The Morning Gift

But now for Ruth – for his newly discovered wife – he wanted to make a gesture that would resound through the coming generations, a proclamation! The times were against it, his conscience too: as he passed through the wide doors held open by a flunkey, the orphans of Abyssinia, the unemployed, stretched out imaginary hands to him, but to no avail. Later they would be sensible, he and Ruth: they would plough and sow and make rights of way; they would sponsor yet more opera-loving cowmen, but now, instantly, he would send a priceless, senseless gift to his beloved, and she would rise from her bed and know!

Thus Quin, walking lightly up the steps between the little box trees in tubs – and Mr Cavour, seeing him coming, metaphorically licked his lips.

‘What had you in mind?’ he asked when Quin had been shown to a blue velvet chair beside a rosewood desk. In the show cases, lit like treasures of the Hermitage, were Fabergé Easter eggs, earrings trembling with showers of crystal, a butterfly brooch worn by the exiled Spanish Queen. ‘What kind of gems, for example?’

Quin smiled, aware that he was cutting a slightly absurd figure: a man willing to mortgage himself for a gift with only the haziest notions of its nature. What gems did he have in mind? Diamonds? Sinbad had found a valley filled with them; they were lodged in the brains of serpents and carried aloft in eagle’s bills. The Orlov diamond had been plucked from the eye of an Indian idol . . . the Great Mogul, the most famous jewel in antiquity, was the favourite treasure of Shah Jahan.

Were diamonds right for Ruth, with her warmth, her snub nose and funniness? Was there too much ice there for his new-found wife?

‘Or we have a ruby parure,’ said Mr Cavour. ‘The stones are from the Mogok mines; unmatchable. The true pigeon’s blood colour. They were sold to an American by the Grand Duchess Tromatoff and they’re just back on the market.’

Quin pondered. Mogok, near Mandalay . . . paddy fields . . . temples . . . He had been there, making a detour after an earlier expedition and had seen the mines. Why not rubies with their inner fire?

‘And there is a pearl and sapphire necklace which you would be hard put to match anywhere in the world. Someone is interested in it, but if you wished to make a definite offer . . .’ He flicked at an underling. ‘Go on down to the safe, Ted, and get Number 509.’

Quin’s mind was still in free fall, pursuing he knew not what. The Profane Venus was always painted richly dressed in a fillet of pearls. It was the Celestial Venus that they painted naked, for they knew, those wise men of the Renaissance, that nakedness was pure. Either was all right with him: Ruth in her loden cape, loaded with jewels; Ruth without it at midnight, eating a peach.

The box was brought, snapped open. The necklace was superb.

‘Yes . . . it’s very beautiful,’ said Quin absently.

Then suddenly it came, the clue, the allusion . . . the thing he had been waiting for: Ruth, barefoot with windblown hair, coming towards him on Bowmont beach, cupping something in her hand. ‘Look,’ she was saying, ‘Oh, look!’

He rose, waved away the necklace. ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘I know now what it has to be. I know exactly!’

His next errand did not take him long.

Dick Proudfoot had returned from Madeira, suntanned and pleased with life. He had also produced four watercolours of which only three displeased him. Now, however, he looked down at the complicated document, with its seals and tassels – a replica of the first which his clerk had brought in when Professor Somerville appeared unexpectedly in the office – and up again at Quin.

‘What did you say?’

‘You heard me! I want you to tear the thing up. I’m stopping the annulment. I’m staying married.’

Proudfoot leaned back in his chair and folded his hands behind his head.

‘Well, well. I can’t say I’m surprised.’ He grinned. ‘Allow me to congratulate you.’

It struck him that he had not seen Quin look so relaxed and happy for a long time. The volcanic craters were missing; there was peace in those alert, enquiring eyes. Proudfoot pulled the document towards him, tore it in two, dropped it in the wastepaper basket. ‘Quite apart from anything else, it’s a great relief – we were on pretty dodgy ground all along. Will you be living at Bowmont?’

‘Yes. She fits the place like a glove – she was only there a few days, yet everyone remembers her: the shepherd, the housemaids . . . it’s uncanny!’ For a moment, a slight shadow fell over his face. ‘The trouble is, I’ve set up this trip to Africa.’

But even as he spoke, Quin realized what he would do. The climate on the plains was healthy; the trip was not hazardous – and in an emergency Ruth could always stay with the Commissioner and his wife at Lindi.

‘Do you want me to write to Ruth?’

‘No; I’ll tell her myself. And thanks, Dick, you’ve been splendid. If you send your account to Chelsea I’ll settle it before I go.’

He had reached the door when Proudfoot called him back. ‘Have you got a minute?’