Chapter One

Doyle rubbed his hands together briskly. Then he made fists and blew on them, and his breath made white puffs which floated away into nothingness.

"Feeling the cold, 4.5?"

Cowley sounded remarkably cheerful for a man whose office heater had broken down during London's worst winter in fifty- three years. He's probably been warming himself with scotch, Doyle decided, heartily wishing he'd done the same. "A bit, sir," he replied.

"3.7?" Cowley glanced at the man in the chair beside Doyle's, who sat there completely composed and attentive, displaying no signs that he was in the least affected by the freezing temperature.

"I'm fine, sir."

Doyle looked at his partner and frowned. Of course Bodie was fine. He also resembled an arctic explorer. Doyle was positive Bodie was wearing three or four assorted shirts and sweaters beneath his down-padded parka, not to mention the wool scarf, cap, gloves, and heavy boots he had on. Shivering, Doyle wished for the hundredth time that he hadn't put off his winter clothes shopping until every shop in the entire country had sold out of thermal underwear and parkas. He crossed his arms over his chest, huddling deeper into his threadbare peacoat.

"Here, have a look at these." Cowley leaned across his desk to hand over two file folders. Doyle reluctantly stopped hugging himself and grabbed one.

"This is what we have on the group of IRA sympathizers who are probably responsible for the recent armory theft."

Bodie glanced up from his folder. "Thought Robbins and Stuart were on that."

Cowley nodded. "They were. I've pulled them. You're on it now." He flipped through a pile of papers on his desk. "We believe this group has hidden the stolen arms in Oxford. The people you are reading about belong to a political group which meets regularly at a certain Oxford bookshop."

"Red and Black Books," Doyle said, pleased that he'd found the appropriate spot in the mass of papers, despite fumbling through them with numb fingers.

"Aye. This shop specializes in subjects of, shall we say, a leftward slant."

Doyle let out a low whistle. "Owned by Richard Lumley. Isn't he the commune nut who inherited pots of money?"

"Yeah," Bodie put in. "I saw a Sunday supplement on him a couple months back. Where Are They Now, that sort of thing. A right nutter." He smiled and shook his head. "The poor bloke never left the Sixties behind."

"Indeed." Cowley handed over two more files. "You'll need this information on him as well. Richard Lumley is technically an earl but refuses to use titles. He inherited a large estate and a great deal of money in 1966, at the young age of twenty- four. He turned the estate into a commune, where the inhabitants grew organic food and practiced 'free love.' Lumley also ran an alternative press there."

Bodie smirked. "Hasn't changed much, far as I could tell from the article."

Doyle decided it was time to show off his own knowledge. "He makes a lot of money off herbal teas now," he said brightly.

Bodie turned to favor him with a scornful expression. "Drink 'em a lot, do you?"

"Yeah." Doyle glared back. "They're good."

Cowley cleared his throat, and both agents immediately returned their attention to the matter at hand.

"As I understand it," Cowley said, "Lumley grows only herbs now on his farm, herbs used in the production of Lumley's Long Life teas. The commune disbanded in '77, though there is at least one person from those days still living at the estate. Mr. Lumley continues to preach left-wing idealism through his press, and sells his publications through the bookshop." Cowley paused and shifted in his chair, looking uncomfortable. "He is also President of the Sexual Tolerance League, which is dedicated to establishing legal 'rights' for homosexual relationships."

Bodie's eyes widened. "He's queer?"

Cowley cleared his throat again. "I believe the current term is now 'gay'."

Doyle frowned, suddenly suspicious. "What exactly are we supposed to do?"

"You are both going to Oxford." Cowley turned to Bodie. "You, Bodie, are a free-lance journalist. You will interview Lumley and as many of the ex-commune members as you can locate. We strongly suspect the stolen arms have been concealed somewhere on Lumley's estate."

"Thought he was one of those love, peace, and understanding nuts," Bodie said.

"He is. Or so he claims. But he doesn't control the political group. That's where you come in, Doyle."

"Me, sir? You want me to join this group?" Doyle shuffled through his files. "What're they called...oh, yeah. The AFS. Anti-Fascist Society." He looked up. "Not very original, is it?"

Cowley ignored the remark. "It would be extremely difficult to infiltrate such a small group. Especially one which, as Stuart discovered, thoroughly screens potential members."

Bodie grinned. "Got caught out, did he?"

"No, Bodie, he did not. That is, they didn't find out he was CI5." Cowley frowned. "They did, however, discover his subscription to Majesty."

Doyle stifled a laugh. "Shoulda seen Stuart during the royal wedding, sir. Took one of those two-inch portable tellys with him everywhere. Bought a whole set of Charles and Di mugs- -"

"Aye, that's enough of that, 4.5."

Doyle nodded, though he couldn't quite keep the smile off his face.

"We aren't going to try getting someone inside the AFS again," Cowley went on. "Instead, we are going to get someone inside Lumley's bookshop."

Doyle raised his eyebrows. "Me, sir?"

"Red and Black Books has posted an opening for temporary Christmas help." Cowley handed him a newspaper. "They want someone who's knowledgeable about leftwing politics and literature. You're well read on the topic, as it is part of your job."

Doyle, who had liked the idea of escaping London for a spell, found his enthusiasm dwindling as he read the newspaper advertisement. "Yeah, I suppose so. But what's this other stuff?" He read from the paper. "'Should also be familiar with a variety of alternative subjects'?"

Cowley searched his pile of papers, then handed over a bookshop catalog. "According to this, the store stocks a wide range of books of an esoteric nature. Witchcraft, paganism, astrology, that sort of nonsense. Ah, and herbal tea remedies-- I'm sure you can handle that part."

Doyle rolled his eyes. He carefully avoided looking at Bodie, knowing full well his partner was sniggering. "But why should they hire me?"

