Free The Tamarind Seed by Evelyn Anthony

‘Do you know something? You have forgotten about the Group Captain—isn’t that so?’
    â€˜Good night,’ Judith said. She stepped across to her own entrance; it was less than five feet away.
    â€˜Tomorrow we will go and look for your tamarind tree.’
    â€˜And what will you say if we find it?’
    â€˜What will you say, if we don’t?’

CHAPTER FOUR
    Mrs. Stephenson, the wife of the Minister, had come to the conclusion that she liked Mrs. Paterson better than she did the Group Captain. It was unusual for Margaret Stephenson to prefer women to their husbands; she told her own husband repeatedly that the Embassy wives bored her stiff. They’re so common these days.’ She said that often too, dwelling on the adjective. Terribly dreary creatures with no conversation.’ It was an attitude that annoyed Fergus Stephenson. He had a fanatical sense of loyalty to anyone in the service; he was scrupulous in dealing with the meanest clerk. He never pulled his awesome rank, or took advantage of his equally awesome background to point out a mistake. He was a paragon, as his wife was aware. The staff spoke of him with a mixture of admiration and respect that irritated her beyond endurance. They didn’t have to live with him. They saw the impressive façade; she had lived with the occupant of that particular whited sepulchre, and she could swear to its authenticity as a corpse. That evening, as they dressed for dinner, she called her comments through to him from the bathroom.
    â€˜She’s nice,’ she repeated. ‘I discovered that her elder brother used to take me out while you were in Ceylon. He was very attractive; great fun. Had a ridiculous Flying Officer Prune moustache.’
    Fergus Stephenson moved to the open bathroom door. ‘I’m glad she met with your approval. It will help him.’
    His wife turned round from the mirror, a lipstick in her right hand. ‘Like hell it will,’ she said. ‘Not unless he gives up that little piece he’s been visiting in New York! Oh Fergus, stop pretending you didn’t know—that frightful bloodhound Loder had him checked up.’
    â€˜Who told you that?’ He had moved out of sight. He found it easier when she couldn’t see him.
    â€˜Never mind. But somebody did. She’s having a baby, and she’s thrilled. Dresses very badly. That’s my only criticism.’
    â€˜Good Lord,’ Stephenson said. ‘She must be remarkable.’
    He brushed his hair back, not really looking at the reflection in the mirror. Who had told his wife about the investigation into Paterson? He brushed the hair until his scalp tingled. Who was it this time?…
    It was a question he should never have asked. They had been married twenty years; they had three children, a nineteen-year-old girl and two boys at school in England. A long time ago, after the last child’s birth, Stephenson had decided not to ask that kind of question. He was not absolutely sure of the youngest child’s paternity. Sometimes he detected a resemblance to himself, at other times the boy appeared completely alien. His wife had always been publicly discreet. He had reason to be grateful for that; in the early years his career couldn’t have survived a major scandal. Attitudes towards that kind of situation had relaxed tremendously. The Foreign Office had been forced to adopt a less rigid code regarding divorce and remarriage; otherwise there would have been a few senior diplomats left in their posts.
    He had made a genuine effort to please Margaret. When he asked her to marry him, he believed that she presented an alternative to the preference for his own sex which had culminated in a passionate attachment when he was up at Cambridge. His lover had been all that he admired; brilliant, physically attractive, extroverted and impeccably bred. Fergus Stephenson had fallen in love with him and been seduced. He