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ONE (six months into Freddie’s recovery)
“Sorry, darling, there were some last minute things that came up for tomorrow’s broadcast.” Bel Rowley tossed her coat onto a nearby chair. “But I did bring you pressies.”
Freddie Lyon looked up at her from the couch on which he was stretched out at nearly full length, with a faux-reproachful pout. “Which of course entirely compensates for the absence of my fiancée for yet another . . . “
“Oh, nonsense, Freddie,” she cut him off. “Once you go back to work we’ll barely see each other in any case. Except when we’re in the editing room together in the wee hours.”
“And that, my love, is why we are so perfect together,” he said and smiled, but winced as he tried to adjust himself to make room for her on the couch.
“What did the doctor say?”
“The usual . . . good progress, keep up with the exercises, not quite fit yet to return to work.” He looked at her, sadly. “I was thinking, though, perhaps if I used the wheelchair?”
Bel stroked the side of his face. “We’ve been through this, Freddie. The doctor is convinced that if you come back before you’re fully recovered, it could set you back seriously.”
Freddie rolled his eyes. “I know, I know. And so did the second opinion, and the third . . . “
“And the fourth,” Bel reminded him.
“However.” Freddie paused for obvious dramatic effect. “What they’re not taking into account is the utterly taxing nature of boredom. I am seriously concerned, sometimes, that I will die of the absolute dullness of it all.”
“Meanwhile, at least, you’ve got me to live for,” Bel reached into her bag, “and these.”
Freddie reached eagerly for the mystery paperbacks she was extending towards him. “Oooh, an Agatha Christie I’ve not read. And a Ngaio Marsh, not bad. But no more Harriet Vanes?”
“Darling, you know she only puts one out every three or four years. You’ve read them all.”
“Twice,” Freddie nodded. “Damn her for marrying into the nobility and not needing the money.”
Bel reached into her capacious handbag and removed one more book. “But there is one coming out at Christmas, and I did manage to get my hands on a set of reviewer’s galleys.”
Freddie reached for it eagerly, giving her that sidelong grin that she found so endearing. “Moneypenny, you are the absolute best.”
“You’re welcome, James. Though, considering I’ve been your boss for the better part of two years, oughtn’t I to get a promotion to M?”
Freddie nodded his assent. “However, at the moment, I am on leave from work, and you are my lovely fiancée. So I shall call you,” he wrinkled his brow, as if in deep thought, “I shall call you . . . Bel, since it is both your name, and in French, an apt description. And also, you are the giver of wondrous gifts. A brand new Harriet Vane mystery, that nobody else has read yet.”
Bel shifted, carefully, a little closer, and he leaned up to kiss her. She responded, but after a moment drew back. “Well, except for her editor, the copy staff, the publicity department, and some dozens of reviewers.”
“Spoilsport.” He tugged playfully at a loose tendril of her hair, and pulled her back down. Then he stopped kissing her suddenly, and gave her a strange look. “Er, you haven’t peeked at it, have you?”
“On my honour, no.” She kissed him again, and then pulled back herself. “Well, maybe just a peek. To make certain it was all there. But I’ve no idea who the killer is. Or not much.”
Freddie gave her a look, but then gazed fondly at his new possession. “Just for that, I plan to ignore you for the remainder of the evening.” He settled himself upright, opened his book, and Bel snuggled up next to him. “Mostly.”
TWO (Six months later)
“You’re absolutely certain?” Bel asked. “He’s approached us, but he won’t say what it’s about?”
“He’s only agreed to speak confidentially, at the moment,” said Randall Brown, adjusting his eyeglasses. “He’ll be in later today. And he wants to meet with Lix.”
“It’s a foreign desk matter, then?” Freddie asked. He was wearing glasses himself, a new thing since his recovery – they helped with the headaches he still suffered from. Bel claimed they made him look like a intellectual beatnik.
Lix Storm looked pointedly at the wall, then the ceiling. “That may not be an indication. Our . . . families know each other.” She gave Freddie a sidelong glance. “I’d be delighted if you joined us. Really. In fact, I’d be grateful.”
When the meeting broke up, Lix accompanied Freddie back to his desk. “You’re right that he’s been working for the Foreign Office, in a sort of unofficial capacity, for decades now.”
Freddie still used a cane to steady himself, though he’d grown graceful in its use. “The benefits of a certain type of background. And a certain type of income.”
“On the other hand,” Lix continued, “he was a rather well-known amateur sleuth, particularly in his earlier years. He also had serious Scotland Yard connections, back in the day. Brother-in-law ended up near the top of the C.I.D. before his retirement.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“And then, of course, his nephew, only son-and-heir to the ducal title, was shot down flying a fighter plane in the War. The previous duke died a few years ago, and he found himself entering the House of Lords at an age when most mere mortals are withdrawing from public life.”
They’d reached the newsroom, and Freddie eased himself down into his desk chair. “He’s nearly seventy, isn’t he?”
Lix nodded.
“So what do you think it’s most likely about?”
“I have no idea,” she said. “New evidence that will lead to the reopening of one of his cases from years back? Something that the Foreign Office would rather we not know? Duke’s Denver made over to the National Trust?” She shrugged.
“At two-thirty, all of our questions will be answered,” said Freddie, as he turned his attention to a stack of correspondence on his desk.
“At two-thirty,” Lix agreed.
THREE (2:30)
Lix Storm approached the conference room with some trepidation. Through the doorway, she could see that his Grace was seated at the table. His once-golden hair was silver now; his long, aristocratic face was carefully trained to reveal little. A woman, slightly younger than he, her dark hair still just touched with grey, sat by his side. He rose upon her approach. “Alexis! How lovely to see you again, after all these years.”
Lix took a deep breath and moved forward, with a gracious, not entirely artificial, smile. “Your Grace. It has been some time, hasn’t it?”
“Harriet, this is Alexis Storm, née Alexandra Augusta Victoria Fenshawe-Wallace. Alexis, this is my wife, the Duchess, better known to the reading public as – “
“Your Grace, always a pleasure to encounter a fellow old Shrewsburian,” said Lix, extending her hand. “Though I’m afraid I ran off to Catalonia before I could finish.”
The Duchess looked from the journalist to her husband with a dawning understanding. “I think I remember.”
The Duke, Peter Wimsey, nodded. “It was not too long after the affair that began at the Gaudy dinner; you’d have been a fresher when all that happened?” He gave Lix a brief, inquiring glance, before returning his attention to his wife. “Alexis’s parents asked me to inquire into her whereabouts after her sudden disappearance from university. They were country neighbors of ours. But having heard her side of the story, in Spain, I chose to declare myself unable to locate her.” He turned back to Lix. “Did you ever--?”
“Eventually, yes. Once I was established as a foreign correspondent, and of an age to be of no more use to them as a debutante, we reestablished . . . limited relations.” She suddenly smiled. “I suppose if I hadn’t been nineteen, I might have chosen a less dramatic new surname for myself.”
“It suits you,” Peter said.
“I knew it!” said a voice from the doorway. “I knew your name was too good to be real, Lix.” Freddie stood there, cane in hand, with a mischievous smile. “I can’t wait to tell Bel.”
Lix winked at him, the tension in the room suddenly broken. “She already knows.” She turned back to their visitors. “And this is my colleague, Frederick Lyon. Freddie, the Duke and Duchess of Denver.”
And Freddie, unstoppable, irrepressible Freddie, was momentarily silenced. For there at the table, at her husband’s side, sat Harriet Vane herself, recent light of his literary life, and solace of his long months of recovery. But in a moment, he had entered the room and taken a seat at the table. “And what can The Hour do for you?”