"I've had an old friend of ours give the shop manager a ring, with a glowing, personal recommendation for you." Cowley smiled, and Doyle didn't like the smile one bit. "Fellow named Pellin."

Bodie laughed. Doyle turned to glare at him.

"The Gay Youth bloke?" Bodie grinned at Cowley.

"He happens to be a good friend of Lumley's." Cowley gave Bodie an admonishing stare, then turned his attention back to Doyle. "It should give you a decided edge. Along with your last name, that reddish hair of yours, and those green eyes."

"Huh?" Doyle was still trying to recover from the Pellin information.

"They prefer hiring Irish employees," Cowley explained. "You're close enough. Tell them your grandfather came from Ireland."

"He did."

"Then that should do nicely."

Doyle sighed. This jaunt to the country was growing less enticing by the minute. If he had to put up with one more sarky comment from Bodie, he'd wrap that damn scarf around his neck so tight he'd be seeing Christmas lights long before dark. Doyle risked another look at his partner, who had his nose buried in a file. Trust him to pretend to be interested just to make points with the Cow.

Bodie suddenly whistled, and whipped a photo from the file. "You bastard," he said to Doyle in a less than kind tone.

Doyle feigned a hurt expression. "What'd I do?"

"That's the shop manager, mate." Bodie gave the picture over.

Doyle studied the stunning, red-haired, and very buxom young lady's photo, and the information printed beneath. "Colleen Dunbar." He smiled. He felt much, much better. "And she's unmarried. Good."

Bodie calmly smiled back. "You happy now? Glad you're getting first crack at her, are you?" He leaned towards Doyle and whispered loudly, "Better tell her that Pellin's just a friend, hadn't you?"

Doyle blanched as the implication hit. "I don't have to pretend I'm gay to land this bloody job, do I, sir?"

"That shouldn't be necessary, Doyle."

Doyle sank back in his chair, letting out a long sigh. He returned to his study of Colleen Dunbar's charms.

"Here, give it over." Bodie reached across to snatch the photo back. "After all, I might need to interview Ms. Dunbar, isn't that right, sir?"

"Unfortunately, yes. She helps run Lumley's press."

Doyle scowled at Bodie, then reluctantly turned his attention to Cowley and more mundane details. "Will we have contact on this assignment?"

Cowley nodded. "Yes. You and Bodie can work together openly. Your story, Doyle, is that you've grown tired of London and wish to relocate to a smaller community. Bodie will be an old mate of yours who lives and works in Oxford. We've arranged for a flat to be let there in Bodie's name. He's offered you a place to stay until you get work."

"What?" Bodie gaped. "We have to share? Is it a two- bedroom flat?"

"What would a bachelor need with two bedrooms, Bodie?" Cowley had a satisfied smile.

Bodie sighed. "So much for Colleen Dunbar." He cocked an eyebrow at Doyle. "You're getting the sofa, mate."

"So kind of you." Doyle inwardly cursed the vagaries of the CI5 budget. Plenty of bachelors had two-bedroom flats--the Cow had simply gone the cheap route. "How long is this going to last?" he asked.

"Until you find out what the AFS is up to, and where those stolen weapons are. You have a job interview scheduled for tomorrow morning at ten. And you, Bodie, will be interviewing Richard Lumley at that time." He cast a searching look at Bodie. "I take it you can do a halfway competent job of passing as a journalist?"

"Yes, sir," Bodie replied, not sounding at all confident.

Cowley handed Bodie a piece of paper. "This is your new address. Report in to me when you have something worth reporting, and not before." He began putting his files in order, obviously dismissing them.

"Yes, sir," Doyle muttered. He gathered his pile of information and hugged it to his chest as he got up, in a hurry to get somewhere warm.

In the hallway, Bodie immediately accosted him. "This is all your fault."

"How do you reckon?"

Bodie tweaked one of Doyle's curls. "You and your Irish grandfather."

Doyle batted the hand away. "Don't give me that. Anyway, you're half-Irish." He grinned. "You're just upset 'cause I'll have first go at the delectable Colleen."

"Never fear," Bodie replied confidently. "I shan't be far behind you. And after you've thoroughly repulsed the young lady- -" He gave Doyle a disapproving once-over. "--I shall step in to provide the more attractive alternative."

"Yeah." Doyle smiled. "And then you can dine her, wine her, and bring her back home." He paused. "To our place." He chucked Bodie's chin. "Right, ducky?" He dashed off down the corridor.

"You--" Bodie chased after him. They bounded down the stairs and across the car park, Doyle deftly avoiding Bodie's lunges, until they collapsed against Doyle's car, laughing.

Doyle felt cheered, and warmer. "Bit of a lark this, really," he said, more optimistic again about the job. "Week or two in Oxford, nobody shootin' at us--well, probably nobody. You know what these groups are like." He dug his keys from his pocket.

"Yeah, all talk, no action," Bodie agreed as they clambered into the car. "Spend all their time arguing over who takes out the trash in a classless society. Bunch of idealistic, over- educated, insulated prats, that's what we're up against."

Doyle grinned. "You'll get along great with Lumley, I can tell."

"I can be polite if I really work at it, you know. Well, at least for an hour or so."

"Could've fooled me." Doyle ducked the light punch Bodie aimed at his shoulder. "Now, now, is that any way for me best mate to behave?" Doyle turned the motor on, and drove out of the car park, halting at the exit. "You reckon we should head up there tonight? Wouldn't want to miss me interview."

"Yeah," Bodie sighed, "guess we'd better." He rubbed his hands together. "Quick pint first?"

Doyle smiled. "Anytime." He turned the car in the direction of the nearest pub.

---

Chapter Two

As he pulled to a halt on the long, curving drive, Bodie wondered how many years of scrimping and saving on his CI5 salary it would take before he could afford a place even one-tenth the size of Richard Lumley's mansion. He studied the Rolls sitting there, and the chauffeur who was busy waxing it to a pristine shine, and slowly climbed out of his well-worn Capri. He decided being an ex-hippie commune leader wasn't such a bad thing after all.

