, in this specific case, do we know if this is likely to become a police matter? Just so I know what might land on my desk.”
My Master casts a glance my way. “Not coming from me or Elizabeth, it won’t. We’ve discussed it and we’re agreed that Jack is going to have enough problems handling the fallout, without us adding to his difficulties.”
“You don’t intend to press charges?”
“No,” I say. “We don’t. As soon as he realised what had happened, the Mayor dealt with the official involved.”
Will arches a brow. “And Irene?”
My Master sniffs. “I think she is going to find her privileges are much curtailed from now on. At least if she wants to remain as Mrs Vandervoort. Jack is keen to avoid scandal, but any man has limits.” He huffs, grim humour. “She went into panic mode at any suggestion of losing her position.”
Will hesitates then, “Do we know if Irene… um… delivered… on her inducement to Pensby?”
“I wouldn’t think so,” I say. “It might have disturbed her coiffure. She could have cracked a nail.”
Will guffaws, throwing his head back. After a moment, he sits forward again, drawing a finger under his eyes. “Alright, let’s put it to bed then. Beth, you said you have something for me on your project?”
“That’s right. Chancellor Wilmore came back to me having passed the information by a team of his grad research students. I forwarded him a set of the current plans, a variety of possible sites for your satellite stations, and all the data I could put together on the pros and cons of each. Based on what I sent him, he set each student a slightly different version of the problem. One was to optimise the project according to simple cost…”
Will speaks dryly. “Surely the version Jack will prefer.”
“Probably,” I laugh. “However, the information I provided graded each possible satellite station on a points system, based on construction or renovation costs, ongoing running costs, access to the City centre and outskirts, access to the main highways, access for backup from Cop Central, and so on…
“… The point is that Wilmore took all that on board. The result is that he provided me with a whole range of possible solutions, optimised according to different criteria, assessing accessibility of your officers to the City as it now is and as it is planned to be in the future, with the new traffic flows after the completion of the new bridge.”
Will’s eyes widen. “Sounds good.” He settles his chin to rest again, this time in a propped palm.
“In addition,” I continue, “each version of the solution is broken into sections so…” I spread fingers, rocking the hand…”... to some extent, you can mix and match the solutions so that you can meet the Mayor halfway as regards budget or accessibility.”
I dry up. “Does that work for you?”
Will takes off his glasses, polishing the lenses on a napkin. “That’s quite a bright woman you’ve got there, Richard.”
My Master sucks at his cheeks. “I already knew that.”
Grace huffs. “Men! Why is female intelligence such a revelation?”
*****
As the cork pops, my Master juggles a flute into position to catch the froth spuming from the bottleneck. He passes the glass to me and pours a second for himself.
“Are we celebrating?”
A smile plays over his lips. “Yes, my Love. I believe we have much to celebrate.”
“So we do.” I sip at my champagne then, taking a proper look at him, I swipe over his grey-streaked sleeve. “You’re dusty. What have you been doing to get dusty?”
He glances down, looking startled, but as he brushes himself down, gives me a sidelong smile. “I lit the fire downstairs, ensuring we’re good and warm for this evening. And I took down plenty of logs.”
The glass pausing partway to my mouth, “Downstairs? In your… um… playroom?”
Lips twitching, he cants his head. “I’m guessing you would prefer that it’s not Ross who stacks the logs in there?”
“Um, no. You guess right.” I gulp at my drink.
Could be a long night…
But Pussy warms…
He tops up my glass. “Elizabeth, I gave you this house as a wedding gift, to be our home together. And I don’t believe we have yet made enough use of all the facilities available.”
“You mean we’ve not used your basement playroom since our honeymoon?” The smile widens, then climbs to his eyes. I adopt a sensible tone. “Well, Master, after all the trouble your gift has caused, I do think we should take advantage of the tax-free benefits involved.”
He bursts out laughing. “What it is to have a practical wife.”
*****
The door swings open and a bloom of warm air wafts my face, carrying the scents of vanilla, tea tree and…
I inhale…
… Ah, yes… sandlewood… with it.
My Master has gone to some trouble, taken his time setting the room up. The hearth glows gold and red, a log collapsing into ashes as I watch, the flames low now, but the embers radiating hot.
Set beside the fire and dotted around, candles flutter inside lamps of brass and bronze, set with gems of coloured glass, to cast spots of glimmering light flickering over the stone walls and arches, adding shades of jade, bronze and turquoise to the amber gleam of the fire.
My Master follows me in, closing the door carefully behind him. Strolling to the hearth, he stoops to prod at the ashes with a poker, then adds a log. Then another. Within seconds, both crackle, pop, then flare to life.
“It’s beautiful, Master. And those lamps are lovely.”
His lips curve. “Turkish, I think,” he says. “Or maybe Indian. But I thought you would like the effect.”
“I do.”
He straightens up, slides his palms over my hips, kisses my forehead. Then, “I want you naked, Elizabeth. And completely available to me.”
He watches as I slip off my robe, then stand before him, hands clasped, my face lowered.
“Look up.”
I raise my gaze to his and, his smile soft, he runs fingers over my hair, sliding out pins and clips, removing the combs that pin it high. As it falls loose, I shake my head, letting it tumble over my shoulders, drape to my waist.
Delving into a pocket, he produces the emerald necklace he gifted me on our honeymoon. Reaching behind, underneath my long tresses, I lift them clear, letting him slip the chain around my neck, closing the fine clasp. From the pocket again, he offers me the matching earrings.