Luke

My four brats all descended on the Manor for the Christmas Holidays, something that took my mind off a very great worry (See Virago of a Virus). All went well, various presents were, well, presented, and an added plus was the presence of the Compte de Rienville, who arrived along with his cook, Stephane. This was indeed a Good Thing; my own cook, Ludwig, had left in a huff over a disagreement about asparagus. I wanted it steamed. He wanted to boil it. Obviously he had to go.

Isolde, my concert violinist daughter, had brought along her agent, Lolulu, who went by the name of Luke. An austere woman, she was clothed in a dark, nondescript pant suit, in marked contrast to the colourful party frocks worn by my daughters. She said little, but obviously adored Isolde. Well, who wouldn't?

Stephane did wonderful things to a turkey, with a wine-based gravy that was superb. And he readily agreed that asparagus should always be steamed. Good man, Stephane.

After dinner, the kids all assembled in the drawing room for the Christmas Monopoly Game, a Strunsky tradition. I retired to the library with the Compte and cognacs, and was soon involved in a heated discussion about Yemen. My point was that if Yemen was going to screw with us, we were bloody well going to screw with them. The Compte took the view that if airport security had been better, that addled Nigerian would never have been allowed on any plane whatsoever. Yes, the authorities in Lagos were inept, but the Dutch are not, and how they had missed him was a bit of a mystery. "Although," he added, "I gather the man was in transit."

"Seems to me," I said with a bit of jaundice, "we are not far away from having to strip before boarding an airplane, and being forced to wear one of those ghastly hospital gowns. And don't get me started on body scanners. I can think of at least three explosive materials that would not be picked up. What was that?"

A dull thump had echoed throughout the Manor.

"I think it came from your firing range," said the Compte.

The two of us scurried downstairs, where we came upon my ex-Mossad butler Irving engaged in reeling a target sheet back from the range. Standing on the shooter's mark was Luke, cradling my Ruger M77 in her hands.

The target sheet had arrived. I looked at it. "Nice grouping."

"I'm a bit off," replied Luke calmly, as if she walked into peoples' houses everyday and fired weaponry. "My own preference is a Steyr-Mannlicher SS6-69. I would have liked to try the Erma SR 100, but Sir Harry said that was your baby, and I respect that."

And now things became clear, and I felt a huge surge of relief.

"So Isolde has nothing to do with any of this?" I asked.

"Well, there was that courier thing in Vienna, but Sir Harry said you gave him what for, and put a stop to it. She's just to good a violinist to waste The Trade. When I met Isolde, however, and got to know her --"

" --No doubt in the Biblical sense --"

" -- And way led on to way," Luke continued, firmly ignoring my interjection, "we seemed a perfect fit. I get her bookings, Sir Harry helps, and this gives us access --"

"I get the picture." Bloody opportunistic Sir Harry. But at least I now knew what Matilda Hatt had been hinting at about another sniper. Thank God it didn't turn out to be Isolde.

"I would though," said Luke, "like to request a favour."

"Go on."

"Isolde's next concert is three weeks away. In Prague. I won't be able to be with her until then, and it would be neat if she could stay with you during that time."

"Consider it done. What takes you away?"

"Uh..."

"Only one place, I should think." This from the Compte. "Where things have gone a bit pear-shaped."

"And little training schools have started to grow like evil mushrooms," put in Irving.

"Mushrooms that badly need rooting out," I said. "So, Luke, enjoy....Yemen."