Lumley's mansion stretched out forever in a basic T shape, all three stories of it. Bodie didn't know one architectural period from another, but the place looked similar to ones he'd seen gracing the covers of his last girlfriend's towering pile of Regency romance novels. Well-kept, too--even the lawns and hedges looked neatly manicured. It was all vaguely disappointing. Bodie had expected a thoroughly run-down place overgrown with flowers and bushes gone mad, with perhaps a leftover psychedelic paint job on the mansion's facade and a few battered, bumper-stickered, day-glo Volkswagen vans in the drive. Well, he thought as he rang the bell on the large oak door, there's still time. Haven't seen the inside yet.

Expecting a servant to answer, Bodie was mildly surprised when Lumley opened the door. At least, the man in the doorway looked exactly like the tall, silvery-blond, leanly aristocratic fellow in Lumley's most recent file photo, down to the lackadaisical, lopsided grin. He wore a plum-colored velvet jacket over black silk shirt and wine-colored slacks, and he sported a diamond earring. Bodie barely got his hand out and managed to make it through "Hello, I'm--" when Lumley grabbed the hand, shook it vigorously, and blurted, "The reporter! Yes, yes. Come in, man. Brody, isn't it? Lovely day. Hope you found the place all right. Traffic not bad, was it? This way, this way."

Lumley took off down the hall, but Bodie came to an abrupt stop in the large, semi-circular entranceway. Oh, yeah, the interior was different, all right. The entrance walls were covered with a mural of life-size nude figures, cavorting hordes of copulating flesh which stretched up to the twenty- foot ceiling. Bodie stared at the multitude of forms--men with men, women with women, even a few men with women--an orgy of nakedness and sex acts so complex he had to turn his head sideways to figure out what exactly was going on. His eyes widened at the size of the cocks on display. Surely they were way out of proportion to the bodies? Nobody was that big.

"There you are!" Lumley strode up to him. "Good, isn't it? Quite an amazing piece of work, really. Took months and months. Come along, then, dear boy." He took off again down the hall.

Bodie slowly followed, and stopped dead in the hallway. The entire length of it was flanked by sculptures and oil paintings- - all of men doing varied and acrobatic things with each other. "It's obscene," Bodie muttered, then drew close to one for a better look.

"Gotten lost again, Mr. Brady? Can't have that, now, can we?" Lumley tugged at his jacket sleeve. "Would you like a tour of the house? Lovely work, isn't it? It's all Geoffrey's, you know. He's done everything in the place--very talented. Very enthusiastic. Did you see the staircase?"

Bodie glanced over at the object in question. The newel posts were carved into giant penises. Think tolerant thoughts, he reminded himself. You're supposed to be a journalist doing a sympathetic write-up on Lumley. Pretend you like it. "Um, yes, it's quite amazing. And my name is Bodie, actually."

"Yes, of course it is. Come along, I'll show you the library."

This time Bodie was determined to keep his concentration firmly on following Lumley. They walked down to the first door off the right, which opened into a book-lined room. Bodie found it more calming. No sculptures, no paintings, simply books. Then he stumbled into two huge stacks of glossy magazines with photos of naked men splashed across the covers. As he straightened the piles, he glanced at the titles. Blow Job, Stud, Hot Shots He stopped looking at the titles and went over to the more sedate appearing bookcases. The first spine he encountered read Whipping Boys of Waterloo Station.

"I have the finest collection of gay erotica in Western Europe," Lumley said. "Did you bring a tape recorder?"

Bodie blinked. "What? Oh, yeah." Calm down, he ordered himself fiercely. Control, composure, professionalism. It's just a bloody job. He set his bag down and dug the small recorder out, and tried to focus on the file information he'd studied. "The fellow you mentioned--that would be Geoffrey Evans?"

"Hm?" Lumley had wandered over to a huge writing desk, where he idly flipped through a stack of papers. "Geoffrey? Yes, that's right. The artist. He lives here. I'm sure you'll meet him, he's always about. He's my companion, of course. I'm sure he'll like you. I thought we paid the plumbing bill."

Bodie sighed and flicked on the voice-activated machine. "We can start the interview now if you're ready, Mr. Lumley."

Lumley tossed the bill aside and looked up, grinning. "Oh, do call me Richard. Everyone does. Come along, let me show you the kitchen. Susan is making some fresh applesauce. I'm sure you'd enjoy some. Very healthy. Susan lives here too, you know. Been here since the old days, takes care of the animals, helps with the farm. You do want to see the herb beds, don't you? Only a few winter things growing now, can't really see anything, but it's where the commune used to be, and that's what you're here for, isn't it? Bit of Sixties nostalgia, is it, Mr., um, what's your given name?"

"Just Bodie is fine." He followed Lumley out and down the hall to a massive kitchen, bigger than his own flat. A stocky, vaguely forty-ish woman with waist-length gray hair stood over a bubbling pot which smelled strongly of apples.

"Susie!" Lumley sounded pleased, but noticeably kept his distance from the woman. "This is our reporter, come to talk about the good old days." He took one nervous step towards the stove. "Is it ready yet?"

"It is not." She turned a dour face towards Bodie. "The good old days? Hmpf. Load of whiners, that's what we had here. All ran back to their homes first time the crops failed. Couldn't give up their tellys and their central heating in the name of the revolution, no, not them. Bunch of wet, would-be do- gooders with no fucking balls--"

Bodie cleared his throat. "You lived on the commune?"

"I was one of the first And I'm still here." She turned back to her pot. "Load of bleeding-heart rich-kid twits--"

"I'd like to talk to you more some time, Miss, um--"

"Solidarity."

"Right. Whatever you want to talk about, that's fine--"

"That's my name, you idiot. Ms. Susan Solidarity."

