Free Dreaming Spies by Laurie R. King Page A

here and there.”
    “And they brought Tommy-the-Lad on the honeymoon?” Monty’s laugh was goose-like.
    “Not sure she was all that keen on it, but I guess she wanted to show that she didn’t intend to push him around. Fitting in with the family, you know?”
    “I’d be happy to fit in, too, if there’s room.” His meaning was so unmistakeable, even Lady Darley’s unwilling stepson had to object.
    His drawl became more marked. “Monty, have some respect, she is the Pater’s wife. She’s … well, she’s not a bad sort, really. Had a tough time of it, for a while.”
    “What, your old man married an adventuress?”
    “Monty, in another minute I’m going to have to stand up and hit you.”
    “Ah, you know I’m just digging at you. Seriously, chap, I’m happy for your Pa. Nice enough bloke.”
    “Thank you. How’s your family?”
    “Don’t think Ceylon is doing what they’d hoped for the family fortunes. Father’s drinking himself to death. The Mother has herself a poodle-faker she drags around to garden parties.” I snorted into my mauve liquid, startling my tea-planters into silence. When I had them going again, my ears swivelled back to the two men behind me. They were talking about cards, a technical and complicit conversation that had me making a mental note: warn Holmes against playing with these two.

Madness and love are
The playwright’s favourite themes .
Are they so different?
    Once we had left Colombo and set out across the Bay of Bengal, the hard-driving tutorials—courses whose absence I had so happily anticipated—descended in force. My chief pleasure in the program, apart from the benefits of knowledge, was to see Holmes forced to labour beside me rather than wielding the whip.
    Our initial intention, to abandon ship at the earliest opportunity, was rendered less urgent by this unexpected series of challenges. Holmes, happy enough to cram a new language into his brain, was even happier to be given a second chance at a perceived villain he had let slip through his fingers. I, for my part, found an investigation of my own: that of Miss Sato herself.
    Invariably, we were thrown together outside of our actual lesson times. This was true for pretty much every First-Class passenger, but when one shared an interest in books and a lack of interest in other onboard amusements, certain conversations were inevitable.
    A few mornings into the trip, I came onto my preferred section ofdeck (the furthest from the shuffleboard courts) and found Miss Sato tucked into one of the deck-chairs, a book in her hand and a charming frown-line between her eyebrows. She glanced up, we exchanged greetings, and then both of us settled to our reading.
    She was still working her way through the Shakespeare plays, although her book-mark had not made much progress. She was taking notes. A lot of notes.
    So I wasn’t particularly surprised when, after I let my own library book fall shut (Sinclair Lewis: I should have chosen the Mary Roberts Rinehart), she stirred.
    “Mrs Russell?”
    I stopped rubbing my eyes and replaced my spectacles. “Yes, Miss Sato, what can I do for you?”
    “Do you understand Shakespeare?”
    Did Shakespeare understand Shakespeare? “Not entirely. What are you reading?”
    “Henry Four.”
    “You know,” I said, “the plays really need to be read aloud. Just following the words on the page, one loses a lot.” The rhythm of the language, the passion behind it. The meaning. There was a reason the Rabbis insisted that the Torah be read in full voice, that the whole body might participate in the learning.
    “This one I did see, in New York. And I think I follow all the war and revolting things.” I stifled a smile at her English. “But Falstaff, him I do not understand. Why is he there?”
    Greater literary minds than mine have wrestled with that question. Why, indeed, keep breaking into the drama of war with the continuous buffoonery of Prince Henry’s sotted companion? And why