Fiona took his arm and turned to face them. “Anne, I’d like you to meet Raoul Guyon,” she said.
CHAPTERSIX IRON GRANT
theancient, grey-stone house was firmly rooted into a hollow in the hill, great beech trees flanking it on either side. At some time a large glass conservatory had been added, running along the whole length of the building, and a series of shallow steps dropped down to a stone ter-race.
From the terrace the cliffs fell a good two hundred feet into a small funnel-shaped inlet that would have made a wonderfully sheltered mooring had it not been for the jagged line of rocks stretching across the entrance.
Anne Grant leaned on the wall, a cool drink in her hand, and looked out to sea. It had turned into a beautiful day, surprisingly warm for September, with a scattering of white clouds trailing to the horizon. She felt completely relaxed and at peace, happy to be home again. A foot crunched on gravel. When she turned, her father-in-law stood at the top of the steps.
Major-General Hamish Grant,d.s.o., m.g. and bar, had been well named Iron Grant. Six feet four inches in height, with a great breadth of shoulders, his hair was a snow-white mane swept back behind his ears. He wore an old pair of khaki service trousers and a corduroy jacket.
He probed at the top step with his walking stick. “You there, Anne?”
“Here I am, Hamish.”
She went up the stops and took his arm and his great, craggy face broke into a warm smile. “Fiona seemed tremen-dously excited about the new boat, but she was hardly in the house for a moment before she was changed and off out again.”
In a corner of the terrace stood a table containing a tray of drinks and shaded by a large striped umbrella. She led him across and he eased his great bulk into a wicker chair.
“She’s gone down to the hotel to meet Raoul Guyon, this young French painter who’s staying there. She promised to show him some of the island before lunch.”
“What about this fellow Mallory?”
“He should be here at any moment. I asked him to pick up the diving equipment. There was no real hurry, but I thought you might like to meet him.”
“I certainly would if only to thank him for the way he handled this Southampton affair.” He frowned. “Mallory. Neil Mallory. There’s something familiar about that name. Irish, of course.”
“He certainly doesn’t have an accent.”
“And you say he was cashiered for cooking the mess books? That certainly doesn’t fit in with the sort of man who’d take on a couple of thugs in a back alley.”
“That’s what I thought. He’s a strange man, Hamish. At times there’s something almost frightening about him. He’s so curiously remote and detached from things. I think you’ll like him.”
“I’d love to know why they slung him out,” the General said. “Mind you, the War Office, God bless “em, do some pretty daft things these days.”
“I’d rather you didn’t raise the subject,” she said. “Prom-ise?”
He frowned for a moment and then shrugged. “I don’t see why not. After all, a man’s past is his own affair. Can he sail the boat, that’s the main thing?”
She nodded. “Perfectly.”
“Then what have we got to grumble about?” He squeezed her hand. “Get me a brandy and soda like a good girl and tell me some more aboutFoxhunter.”
She didn’t get the chance. As she was pouring his drink, Jagbir appeared at the top of the steps, Mallory a yard or two behind him.
The Gurkha was short and squat, no more than five feet tall, and wore a neat, sand-coloured linen jacket. He had the ageless, yellow-brown face of the Asiatic and limped heavily on his left foot, relic of a bad wound received at Cassino.
He spoke good English with the easy familiarity of the old servant. “Mr. Mallory’s here, General.”
The General sipped a little of his brandy and put the glass down again. “What’s on the stove?”
“Curried chicken. When would you like to have it?”
“Any time you like. Serve it out here.”