Bodie struggled to maintain his bland expression. Think liberal thoughts. Or better yet, ask a noncontroversial question. "Mr. Lum--I mean, Richard, tells me you keep animals?"

She glowered at him. "I do not keep them. They live here."

Bodie gritted his teeth. No wonder Lumley was standing off in the far corner. Bracing himself for another round of abuse, Bodie prepared to ask Ms. Solidarity which sorts of animals chose to live on the estate. But the question was at least partially answered by the sound of deep, excited barking.

"Let me show you the rest of the house!" Lumley suddenly shouted. "Quickly!" He scurried towards the kitchen door, but it was too late. Three Irish wolfhounds crashed through the outer door, sending it thudding into the wall. One made straight for Lumley, snarling, while the other two cornered Bodie against the worktop. With tails wagging and tongues drooling, they leaped up to plant huge, muddy paws on his shoulders and slobbered his face.

"Down!" Lumley yelled, "Get back!"

Susan calmly lifted the lid of her pot and stirred the contents, humming.

Bodie shoved the tape recorder between his face and the massive tongues. The dogs immediately developed an intense desire to clean his hands for him.

"Try inching your way towards the door," Lumley hissed.

Think kind thoughts, Bodie told himself. Animals are our friends. "Stop licking me, you stupid buggers!" he shouted.

Susan stopped humming. She raised one menacing eyebrow and an applesauce-coated spoon at Bodie. "There's no need to be rude to the poor creatures, Mr. Bodie. They are only behaving in their natural way."

Bodie was relieved to find that the Irish wolfhounds' natural way also involved a keen interest in spoons, for the instant it was out of the pot, all three beasts galloped towards the stove and made for Susan's up-stretched arm. Bodie didn't waste a moment. He bounded for the door, colliding with Lumley in his escape. They stumbled together into the hallway, and as Lumley reached to close the door, Bodie caught a glimpse of three huge dogs happily fighting over the spoon while a scowling Susan Solidarity rubbed at her arm.

"Phew." Lumley got the door firmly shut, and leaned against it. "Damn dogs." He frowned. "I mean, of course I love all animals. They're such innocent creatures, and mankind has done nothing but abuse them for centuries. But for some reason those particular animals simply do not like me."

"They liked me," Bodie replied. He wiped at his face with his jacket sleeve, and checked to make sure the recorder was still working.

"I'm so sorry about that, dear boy. Would you like a wash?"

After the decor he'd been exposed to so far, Bodie was not eager to discover what the Lumley mansion bathrooms might contain. "No, no, I'm fine."

"Good, good. Lovely animals, wolfhounds, really. Just a tad enthusiastic. This way." He bounded off towards the main entrance. "Let me show you the upper floors. That's where the press is. You do want to see the press, don't you? Started it back in the commune days, we did. You know, somewhere in the house is an entire room stuffed with memorabilia from the commune, but I've no idea where it's got to. Anyway, you'll want to see what we're doing now, won't you? Of course you will. We're printing lots of pamphlets on world peace and government abuses and war and Ireland and women's rights and free speech and free love--"

Lumley rattled on, and Bodie nodded. They reached the sweeping staircase, and Bodie automatically put his hand on the newel post before stepping up. Belatedly remembering what it was carved into, he glanced down to find his hand gripping a detailed cock head.

Lumley smiled. "Delightful, aren't they? Geoffrey is very keen on realism in art." He took off up the stairs.

Bodie quickly removed his hand, wondered idly what exactly one would put a prick that large into, decided he must be going ever so slightly mad, cursed Cowley, and followed Lumley.

---

They viewed the press, and Bodie actually managed to get in a few pertinent questions about Lumley's political acquaintances, not that he got any sensible answers. Then they went on to a tour of Geoffrey's studio, which Bodie could have lived without, the only good part being the fact that Geoffrey wasn't there. Afterwards they made a rambling outdoor foray, covering dormant rosebush beds, dried-up, leaf- strewn fountains, and the scraggly winter herb farm. They perused the outside of the summerhouse, which Lumley claimed was "extra special," but as it was locked and he had no idea where the key was, it was left for another visit.

The tour ended back at the house, where Lumley headed him towards the wine cellar. "You look a tad fraught, my boy," he added. "Would you care for a taste? It's a truly superb collection, been in the family for simply ages. I'm sure we can find something suitable. This way."

They reached the musty, dark depths of the cellar, lit by two low-watt bulbs hanging from the ceiling. Rows of bottles stretched along the length of the room for a good twenty feet.

"Got a lovely Bordeaux somewhere down here--just tried it out the other night, I'm sure you'll like it--ah, yes, here it is." Lumley pulled a bottle from its nesting place. "Now, there are glasses down here somewhere." He wandered off.

Bodie leaned against the cool brick wall facing the rows and rows of bottles. This was a waste of time. He needed to talk to Lumley's friends, not Lumley. The scatterbrained fool wouldn't recognize a terrorist if one walked up and handed him a pipe bomb.

Lumley returned, clinking two glasses together. "Found a corkscrew, too. Very handy." He deftly uncorked the bottle and poured out the wine.

"Thanks." Bodie sipped at the red liquid. "Mmm. Quite good."

"I don't drink that much, of course, but it would be such a shame not to make use of this. And I do like to have it for entertaining my friends."

Bodie leaped at the opening. "I'd love to talk with some of your friends, especially ones from the old days. To get a fuller picture, you see."

"Yes, I've been thinking about that."

Bodie nearly choked on his drink at the concept of Lumley thinking. He did hope the fellow hadn't strained his gray matter too hard. "Hm?"

"Well, you want to interview my friends, and no doubt you wish to do so as quickly and conveniently as possible, yes? Yes, of course you do. Then you should simply come out here for the house party I'm having over the long Christmas weekend. There will be quite a few people coming whom I'm certain you'd be interested in, and I know they'll all be delighted to talk about the old days. Simple, isn't it? Do say you'll be my guest, Mr. Brody."

