Moira Tregorian had her hands full again: when was it ever any different? Make him a cup of tea, if you please. This was Her Ladyship, of course;
“Here you go, then.”
She put it in front of him, and if she did so a little abruptly, causing it to slop over the rim, well, it wasn’t as if he was about to complain, was he?
“It’s already sugared,” she added.
And then, because he stared at it uncomprehending, she felt ashamed, and said, more gently, “You want to drink it before it gets cold. You need a warm drink inside you.”
Whether he did or didn’t seemed beside the point, somehow. There was precious little else she could do for him.
There was work to do, because there always was. Nobody had ever accused Moira Tregorian of not pulling her weight, not that her weight was anything anyone ought to be making comments about. There were still files and folders here from last September, and she had a good mind to call Ms. Standish in, ask if she wouldn’t mind lending a hand as a good part of this confusion had happened on her watch? But she could imagine the frosty answer she’d get from that one. Queening it over the whole department as if she were the Lady of Shallots or someone. No, that wasn’t who she meant. The other one.
“Lady Guinevere,” she said out loud.
That was who she meant.
There was an unseemly slurping from the old man as he revived himself with a healthy gulp of tea. When he set the cup down, he said, “King Arthur.”
Oh Lord help us, she thought. He thinks we’re playing Snap.
But she was still feeling guilty about her rough treatment of him. And it was nice to have someone to talk to, even if it was childish nonsense.
She said, “Sir Lancelot.”
“Sir Percival.”
She wasn’t even sure Sir Percival was a real one, to be honest, but she didn’t want to spoil the old man’s game. “Sir Gawain,” she said, conscious that if this went on much longer, she was going to run out of names.
“Sir Galahad.”
Galahad, she thought. Now that was funny—that rang a bell.
Where had she come across Galahad recently?
But the answer wouldn’t come.
It was clear that nobody used the front entrance—you only had to look at the door, its peeling black paint, to know it hadn’t been opened in years—which meant there must be another round the back. So he passed the Chinese restaurant, on whose grubby windowpane was fixed a yellowing menu, and reached an alleyway lit only by window-leakage from the neighbouring office block. It was one of those lost areas every city knows; an unconsidered gap between postcodes. To his left was a wall with wooden doors set into it at intervals, and when he tried the second one, it opened. Now he was in a small, mildewed yard, looking up at a dismal building which must be Slough House. For a department of the Security Service, it didn’t seem too secure. That said much about the value placed on its inhabitants.
Patrice took the gun from his pocket. The woman who’d owned it had been Service too, and it struck him briefly how difficult it would be for her, knowing her own weapon had been used to erase her colleagues. But this was no more than a blur on his mental horizon; an awareness of the weather elsewhere.
He tried the door, which jammed a little. He had to lean on it, pushing upwards on the handle to ease it open without making a noise. But that took only a moment. And then he was inside, and on the stairs, the gun dangling by his side, as if it were of no more weight or importance than a pint of milk.
Marcus could hear Catherine talking to Shirley in the kitchen. There was a kind of comfort in having her back in Slough House—they were two of a kind, after all—A gambler and a drinker; funny they’d never discussed their respective addictions. Except it was anything but funny, of course; this situation they were in. His family life was more than fraying at the edges; it was perforated right down the middle, and one quick tug would leave him floating wide and loose. As for Catherine—well, she seemed serene. But what kind of life was she living, really; what demons had smuggled themselves into her private corners? So no, of course they’d never spoken of such things. Besides, he’d never admitted it out loud before, had he? Had rarely said as much to himself.
“I have a gambling problem,” he said, very quietly. The words barely bothered the air. His lips moved, but that was about it.
He shook his head. If Shirley had been around for that, he’d never hear the end of it—
