The Master of Rain by Tom Bradby Page A

and then I want to know everything about Dickie’s life here.”

    She looked down at her menu and then stood to excuse herself. As she passed her husband, she draped her arm over his shoulder affectionately and he placed a hand over her own. They both smiled.
     

    By the time they’d finished dessert, Field was drunk and had said considerably more than he’d intended to. He’d talked about the rivalry between Macleod and Granger and told them about Prokopieff and his habit of leaping out of bed in the middle of the night and beating on the walls all the way down the corridor outside, shouting something incomprehensible in Russian.

    They had smiled while he told this story, but Field thought he’d talked too much. Lewis’s eyes had begun to glaze over.

    “I propose,” Lewis said, “that I take our boy here on a tour of the city’s ‘exotica.’ ” He stood, then they all did.

    “Excellent idea. I’ll take Mrs. Donaldson home,” Geoffrey said.

    “Now hang on a minute . . .” Penelope interjected.

    Geoffrey cleared his throat noisily.

    “Well,” Penelope said petulantly, “a girl knows when she’s not wanted.” She leaned over and kissed Field on the cheek, her skin warm and her hair soft. As she did so, she touched his hip with her hand, leaving it there as she pulled her head back, before slipping it into the pocket of his jacket. “I hope you’ll be virtuous tonight.”

    “Actually, I really ought to be getting home.”

    “Nonsense,” Lewis said, adjusting his jacket and glancing at himself in the mirror.

    Field’s face was reddening. “I’m not actually sure I can afford . . .”

    “Don’t be ridiculous,” Geoffrey said, looking at him with astonishment. “You’re a policeman. Fraser’s will pay.”

    Penelope’s hand was still in his pocket and she scratched his side, then leaned forward to give him another kiss.

    She picked up her shawl from the back of the chair and walked toward the door. Geoffrey edged around the table, smiling at him. “Good to see you, old chap.” He shook Field’s hand. “Let’s stay in touch.”

    “I’d like that.”

    “Let’s see to it, then.” He nodded at Charles, then set off after his wife, who’d already gone through the big wooden doors.

Seven

    L ewis looked at Field. “You need a new dinner jacket, old man.”

    “This one will be fine in the winter.”

    Lewis smiled as he led the way out to the reception area and the stone steps beyond. Field had not realized how drunk he was and half wished that he’d had the good sense to say no to this excursion.

    Charles Lewis leaned through the window when his chauffeur-driven Buick came to a halt. “Delancey’s,” he said before climbing into the back, Field following him. As they drove off, they saw Geoffrey and Penelope Donaldson getting into rickshaws. “He’s a good man, Geoffrey,” Lewis said. “One of the very best.”

    “Yes.”

    “Doesn’t even seem to mind about Penelope.”

    “What do you mean?”

    Lewis smiled at him, leaning back into the far corner of the rear seat. “You must have seen she’s a bit of a goer.”

    Field frowned.

    “You should give her a try. Goes like a belter. Geoffrey doesn’t mind.”

    “I’m not sure what you mean.”

    “Handsome chap like you could use a bit of experience.”

    “Geoffrey is my uncle.”

    “So what? She’s no blood relation, is she?”

    Field’s moral dismay was only offset by the image of Penelope’s nipple that had somehow contrived to stay with him. “I’m sure she’s not at all like that.”

    “He won the Victoria Cross in the war, you know,” Lewis went on.

    “Yes, my mother is very proud of him.”

    “And so she should be. He’s a bloody good sort.”

    Field found that this reflection of his own judgment on his uncle made him warm to Lewis a little, but they were both silent until the car pulled up outside a dimly lit building that showed no sign of being anything other than a