"It's Bo--ah, hell, it doesn't matter. Are you sure I won't be putting you out?"

"Nonsense, dear boy. I absolutely adore having lots of houseguests about. It'll be great fun. Do say you'll come." Lumley smiled and winked. "And do bring along any special friend you might have, too."

Bodie frowned. "Well, I don't really--"

"Oh, come, come, say yes and worry over the details later."

Bodie had no intention of turning the idiot down; Cowley would never forgive him. He simply hadn't wished to appear too eager. He shrugged. "Yeah, okay. It does seem like a good idea. Thank you."

"You're quite welcome. Anything I can do to help you out, you let me know."

Bodie whirled at the sound of movement, automatically tensing. He relaxed when Lumley called out.

"Geoffrey! What are you doing back there?"

Out of the shadows of the cellar appeared a man in his late thirties, with a stocky, muscular build, and straight dark hair brushed back off his forehead. He wore jeans and a blue work shirt. As he strode up to them, he gave Lumley a warm smile. "I was merely looking for something." He held up a bottle. "And I found it. Didn't mean to disturb you." He turned to Bodie. "Is this our journalist?"

"Bodie." Bodie offered a hand, and Geoffrey gave it a firm shake.

"I've invited Mr. Bodie to join the house party," Lumley said.

"Yes, I heard."

Bodie wondered if Geoffrey Evans made a habit of listening in on Lumley's conversations.

"You know," Geoffrey said, turning to Lumley, "you were planning to see the agency today about the extra household help for the party. Perhaps you'd best be going--you know it always takes a long time to screen the files for suitable people."

"Yes, yes, you're so right, and I do need to see to that personally." He gave Bodie an exasperated sigh. "Sometimes they send people who simply aren't happy working here."

Can't imagine why, Bodie thought. "Don't let me keep you, then."

"Oh, but I did want to give you some of my tea to take with you--"

Geoffrey was already ushering Lumley towards the stairs. "I'll have it put in his car, all right? And I'll see Mr. Bodie out. No need to worry." He gave Lumley a light pat on the back. After Lumley had vanished upstairs, Geoffrey came back to where Bodie waited, and gave him a long, piercing look. "Writing an article, are you?"

"No, a book, actually."

"On what?"

"The history of twentieth-century British communes." Bodie felt distinctly uncomfortable under Geoffrey's penetrating, dark- eyed gaze. "You were here then, weren't you?"

"Briefly. I met Richard a year before the commune broke apart. There are people who will tell you it broke up because of me."

"And why would they say that?"

"Perhaps because I was honest about my feelings. And I felt that most of them were nothing but leeches, taking advantage of Richard's generous nature. I don't like it when people take advantage of him, Mr. Bodie."

"Yes." Bodie smiled sweetly. "I can see that would be a bad idea." He was happier now that he'd figured out Geoffrey's angle; the man was simply protecting Lumley. "He is very generous, isn't he?"

"Indeed. It's a miracle he isn't penniless."

Bodie was quite sure that Geoffrey kept a close eye on Lumley's purse-strings. "Doesn't he make a good income off his teas?"

"Yes. It makes up for the money he sinks into that press of his, and the bookshop. But they make him happy, and that's what counts."

Bodie nodded. He drank down the last of his wine. "And is that what makes you happy? Seeing that he's happy?"

Geoffrey quirked an eyebrow. "Is that part of your interview?"

"No. I'm just curious. It's in my nature."

"I see. Well, I think you'll find that I'm quite curious myself, Mr. Bodie. Here, let me take that." He took the wine glass and set it aside. "Let's get you that tea now, shall we?" He waved Bodie towards the stairs.

---

As he was leaving the mansion, Bodie noticed, for the first time, that the entire Lumley drive was done in the shape of a giant penis.

---

Cowley knew how to cut corners, all right. Third-floor flat, no lift, whole thing looked as if it'd been thrown together out of cardboard by the village idiot. Bodie heaved a sigh of relief as he dropped the huge box of Lumley's Long-Life Teas onto the rickety kitchen table, then waited to see if the table would fall apart. It held.

"Forty pounds of herbal tea." Bodie shook his head. Why couldn't Lumley have given him a present of Bordeaux? He needed something to relax with after a morning of Lumley and his Mansion of Giant Pricks. Food wouldn't be a bad idea. He glanced at the counter, where a bowl of bananas perched. No. That wouldn't do. Bodie opened the fridge. A bag of sausages lay on the top rack, cucumbers on the middle. He slammed the door shut.

A little lie-down, that's what he really needed. Bodie went into the living room for a brief rest on the sofa. Keeping one's eyes closed was really the best way to handle the living room- -it was difficult to look for very long at the muddy-brown shag carpeting, which Bodie was certain hadn't originally been that color, nor were the blue-and-orange flowered, peeling wallpaper and bright red, cracked, fake-leather sofa inspiring. The windows were so thin he could see frost on the inside of the panes, and the drapes looked as if they'd been made from worn, stained tablecloths.

He couldn't get the steam heater to work. Cheap CI5 flat. Bodie tapped idly at the pipes for a minute, then gave up and went along to the bedroom, whose decor failed to match anything else in the place, with its faded, creaky wood floor and green wall paint of a shade Bodie had never seen outside of hospitals and public toilets. At least the heater in there came on fine, though with a good deal of clanking and hissing. He took off his shoes and jacket and lay down on the bed, taking a few deep, calming breaths. No more thinking about Lumley's mansion, no more encounters with bananas, sausages, or cucumbers. One more phallic object and he would lose it.

It wasn't Lumley's shrine to manhood that made him a bit tense. Someone who got easily flustered at unusual environments wouldn't last long in CI5. No, the thing that caused his edginess was what that phallic house made him think about.

Doyle.

