Free Bones of the Buried by David Roberts Page B

David says there are no arms, nothing to stop a military coup. In fact, that was what he was doing before he was arrested.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Buying arms – but that’s a secret,’ she added hurriedly. ‘I don’t think David would want me to have told you.’
    ‘I can’t help if I don’t know the facts,’ Edward said sententiously.
    ‘Yes, but you have to make David tell you what he and Tilney were doing in the mountains.’
    ‘It’s a mighty queer place to buy arms, out in the country,’ Hester said. ‘That usually happens in offices or hotel rooms – at least, I guess so; that’s what
I’ve always imagined.’
    Edward was silent; so this was what Griffiths-Jones was up to: buying arms for a bankrupt government which had renounced war. There might be a few people keen to interfere with that , he
thought. He shivered. ‘Damn it, I thought Madrid – Spain anyway – was supposed to be hot,’ he said. ‘When do we get to this place?’
    ‘We’re here,’ said Verity, pushing through big wooden doors.

 
4
    Chicote’s was an oasis of warmth and light in Madrid’s freezing cold night. There was no hint here of poverty, political unrest or anything disagreeable. At a piano
in the corner by a large pot of evergreens, an effete young man in white tie and tails was employed reducing Irving Berlin’s ‘Cheek To Cheek’ to pap. Every table seemed to be
occupied. Waiters dodged between them quieting imperious commands with ‘ Si señor, momento señor ,’ which seemed to be the night-time version of
‘ mañana, mañana ’.
    ‘Over here, over here!’
    Edward turned in response to the clear, almost actorish tones of the English in foreign parts.
    ‘Maurice!’ Verity responded. ‘It’s Maurice Tate,’ she murmured to Edward. She switched on a smile and weaved her way between the tables towards the man who had
called to her, Hester and Edward following more slowly. ‘Hello, Maurice,’ she said, when they had gained their objective. ‘This is Edward Corinth who I’ve told you about.
Edward, Maurice runs the British Council here. If you aren’t careful, he’ll make you give a lecture.’
    ‘Sit down, you two! Lord Edward – how good to meet you at last. Verity’s been singing your praises.’ Edward shot a glance at Verity who refused to catch his eye.
‘Do you know about the British Council? It was founded a couple of years back to promote the English language and English culture throughout the world. Would you really be prepared to give a
lecture? It can be difficult finding interesting lecturers. What would you speak about?’
    ‘I’m afraid I don’t know anything about anything,’ said Edward, shaking Maurice’s warm, damp hand and trying to smile.
    ‘That doesn’t matter, does it, Maurice? I don’t suppose half the people you get on to the platform actually know what they’re talking about. Who was that man we had to
listen to the other day? Ugh!’
    ‘Lord Benyon is a famous economist. You mustn’t be wicked, Verity. You’ve heard of Benyon, haven’t you, Lord Edward?’
    ‘I’m afraid not, but then, as I say, I don’t know anything.’
    Maurice Tate looked the typical English intellectual: from the New Statesman on the table in front of him down to his grey-flannel trousers, tweed jacket patched with leather at the
elbow, and scuffed suede shoes. His hair was thin and brushed over the top of his head in a vain attempt to disguise his bald patch. He was smoking Gitanes through a long, chewed cigarette holder
and his white hands, like the flippers of some light-starved fish, flapped foolishly as he talked. Edward imagined he must model himself on Noël Coward – he affected what he obviously
believed to be Coward’s thin, clipped way of speaking – but he more closely resembled a preparatory schoolmaster.
    Edward had occasion to congratulate himself on his perspicacity when Verity added, ‘Maurice is directing Love’s Labour’s Lost at the Institute. He