Free The Summer of Sir Lancelot by Richard Gordon Page B

difficult to understand how he brought himself to rake in the enormous profits he obviously did.
    ‘I suppose you play the market a bit like everyone else these days, Doctor?‘ he suggested when Simon was wedged in one of the corners. ‘Even if it‘s just a bit of stagging, what?‘ he added mysteriously, giving a laugh.
    ‘'Fraid not,‘ Simon smiled. ‘As far as cash is concerned I seem to have a sock-under-the-bed mentality.‘
    ‘You could do far worse than some of our own shares, y‘know,‘ added Mr Breadalbane, sipping his drink.
    ‘I don‘t think my patients would care to know I had a vested interest in illness.‘
    ‘Oh, UD branches out in all directions these days. I bought a couple of custard companies this very afternoon.‘
    ‘Go on?‘ Simon looked impressed.
    Mr Breadalbane threw a quick glance round. ‘Look, Doctor,‘ he added quietly, ‘you‘re a pal of Paul‘s. Like to make a quick gain? Get your broker to buy Beaulieu‘s Marmalade.‘
    ‘What, you mean the sort “Fit For The Royal Toast”...?‘
    ‘That‘s it.‘ He winked. ‘You won‘t go wrong. Ah, dinner. Isn‘t Deirdre‘s cook wonderful?‘
    The Ivors-Smiths and the Breadalbanes were apparently very close friends, and had many other close friends in the higher-priced districts of London, whom they discussed over dinner at some length. Simon sank into his own thoughts. Business was always a mystery to him. How on earth did people like Mr Breadalbane make millions and millions, he wondered, just sitting at a large desk tooling about with pieces of paper? Behind all those mahogany boardrooms and smart secretaries and heavy luncheons and ten-thousand-quid computers it was probably childishly easy. Easier than doing a mitral valvotomy, anyway. He sipped the delightful Burgundy. He smiled softly as he caught his wife‘s eye across the table. He had something, Simon told himself fondly, greater than either of those polished and prosperous fellows possessed. He was indeed a very lucky man. He took another sip. Yes, it was only by chance the year before at Lord‘s he‘d managed to collect Pete Jowler‘s autograph.
    As both Simon and Paul had an early start at St Swithin‘s the evening wasn‘t a late one, and they separated on the steps, Mr Breadalbane fairly bursting with bonhomie, well before eleven. About then, another party was getting under way behind St Swithin‘s mortuary gate.
    ‘Darling,‘ Tim Tolly called softly. ‘Are you all right?‘
    ‘Darling!‘ Euphemia fell into his arms like a paratrooper going into action. ‘Yes, Anne James gave me a leg up.‘
    ‘Sure nobody saw you?‘ he whispered urgently.
    ‘Not a soul, darling,‘ she told him breathlessly. ‘I put a bolster in my bed. But we‘d better get moving.‘
    ‘My sweet, I could hardly bear waiting for you under that ghastly gate,‘ declared Tim, driving his car towards the West End. ‘But with these light evenings we could hardly have risked it earlier.‘
    ‘It‘s been such ages,‘ returned Euphemia, fondling his hand on the MG‘s little gear lever.
    ‘Twenty-three days exactly since your Uncle Lancelot sewed you up in a sack and dropped you into the Bosphorus. I‘ve counted all of them.‘ Tim gave a laugh. ‘And to think the old ogre‘s miles and miles away in Wales.‘
    ‘No, he isn‘t. He‘s in Harley Street.‘
    ‘Oh,‘ said Tim.
    ‘But he‘s only staying tonight. At first he said he was going home this morning. I met him yesterday,‘ she added.
    ‘Did he mention me?‘ inquired Tim.
    ‘No, as far as I remember he only mentioned the kidney.‘
    ‘I hope his horsewhip‘s in for a refit. Thank heavens I didn‘t pass him on the road, or he‘d probably have run me in for speeding on the spot. As it was, I left on the tail of Charlie Chadwick — he‘s asked me to dinner at his place in Richmond, by the way,‘ Tim added a touch proudly. ‘My prescribing some benemid for his gout seems to have teamed me up in Charlie‘s eyes