Bodie closed his eyes. How long had he been having those thoughts about his partner? Three, four months now? He'd caught himself eyeing that slim arse with a sudden intensity, not to mention the tight pull of Doyle's jeans across his crotch, or the brief, tantalizing glimpses of chest hair.... He didn't know why he wanted Doyle. But he did.

He'd firmly buried the feelings, kept the errant thoughts at bay, and continued playing his role of CI5's top womanizer. He thought he'd done a good job, and he kept telling himself it was merely a passing phase, that it would go away in time.

Then he'd suddenly been inundated by images of naked male flesh against male flesh, cocks jutting everywhere he looked, visions of rippling torsos, well-muscled thighs, strength meeting hardness...and he thought of Doyle. Bodie shuddered as a tingle of arousal shot through his groin. Shit. Maybe it was time for a shower.

The sound of a key turning in the front door made him groan. Bloody hell. Doyle. Bodie heard the front door open, accompanied by cheerful whistling. Great. Not only was Doyle back, he was in a good mood.

Bodie struggled to his feet and steeled his nerves as he walked slowly to the bedroom door. He was not going to let this nonsense get to him. He valued his sense of self-control very highly, and he was damn well going to maintain it. Bodie flung the door open. And got a bottle of champagne thrust towards his face.

"Oi, I got me a job!" Doyle shouted.

Bodie reeled back. "What?"

Doyle stood in the hallway, staring at him. "I said, I got the job--you okay, mate?" He lowered the champagne bottle.

"I'm fine." Bodie pointed at the offending object. "What's that in aid of?"

"Just want to celebrate, that's all. You sure you're all right?" Doyle started into the room.

"Yeah, I'm fine." Bodie forestalled Doyle's entrance by pushing past him and on down the hall. He strode into the kitchen to start a pot of coffee.

Doyle ambled up behind him and set the bottle on the counter with a distinct thud. Hands on hips, he stared at Bodie's coffee-making efforts. "Don't know what you'd want that for when I went to the trouble to get champagne."

"I'm a little tired, that's all." Bodie turned to give him a reassuring smile, took one look at the tilt of Doyle's hips and the tightly stretched jeans fabric and instantly turned his smile into a frown. "Why the big production? I thought the bookshop job was set up."

"Mostly, but you can never be sure. Didn't know you needed a good excuse to drink." Doyle yanked a kitchen cloth off a wall hook, nearly pulling the hook with it, and set to work on the bottle. A minute later the sound of the stopper going made a loud pop. Doyle grabbed a nearby mug and filled it.

Bodie gave up on the coffee. He snatched up a glass and held it out.

Doyle grinned and poured champagne into the glass. "Cheers." He clinked his mug against it. Then he nodded at the table. "What's in the box?"

"Your Christmas present."

"Very funny." Doyle pried open the lid. "Ah. Had a good time at Lumley's, did you?"

"Sort of."

"Hey, I like this kind--the Five Spice Special--and there's loads of it in here. You don't need any of this, do you?"

"Told you," Bodie said, "it's your present. Can't help it if you opened it early. What'd you get for me this year?"

"Half a bottle of champagne," Doyle replied.

Bodie smiled. "Sorry about being touchy earlier. Had a wearing morning. Good thing about the bookshop. Did you have a good time with Colleen Dunbar?"

"She was okay," Doyle answered vaguely.

"Ah ha. Didn't she take to your charming ways?"

"Didn't really have time to find out," Doyle muttered. "She spent twenty minutes on the interview, hired me on the spot, and put me to work."

"It's a rough life." Bodie grinned, trying to envision Doyle the Bookshop Clerk. "What'd she make you do, then?"

"Had to memorize the stock." Doyle rubbed at his neck. "Got a crick from turning me head sideways to read the bloody titles. Do you know how many different books have been written about the power of pyramids?"

Bodie dutifully shook his head.

"Too damn many. Big sellers, though, Colleen told me. Outdoes Chairman Mao's little red book by ten to one."

Remembering what Geoffrey had said about the shop not being profitable, Bodie asked, "Is that why they branched out? Politics not making enough money?"

"Yeah. Colleen didn't sound terribly happy about it, either. She'd much rather see nothing but leftwing propaganda. But it was losing money."

"That's what Geoffrey Evans told me, too."

"He's behind the change," Doyle replied. "That's what Colleen said. Or to put it her way, 'it's all the fault of that damn lover of his'. She doesn't mince words. Anyway, he made them stock the astrology stuff, and the UFO books, witchcraft, paganism, tarot cards, you name it--started around two years ago, and it's working. They might even make a profit this year."

"Makes sense. I'll tell you one thing--Evans is very keen on watching after Lumley's interests. 'Course, somebody ought to, 'cause Lumley is busy living in Cloud-Cuckoo-Land."

"Oh, yeah?" Doyle picked up the champagne bottle and headed towards the living room. "Not busy harboring terrorists, then, is he?"

Bodie followed, joining him on the sofa. "Not bloody likely."

"What about Evans?"

"Don't know. Doesn't seem political. The only political one there was a commune hold-out named Susan Solidarity, if you can believe that."

"I do. She's in the files somewhere." Doyle poured more champagne. "Most of 'em changed their names when they moved to the commune. 'Course, most of 'em changed 'em back again."

"Yeah." Bodie gulped down his champagne, hoping the alcohol would warm him up. "So you have to go off to work early tomorrow, do you?"

Doyle sighed. "Nine o'clock." He gave Bodie a suspicious look. "What are you going to be up to?"

"Thought I'd pop round to the local newspaper, have a look through their files, see if Lumley or his friends turn up. And in the afternoon, I'll see about interviewing Ms. Dunbar. In the meantime, what are we doing about supper?"

"There's a pub two blocks down that looks all right." Doyle stood and crossed to the heater. "Why is it so cold in here?"

"'Cause that thing doesn't work."

