'Your lordship is not suggesting we should accommodate an actor in the Royal Suite?'

'Not an actor, Merryweather — a Great Star. Why not?'

'May I ask, my lord, if this is also her ladyship's wish?'

'Not exactly. You think she'd object?'

'It's hardly for me to say, my lord. But I should recommend that your lordship consult with her before taking such a radical step.'

Lord Burford rubbed his chin. 'P'raps you're right. Very well, better leave it.'

He moved off. Merryweather breathed a sigh of relief.

 

* * *

 

Paul's manservant, Albert, brought him his early tea at six-thirty in his Park Lane flat. After drinking it, Paul rose, donned a track suit, and went for his usual run in the park. By the time he'd returned, glowing with health, and had shaved and showered, Albert had his breakfast ready. Paul sat down to eat it, saying, ' Better pack my traps now. And put my running kit in. May do a hit of cross-country training.'

By the time he'd finished breakfast, Albert had stowed the cases in the car. Paul gave him a few last minute instructions - he had decided not to take Albert with him on this occasion - and by eight o'clock was on the road. He'd be at Alderley comfortably before lunch. And then for a long, long weekend with Gerry.

'Happy days are here again,' Paul carolled lustily as he drove.

 

* * *

 

Hugh Quartus groaned thickly as the alarm clock clanged stridently a few inches from his ear. Without opening his eyes, he reached out an arm and knocked it from the table. It stopped. He lay still, trying to remember why he had set it. He usually slept till he woke. So there must be something important on this morning.

Then it came to him. Alderley. Oh, lor!

Hugh dragged himself out of bed, staggered to the washbasin, splashed tepid water over his face, shaved, and ran a comb through his hair. He made some tea, cut and ate a couple of thick slices of bread and jam, shoved some clothes and a few necessities into an old army kit-bag, and wrapped his only decent lounge suit in brown paper. Like it or lump it, they'd have to put up with one of their guests not wearing formal dress in the evenings.

Next he filled a Thermos flask with tea, dressed in two pairs of socks, thick corduroy trousers, three sweaters and his old, moth-eaten fur-lined flying jacket, and went down to the lock-up garage he rented.

He opened it and wheeled out his motorcycle and sidecar. He threw his luggage into the sidecar and took from it a scarf, goggles, cap and gauntlets. These donned, he was ready. Wrapped up though he was, it was going to be a fearfully cold trip. He was tempted, even at this stage, to go by train. But no; this way he'd have independence of movement. Without the bike, he'd be stuck in the heart of the country and utterly reliant on his hosts for transportation.