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bringing the good news from Ghent to Aix.
    â€˜And of course our Arlette’s husband – charmin’ woman your wife, charmin’. Get us a drink, my dear, a tonic or something; I’ve got to take my pill – what about you, you’re not drinking but a tomato juice or something – lime juice, that was it, Kenya or Singapore or wherever the damn place is – a little polo, m’dear chap, no proper horses out here, unless you count th’ racecourse.’ His hand twirled an imaginary mallet skilfully. Marion was still looking at Van der Valk carefully.
    â€˜Delighted.’ Voice like the smile, like Jersey cream, gentle to marry with the jerky military gunfire from the other side of the fireplace. ‘Do make yourself comfortable.’ She moved towards an ornate presentation-silver drinks tray – all the accessories in the room had that hussar-regiment anteroom look. The furniture was feminine – there was a Louis XV secretaire between the two windows – but the huge silver ashtrays, the silver cigarette-box, and the silvermounted leather boxing-glove from Hermès that turned out to be a table lighter, balanced the sexes.
    Francis, now that he had his wife handy, attacked briskly.
    â€˜So don’t tell me you’re worried about this death? Not a social call, I take it? Couldn’t say anythin’ downstairs – gossips!’
    A heavy tall cutglass tumbler was put in Van der Valk’s hand, with the attractive oily look that means Rose’s lime juice, and the million tiny bubbles of Perrier water. Francis got a large ornate champagne glass with a hollow stem and a lemon sliver, and jerked a bottle of pink cachets out of his breeches pocket. The drink was cold, delicious, just rightly dosed – no doubt of it, Marion was an excellent hostess.
    â€˜I’ve heard nothing to invite worry. I heard gossip. The doctor was in a bit of a flap – young of course; inexperienced in that kind of situation. I’m bound to pay a call – imposed on me by protocol – thought I’d like to hear the story first hand from you – I’ve no use at any time for shreds of garbled blither.’
    â€˜Quite right,’ large emphatic approving nods. ‘Delighted. Settle the natter of silly women – bitch downstairs – more money than sense – grocers! Canned sardines that aren’t sardines, sand in the sugar, what!’ Like many men who shout how much they detestgossip, realized Van der Valk with pleasure, Francis was himself an accomplished backbiter.
    â€˜Bernhard? – you knew him at all? No? Great mountain of a chap, typical Bavarian, overate, overdrank, no exercise, high blood pressure, physique in a shockin’ state, shockin’,’ palming and swallowing his pink pill with relish and a gulp of tonic. ‘Cigarette?’ An oval baroque case, gold for a change, with oval baroque cigarettes. Van der Valk, who indulged in Gitanes at home as in a secret vice, shook his head to avoid breaking the flow.
    â€˜Damned idiot decides he wants a horse. Marguerite – that’s his wife; charmin’ woman – won’t have him near hers of course, and what does he do but insist on my buyin’ him one, great Belgian lump of a Hanover that will carry his weight. He comes here and bumps around solemnly a few times – shameful exhibition but I ask you, what can I do to stop it? That restaurant is very handy for us, several of our people have lunch there, we rendezvous there often, have the horses rubbed down and fed in their stableyard, Marguerite’s a fine woman – damn it, I simply can’t refuse. But I keep the great lump out of everybody’s sight. I had nobody to waste their time on him anyway, and after he’d been taught some rudiments, how to saddle up and so on, he’d go ambling about, State Coach opening Parliament – that sort of pace and action – that sort of