"What?" Doyle tapped at the pipes. "What's wrong with it?"

"How should I know? The one in the bedroom works just fine."

"Good." Doyle sat down again. "'Cause there's no way I'm sleepin' out here tonight."

Bodie paled. The last thing he needed right now was to share a bed with Doyle. "It's not that bad. Use some extra covers."

Doyle turned wide eyes on him. "It's bloody well freezin' out here, mate."

"Yeah, well, the bed's a bit small--"

"Is not. What's the matter with you?"

"Nothing." Bodie was wrong about the last thing he needed. The last thing he needed was a suspicious Doyle. "Just didn't think you'd want to put up with me snoring."

"I'll put up with a herd of ruddy elephants snoring if it means I get to be warm."

"Yeah, okay." Bodie shivered; it was freezing in there. "Supper? We can always finish the champagne later."

"Good idea." Doyle set his mug down, stood, and stretched, displaying more of his lithe muscles than Bodie cared to think about, and he tried very hard not to be affected by it. Doyle relaxed, put his hands on his hips, and looked at him patiently. "You comin', or what?"

Bodie gritted his teeth. It was going to be a long night.

---

As it turned out, Bodie survived, though barely. When they climbed into bed that night, he scrunched over to the edge as far as he could get and turned his back to Doyle, who began snoring thirty seconds after his head hit the pillow.

Bodie lay there fitfully, unable to sleep, until he finally gave up his grip on the bed edge and rolled onto his back. Some time later, as he drifted in and out of a light doze, Bodie felt Doyle shift, and then suddenly Doyle rolled towards him, arms and legs flinging about randomly. An arm flopped across Bodie's chest, a leg nudged against his. Doyle began making the strangest damn noises Bodie had ever heard--a series of weird little whimpers and odd groans. Bodie gently dislodged the arm, all the while wishing he could draw Doyle even closer, and knowing that he couldn't. He wondered what on earth had gotten into him to make him feel so physically affectionate towards someone who flopped about in bed like a crazed octopus. At last Doyle gave out a tiny moan and rolled back onto his side, leaving Bodie in relative peace. For a while.

Three more times during the night Doyle did his octopus imitation, and each time a drowsy Bodie carefully moved the offending limbs off his body.

Bodie survived. But he never did get much sleep.

---

Chapter Three

"And here's your change, sir. Thank you for shopping at Red and Black Books. Happy Christmas." Doyle's smile lasted until the customer was out the door, then he let out a long- suffering sigh. When would these fools leave him alone?

He was the only one there. Colleen had stepped out for lunch and her office was beckoning to him. He wanted to snoop so badly, but all these bloody people kept coming into the bookshop, wanting to buy books, for chrissakes.

Three more customers idled about the shelves. There was no way he could get into the office now. Doyle resigned himself to doing it some other time, and put the fake smile back on his face as yet another holiday shopper entered.

Bet Bodie wasn't having such a taxing day. Lazy sod had been snoring away when Doyle had risen at seven-thirty. And he'd been snoring away when Doyle left an hour later. Could still be sleeping for all he knew. Why did Bodie get all the luck on this assignment? Wasn't fair.

"Do you have the latest Castaneda?" A customer broke into Doyle's reverie.

"Yes, ma'am." Doyle led her to the proper aisle. "Down at the bottom there."

"Oh, dear me. What's he doing next to Lobsang Rampa? I don't think that's terribly appropriate. Rampa should be in the Asian Religion section, young man."

"Sorry. I'll have a word with the manager, shall I?"

"Well, I think you should. This place has always been disorganized. Edgar Cayce in the UFO books, witchcraft lumped in with paganism, vampires and werewolves in the ghost section and zombies in a completely different place. It's a disgrace."

Doyle nodded. "Yes, I expect you're right." He made his escape, returning gratefully to the cash register. He supposed it could be worse. Bodie could walk in at any moment, for instance. After all, he had said he wanted to interview Colleen. The sneaky bastard didn't really want to interview her, of course. The sneaky bastard wanted to make a move on her. Well, Doyle would have to see about that. If he could manage to make a move first, that might hamper Bodie's plans ever so slightly.

He waited patiently for his boss to return from lunch. Not long after she did, his opportunity arose. The other temporary help person, a young woman named Katherine, arrived for her part-time afternoon shift. Doyle happily turned over the cash register to her and went along to Colleen's office.

"Come in, come in." She sat with her feet up on her desk, dressed in jeans and a soft, flowing, white silk blouse, her long red hair cascading over her shoulders. "Close the door, Ray. What is it?"

"Well, I had a complaint today," he began as he glanced round the room, searching for something against which he could lounge. The filing cabinet was too far away, and the only other furniture was a tea trolley and a long padded bench. He made do with putting his hands on his hips and tilting them.

Colleen looked up from the papers she'd been perusing. She smiled. "Don't see how anyone could complain about you."

That was quick. "It wasn't me, exactly. Was the way the books are arranged."

"Oh, that." She swung her legs off the desk, put the papers down, and stood. "Would you like some tea?" She crossed to the trolley and poured out two cups.

"Yes, please. It's been a long morning."

"Sugar? Milk?"

"Just sugar."

She handed him a cup, then sat on the bench, patting it. "Sit down. Much more comfortable."

"Thanks." He relaxed on the bench beside her. This was going well. Poor Bodie didn't stand a chance. He sipped at the hot, sweet liquid. "Um, that's good. Not drinking Lumley's Long- Life Teas, I see."

"Can't stand the stuff." As she drank, she gazed up at him through long lashes. "You know what I'd really like to talk about, Ray?" She smiled and let her hand drop casually onto his thigh.

Doyle smiled back. She was his for the taking, all right. "No. What do you want to talk about?"

Colleen gazed lovingly at him. "The oppression of the lower class."

"What?" Doyle nearly dropped his teacup.

