Madrigal for Charlie Muffin Read Free Page A

the blooms were better than his. It had to be the soil in Hampshire, full of chalk. When he got the chance, he’d talk to the gardener about increasing the compost to balance. Wilson smiled at the thought; he was going to do so much, when he got the chance.
    Distantly, somewhere in the direction of the Mall, a clock bell chimed and he set off towards Whitehall. For a man who until five years before had commanded a Gurkha regiment and been seconded to intelligence with a reputation for efficient discipline, Wilson’s appearance was a personal contradiction. Careless of the obvious amusement it caused within his working circle, he wore a deerstalker, because it had flaps he could bring down over his ears in the winter and after so much time in India he suffered from the cold. The suit was good but neglected, thick tweed – again for the cold – but the trousers were absolutely without crease: although there were lots of the wrong sort, crimped tiredly behind the knees and elbows. The overcoat, of forgotten fashion, was too long and over-padded at the shoulders and cuffs, and again at the elbows the wear was obvious; in another six months, it would be threadbare.
    He was bonily thin and the face was hawkish, big-nosed, with sharp, attentive eyes. Greying hair escaped from beneath the hat, like a plume, heightening the bird-like appearance. He moved awkwardly, limping where the left knee refused to bend. Wilson had come unscathed through Europe, Korea and Aden but almost lost his leg when a polo pony fell and rolled on him in Calcutta. For years it had irritated him, because of the physical hindrance, but now he was only aware of it in the coldest weather, when the ache settled deep in his calf.
    After the confetti of memoranda and demands for speed, Sir Alistair knew that the location of the leak, coupled with the timing, would increase rather than diminish the pressure. It was like sailing out of the fog and seeing the rocks only yards away.
    Sir Berkeley Naire-Hamilton hurried fussily across the office to meet him, hand outstretched. ‘Good to see you, my dear fellow. Good to see you.’
    ‘And you,’ said Wilson.
    ‘I’ve tea. Earl Grey, I’m afraid. All right? You’ll take it with lemon, of course?’
    The man bustled around a side table where the tea things were set, asking the questions automatically without any wish or expectation of a reply.
    Wilson accepted his tea and, instead of returning to his ornate, over-powering desk, Naire-Hamilton seated himself opposite the director on a matching, wing-backed chair.
    ‘Delighted to hear there’s a breakthrough,’ he said.
    ‘I’m not sure you will be,’ warned Wilson.
    ‘What do you mean?’ demanded the permanent civil servant. Naire-Hamilton was a florid-faced, balding man, a rim of tightly clipped white hair hedged around his face. There was the hint of a minor stroke or some facial paralysis, which had caused the left-hand side to collapse slightly, making one eye more pronounced than the other. Naire-Hamilton had a tendency to the flamboyant, with broadly striped suits and pastel shirts with matching ties. It went with the vague foppishness of the office. It was traditional Whitehall, like bowlers and striped trousers with black jackets and vintage Dow with Stilton. The furniture was predominantly Georgian, bulbous-calved with a lot of leather, and there were ceiling-to-floor bookcases with volumes that couldn’t easily be removed because they’d remained unread for so long that the covers were stuck edge to edge. The walls were panelled and hung with portraits of bewigged chancellors and diplomats and there was a large and heavily decorated grandfather clock. It ticked with a constantly sticky, hesitating tick, demanding to be listened to in case it didn’t reach the next second. Wilson found the clock irritating. He wasn’t sure about Naire-Hamilton either.
    ‘Rome,’ announced Wilson.
    ‘You can’t be serious!’ Naire-Hamilton brought his hand