They toured the ground floor–sitting room, dining room, hallway and utility room and quite before he knew where he was they were sitting down having lunch together. Not pasta. Not a pork pie and an apple. Instead slices of melon and Parma ham, roasted peppers and boquerones, olives and ciabatta that she had casually pulled out of a raffia basket.

She listened quietly while he explained his modest requirements–a bit of dusting, but not in the study; vacuuming the floors, turfing out the old newspapers, doing a spot of washing and ironing and keeping fresh flowers on the table in the hall. He felt embarrassed about this last request; especially when she smiled gently and looked at him with her head cocked at a slight angle.

‘Sorry. Is that a bit much?’

She shook her head. ‘Not at all. I think it’s rather fine.’

Rather fine. He liked that turn of phrase. Not ‘OK’, but ‘rather fine’.

‘And lunch?’ she asked.

He hesitated. ‘When I’m here, yes. That would be very nice. If it’s not too much trouble.’

‘Oh, it’s no trouble,’ said Maria. ‘No trouble at all.’

Chapter 7

The appetite grows by eating.

François Rabelais, c.1494–1553

Three meals were enjoyed that night. Christopher Devon ate on his own at the Manor House. Tiger and Erica dined, rather unexpectedly, in the company of Gary and Sarah.

The Wilsons arrived a little before the MI5 contingent, having promised themselves that after their recent excitement they would treat themselves and try the new Chinese restaurant. Erica told Tiger that it would make a pleasant change from the Hare and Hounds. He took the hint and booked. They were shown to a corner table by a solicitous waitress in a gold-edged black silk dress with a generous slit up the side.

Erica noticed the sparkle in Tiger’s eye and dug him in the ribs. ‘Do you mind not being quite so obvious.’

‘Well, I haven’t seen anything like that since I flew Singapore Airlines.’

‘I didn’t know you had flown Singapore Airlines.’

‘Only as a passenger. And it was before I met you.’

‘Well, you’ve met me now, so be careful. Anyway, what do you think?’

Tiger looked around him at the interior of the Red Dragon. ‘It’s smarter than your usual Chinese. Not a bit of flock wallpaper in sight.’

The walls and ceiling were painted black, the picture and dado rails of the old Georgian building were gilded, and black paper lanterns hung from the ceiling, each one emblazoned with a rampant red dragon.

Instead of the usual scrolls of minimalist Chinese artwork, the walls were hung with a mixture of black and white photographs of modern Chinese cities and lengths of plain red silk.

‘Very classy,’ confirmed Erica. ‘I bet we don’t have to ask for two number seventeens, a thirty-six and a fifty-four.’

‘As long as we don’t have to use chopsticks,’ muttered Tiger.