"About forty-five after that, if it clears up." I hoped it wasn't just a cruel deception, just a fender bender caused by the real traffic and that the actual cause of the snarl might still be far ahead. "Oh, my poor man," she commiserated. "You'll be all tense and grumpy by the time you get home." She sounded sad for me, and that cheered me a little. She never took me for granted. I grunted noncommittally. "I know just what you need," she continued. "Forty-five minutes?" "At the minimum," I answered. "That'll be perfect. I'll see you when you get home, dear, and don't you worry about a thing. Drive safe, and let me take care of you." We blew kisses into the phone and the call ended. The radio came back on. The brake lights in front of me switched off and slid ten feet forward only to light up again. I sighed. === Just over an hour later, I pulled up in front of the house, parked and heaved a sigh of accomplishment. I glanced at the clock, noting the two hours and fifteen minutes I'd. Her finger went down to her fly-zip and she smiled. “You know what the Ghurkas say about their kukris don’t you?” I nodded. “Say it.” Her look was stern. “If you take it out you have to use it.” Her grin was the grin of a wolf spotting a lame goat. ~~~ I met Lady Maria Picton, wife of General Sir Peregrine Picton, in the restaurant of a huge mausoleum of a Victorian hotel facing the sea. Sun sparkled on the water and small boats bustled across our view as we took our seats on the verandah in the warm June sunshine. 1940 and Britain was once again at war. My husband, Colonel Sir Joliffe Gardner was based in London, working on the General Staff and hers had had to fly to Scotland. A waiter fussed around us, pouring water, spreading napkins, taking our luncheon order. At last, we were alone. She smiled at me. “May I call you Susan?” Maria Picton was the product of a Spanish mother and an English father, both aristocrats, and she had the haughty, full-lipped and black-eyed features of.
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