disappearance, but then you couldn’t have everything. It was most inadvisable to disturb the Chief at home during weekends, so the young officer made out a report for him, and left it ready for Monday morning. The dead man, a metal identity disc tagged to his left foot, stayed in the chilly darkness of his refrigerated berth over the weekend; the relatives of Per Svenson from the tiny village of Staghan on the north coast of Norway would never know more than the sad fact that he had fallen overboard during a storm. Ivan Sasanov looked round the dinner table at Marchwood. Mrs. Graham was beside him; the candlelight flattered her, as it did Davina. It gave a marvelous softness to the beautiful girl sitting on his other side; the light made her throat and the one shoulder exposed by her dress a pearly colour that reminded him of the voluptuous Rubens semi-nudes in the Hermitage. For a very slim woman she was fleshly, her skin smooth, her arms rounded, the lovely face framed by an erotic abundance of red hair. He had let her win at chess; as soon as they began to play he realized she was hopelessly limited. And yet there were flashes of cunning that surprised him, and at the end of their first game she had looked at him and said accusingly, “You let me win-you’re far too good not to have foreseen that last move.”
“I did see it,” he said.
“I just wanted to find out how you play. You must know your opponent’s mind if you want to beat him.” She had laughed and set the pieces in place. She had a laugh he found difficult to describe. There was an old-fashioned word for it. Merry. Carefree and full of enjoyment. They played a second time, and they were in the middle of the game when Davina came in. She poured herself a drink and stood watching them for a few minutes. She looked rather pale and stiff; Sasanov felt emotion play like lightning between the two sisters, and then it was hidden by a veneer of friendliness which didn’t deceive him. Davina hated her; he hadn’t gauged how Charley reciprocated. She showed less of her feelings because they appeared to be so obvious. She laughed and joked, and teased him, glittering like a star in the family circle, whilst Davina’s hatred glowed around her like a nimbus. He beat Charley the second time, and brought them to checkmate just as dinner was ready. He didn’t like English food; he found it too bland. His tastes were catered for by the private cook at Halldale Manor. He viewed the chicken dish in a wine sauce, and the inevitable dull vegetables, without much appetite. He ate more than he wanted, to be polite, and allowed Captain Graham to keep his glass filled with wine. He was surrounded by a high degree of comfort and good taste; the dining-room, its table bright with family silver, the pictures and the furniture were uniquely English. Nothing ostentatious or new; slight shabbiness was in order. Nothing offended the Grahams and their kind more than vulgarity and display. Mrs. Graham had asked him a few polite questions and then launched into a long discourse about gardening. He wasn’t bored, because no effort was required of him. He merely smiled and nodded, not quite listening. He heard Davina’s father say, “This is quite a treat, my dear. We haven’t had a visit from you for a long time. How is Jim White?”
“Very well,” Davina answered him. There was a slight formality between the father and elder daughter, embedded in their tones of voice like a tiny splinter of glass. Sasanov concentrated, smiling at Mrs. Graham’s description of layering carnations.
“Does he bully you? Or have you got him under your thumb like a good secretary should?”
“Nobody bullies me, Father,” she said.
“And I can assure you, the Brigadier is not under my thumb or anybody else’s.” It shouldn’t have sounded sharp but it did. So that was what she was supposed to be. White’s secretary. And that was how her family thought of her. The spinster secretary,
“I did see it,” he said.
“I just wanted to find out how you play. You must know your opponent’s mind if you want to beat him.” She had laughed and set the pieces in place. She had a laugh he found difficult to describe. There was an old-fashioned word for it. Merry. Carefree and full of enjoyment. They played a second time, and they were in the middle of the game when Davina came in. She poured herself a drink and stood watching them for a few minutes. She looked rather pale and stiff; Sasanov felt emotion play like lightning between the two sisters, and then it was hidden by a veneer of friendliness which didn’t deceive him. Davina hated her; he hadn’t gauged how Charley reciprocated. She showed less of her feelings because they appeared to be so obvious. She laughed and joked, and teased him, glittering like a star in the family circle, whilst Davina’s hatred glowed around her like a nimbus. He beat Charley the second time, and brought them to checkmate just as dinner was ready. He didn’t like English food; he found it too bland. His tastes were catered for by the private cook at Halldale Manor. He viewed the chicken dish in a wine sauce, and the inevitable dull vegetables, without much appetite. He ate more than he wanted, to be polite, and allowed Captain Graham to keep his glass filled with wine. He was surrounded by a high degree of comfort and good taste; the dining-room, its table bright with family silver, the pictures and the furniture were uniquely English. Nothing ostentatious or new; slight shabbiness was in order. Nothing offended the Grahams and their kind more than vulgarity and display. Mrs. Graham had asked him a few polite questions and then launched into a long discourse about gardening. He wasn’t bored, because no effort was required of him. He merely smiled and nodded, not quite listening. He heard Davina’s father say, “This is quite a treat, my dear. We haven’t had a visit from you for a long time. How is Jim White?”
“Very well,” Davina answered him. There was a slight formality between the father and elder daughter, embedded in their tones of voice like a tiny splinter of glass. Sasanov concentrated, smiling at Mrs. Graham’s description of layering carnations.
“Does he bully you? Or have you got him under your thumb like a good secretary should?”
“Nobody bullies me, Father,” she said.
“And I can assure you, the Brigadier is not under my thumb or anybody else’s.” It shouldn’t have sounded sharp but it did. So that was what she was supposed to be. White’s secretary. And that was how her family thought of her. The spinster secretary,
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