A Murder of Quality (George Smiley Series Book 2)

by John Le Carré

‘I’ve been to tea with Rode,’ said Caley. ‘Rode’s hell. He wears brown boots. What was tea like?’ ‘Bleak. Funny how tea gives them away. Mrs Rode’s quite decent, though – homely in a plebby sort of way: doyleys and china birds. Food’s good: Women’s Institute, but good.’

Switching on the light, he took from the sideboard a sixpenny notebook, and opened it. It contained his list of dining guests for the remainder of the Half. With his fountain pen he placed a neat tick against the name Hecht. They were done. On Wednesday he would have the Rodes. The husband was quite good value, but she, of course, was hell … It was not always the way with married couples. The wives as a rule were so much more sympathetic.

I hope you don’t get many letters like this.

With an expression of distaste, Smiley screwed up all the newspapers except the Guardian and The Times and tossed them on to the luggage rack.

Smiley quickly noticed that he had one quality rare among small men: the quality of openness.

He walked to the pillar-box at the corner of the road, posted his letter and wondered what to do about lunch. There were, of course, the sandwiches and coffee provided by Miss Brimley. Reluctantly he returned to the hotel. It was full of journalists, and Smiley hated journalists. It was also cold, and he hated the cold. And there was something very familiar about sandwiches in a hotel bedroom.

The legend upon the sign was obscured by a film of snow, and Smiley brushed it away with his hand, so that he could read the words ‘North Fields’, done in a contrived suburban Gothic script which must have caused D’Arcy considerable discomfort.

A stringent critic of his own motives, he had discovered after long observation that he tended to be less a creature of intellect than his tastes and habits might suggest; once in the war he had been described by his superiors as possessing the cunning of Satan and the conscience of a virgin, which seemed to him not wholly unjust.

‘So sweet of you to come to the funeral yesterday. I hate funerals, don’t you? Black is so insanitary. I always remember King George V’s funeral. Lord Sawley was at Court in those days, and gave Charles two tickets. So kind. I always think it’s spoilt us for ordinary funerals in a way.

Although I’m never quite sure about funerals, are you? I have a suspicion that they are largely a lower-class recreation; cherry brandy and seed cake in the parlour. I think the tendency of people like ourselves is for a quiet funeral these days; no flowers, just a short obituary and a memorial service later.’

He changed into his pyjamas and dressing-gown and crawled miserably into bed.

Rigby knocked and waited. There was silence. He knocked again and was answered with a cry of ‘Come!’ Two very large spaniels watched them come in. Behind the spaniels, at an enormous desk, Brigadier Havelock, OBE, Chief Constable of Carne, sat like a water rat on a raft.

He took a taxi to Chelsea, carried his suitcase upstairs and unpacked with the care of a man accustomed to living alone.