trouble was that, being Boston Irish, I had such little mystery about me that might raise a doubt or two in his or any other man’s mind. A woman who loves love as much as I did, and still do, can be too honest for her own good.
But I was not thinking about love that night. I undressed in the big bedroom I’d been given and was brushing my hair when I heard voices in the corridor outside. Moments earlier I had heard voices down at the front of the house; that would have been the Ranee, Lady Westbrook and the Nawab and the Baron going home. Then the big house had been suddenly silent till I heard the raised voices out in the corridor.
I opened my door an inch and peered out. It was not a lady-like thing to do, but a newspaperwoman was not expected to be a lady; it was an implied contradiction in terms. Major Savanna, looking very much the worse for drink, was standing arguing with Major Farnol, whom I could not see.
‘You will not mention this ridiculous theory of yours again till we get down to Delhi! There you can do what you damn well please!’
‘Keep your voice down, Savanna. This isn’t a polo field.’
‘Don’t tell me – ! You’re absolutely insufferable, Farnol, insufferable! You keep your voice down – not another word about these rumours, you understand! That’s an order!’
He took a sudden step backwards and I realized that Farnol had abruptly shut the door of his room in his face. Savanna raised a fist as if he were about to batter down the door, then suddenly he went marching down the hall towards his own bedroom. Marching: it struck me that for a man who a moment ago had sounded drunk he was remarkably steady on his feet.
I closed the door, finished my toilette and got into bed. But I couldn’t sleep; I could smell a story like a magnetic perfume, ink brewed by M. Coty. I tossed and turned for an hour, then I made my decision. I got out of bed and put on my red velvet peignoir. It had been bought for Miss Toodles Ryan, the girl friend of Mayor Honey Fitz, but Toodles was annoyed with Hizzoner for some reason and she had given me the gown. Each time I put it on I felt the delicious thrill of being a kept woman, if only by proxy: the safest and least demanding way. Only a year before he was assassinated I mentioned Toodles Ryan to President Kennedy and he, Boston Irish and a ladies’ man, winked and smiled. Honey Fitz’s hormones were still alive and well in 1962.
I looked at my hair in the mirror, saw that my tossing and turning had made it into a fright wig. I hastily pushed it up, looked around for something to hold it in place, saw the derby, the bowler hat I had worn that day while riding and shoved it on my head. I remembered one of the few pieces of advice my mother had given me when I told her I was determined to go out into the sinful Protestant world and make my own way: ‘Always wear a hat, sweetheart. That way you’ll always be thought of as a lady, if only from the neck up.’
Clasping my notebook and pencil I opened my door, crossed the corridor and tapped gently on Major Farnol’s door. Then I opened it and stepped inside. And felt the pistol pressing against the back of my neck.
The electric light was switched on. Major Farnol was dressed in pale blue silk pyjamas and looked absolutely gorgeous.
‘They’re not mine – I found them in a drawer. I think they belong to one of the A.D.C.s. Heaven knows what sort of chap wears things like these.’
‘You’re wearing them.’
‘Just as well, if a half-naked woman calls on me in the middle of the night. Do you usually wear a bowler when you go prowling bedrooms?’
I crossed to a chair beside the bed. ‘You may get back into bed, Major. You’re perfectly safe. This is a professional call.’
‘Do you charge for your services?’
I don’t know where Major Farnol learned his badinage with Women. I discovered later that he had had considerable success with them, but it could not have been because of his conversational approach. ‘Put your gun away, Major, and get into bed. I’ve taken you at your word that you’re a liar and I don’t believe you when you say there is no plot to assassinate the King.’
He put the pistol on a bedside table and got beneath the covers. Thinking back, it was one of the strangest interviews I ever conducted. Both of us were aware of the atmosphere around us: he in his glamorous pyjamas, I in my peignoir (even if the bowler did dampen the effect), and the wide bed itself. But I was there on business and I was determined to keep it that way.
‘Tell me what you really think is going on, Major.’
He shook his head. ‘Miss O’Brady, I am what is called a political agent.’
‘Is that something like a ward boss? My father is one in Boston.’ I explained what my father did in the interests of democracy and the Democratic Party, which are not necessarily the same thing.
‘No, I don’t think there’s too much similarity. I suppose one could say I’m a cross between your Secret Service and one of your Indian agents from the Wild West.’
‘But that’s exactly what a ward boss is.’
‘Well, I’m sure your father doesn’t give away secrets to the chaps from the newspapers. Or even to you, I’ll wager.’
‘Not unless he’s looking for favours.’ I saw the gleam in his eye and got in first: ‘Please, Major. No more flirting. So you won’t tell me what you suspect?’
‘No.’ There was no badinage there: his voice was flat and emphatic.
‘I could write my story without your corroboration.’
‘If you did that and I should ever meet you again, I’d tan your bottom.’
‘An officer and a gentleman?’
‘I make no claim to the latter title. Goodnight, Miss O’Brady. Please turn off the light as you go out.’
I was used to being dismissed, that was part of the game in my profession; but somehow the dismissal by him hurt me. I knew I had brought it on myself, but there are certain occasions when a woman wishes she could retire with dignity. I tried for that as I walked towards the door, but even then I knew that in my peignoir and derby I could not look regal or even viceregal.
I stopped at the door and turned. ‘You and I are not finished with each other, Major. I do not give up easily.’
‘Nor I, Miss O’Brady. Goodnight.’
I switched off the electric light and opened the door. The club thumped down on my bowler hat and I slumped to the floor.
End of extract from memoirs.
2
Farnol leapt out of bed as the man, masked by a ragged scarf, jumped over the girl and came at him, the club in one hand and a long dagger in the other. Farnol grabbed for the gun on the bedside table, but in the gloom of the darkened room, his eyes still full of the just extinguished electric light, his hand fumbled and knocked the gun to the floor. The intruder dived across the bed at him and he flung himself back, just avoiding the swish of the dagger. He stumbled around in the unfamiliar room, bumped against a clothes-horse. He picked it up and swung it, hitting the assassin full in the face with the wooden shoulders inside his tail-coat. The man let out a gasp and staggered back and Farnol, eyes accustomed to the darkness now, went after him. The thug swung the club blindly and Farnol grunted as it grazed his ribs.
Then the man was past him, jumping over the still prostrate Bridie in the doorway and racing out into the corridor. Farnol scrambled after him, not stopping to waste time in looking for his gun. The man appeared to know his way about the huge house. He ran along the dimly-lit corridor, out on to the gallery and down the wide stairs. Farnol, a blue silk streak, was only a few stairs behind him as they reached the entrance hall. The thug made no attempt to go out the front doors, as if he knew he might run into one of the roving picquets in the main drive. Instead he went straight down towards the ballroom. Farnol grabbed a heavy brass candlestick from a table and chased