"The lower classes are being systematically abused by the people who control our school systems," Colleen replied. She gave Doyle's thigh a light squeeze. "And something has to be done about it. Don't you agree?"

"Well, I suppose so." Doyle gulped down more tea. "But I'm not sure what you mean."

Colleen set her cup down and snuggled close to him, her thigh solidly against his. "Beatrix Potter," she purred.

Doyle wondered how he could go about dumping this madwoman on Bodie. "Me mum used to read Beatrix Potter books to me," he replied cautiously.

"And I'll bet it made you feel bad, didn't it?" Her voice dropped to a sultry whisper. "All those middle-class bunnies in their nice, comfortable, middle-class homes with their nice middle-class furniture and their nice, clean, middle-class clothes--how did you feel when you looked around at your poor, shabby, lower-class surroundings, and your poor, threadbare clothes? Inferior, that's how." She leaned in closer to put her hand on Doyle's chest, sliding it beneath the shirt fabric where he'd left it unbuttoned. "School libraries should ban all such works," she breathed huskily. "It's a crime to force those feelings on poor, innocent children. Don't you agree? I could tell when I first set eyes on you that you were the kind of man who would understand the class struggle." She found a nipple and pinched it. "And I find that very sexy."

Doyle held onto his teacup for dear life. He had second thoughts about dumping Colleen on Bodie. Even Bodie didn't deserve this The question was, how was he going to get out of her clutches? There had to be a way. Cowley hadn't said anything about having to sleep with this nutter. And dammit, he had fond memories of Beatrix Potter.

He had to put a permanent halt to her advances now. There was no telling where it would lead otherwise. Three-hour post-coital diatribes on the evils of Enid Blyton? Doyle shivered. Christ, how was he going to put her off without making her angry? After all, she was his employer, and Cowley would kill him if he messed up the op by rejecting a lunatic female.

"You're so attractive." Colleen nibbled his ear. "At first, when we got the reference from Pellin, I thought you might be gay, but then I saw you, and I knew that--"

"I am gay!" Doyle clutched desperately at the straw. He scooted away from her down the bench.

She straightened, frowning. "Come now, you must at least be bi."

"No," Doyle protested. "Not at all." He inched further along the bench.

"Well." She crossed her arms. "I'm not sure I believe you. Maybe you just don't like me."

This was going from bad to horribly awful. The last thing Doyle needed was to lose his job on his first day. "No, really, I do like you. But I am gay."

"Have you got a boyfriend, then?"

"Yeah." Doyle smiled. He'd thought of a way to save Bodie from her as well. "That's why I moved up from London. He lives here. We got tired of commuting. Here, I've got a picture." He set down his cup and dug out his billfold. A year ago, at the CI5 Christmas party, McCabe had gone round snapping candid shots, and had got one of a very drunken Bodie with his arm draped around the shoulders of a very tipsy Doyle, and they looked quite happy together. Doyle had talked McCabe out of it, intending to use it somehow someday to embarrass his partner, and had stuffed it in his billfold and forgotten it. Until now. He took it out and showed it to Colleen. "That's him. Bodie. He's a journalist. Handsome bloke, isn't he?"

Colleen sniffed. "If you like the type."

"Oh, I do." Doyle took his photo back and tucked it away. "We've been together six years now."

"Well, I'm sure I'm very happy for you," Colleen said briskly. She stood and collected the teacups. "You'd best get back to work."

"At the register again?" Doyle didn't relish an afternoon of demanding customers.

"No, Katherine can handle that. I'll show you the stock room. We've got plenty of mail orders that need filling. It should keep you busy."

"Good." Doyle followed her out of the office and into the back of the shop, glad that he wouldn't have to wish a happy Christmas to anyone else that day, and more than pleased, for once in his life, to have successfully escaped romance.

---

Bodie whistled as he entered Red and Black Books. He was looking forward to teasing Doyle about his new position. Then he saw the girl behind the register and stopped whistling. Where the hell was Doyle? Larking about, no doubt. Lazy sod. Bodie ambled about the shop, checking the aisles. No luck. Well, fine. The teasing could always wait. Meanwhile, he wanted to have a go at Colleen Dunbar. Maybe a bit of harmless bird-chasing would take his mind off the attractions of that partner of his.

"Afternoon." He strode up to the register and flashed a big smile at the girl there. "Can you tell me if Ms. Dunbar is in? I'd like to see her about a possible interview for a book I'm writing."

"Yes, she should be in her office." She led Bodie to the closed door and knocked. It opened to reveal a tall young woman with long red hair, as pretty as her file photo. As Bodie introduced himself, he concentrated on his chat-up techniques, including the warm, disarming smile, steady eye contact, and softer, respectful tone of voice.

She waved him into her office and shut the door, offering him a bench seat. "Would you like a cup of tea?"

"Yes, please." He turned down milk and sugar.

"You're Ray's--" there was a pause, "--friend?"

"Yeah, that's right." What the hell had Doyle been telling her? And why? Bodie took the cup as she joined him on the bench.

"He said you were a journalist, but he didn't say you wanted to interview me. What's it all about?"

"I'm doing a book on communes," Bodie replied. He casually leaned back, splaying his thighs. "Been researching Richard Lumley."

"Ah. But I was never part of the commune--too young."

"Yes, I know. Part of the book will be a 'where are they now' chapter, and I'd like to put in something about Lumley's press. He still puts out pamphlets and sells them through the shop, doesn't he?"

"Quite a lot of them, yes. But he could tell you a lot more about that than I could."

Bodie shifted close to her and gave her a long, penetrating look. "Don't you help with the press?"

"Not really. Sometimes I work on page layouts and design, nothing special. I certainly don't write anything."

She was definitely keeping her distance, and maintaining a cool demeanor. Bodie searched for something else to ask her, anything. "Can you tell me what else Lumley gets up to these days?"

Her lips formed a little pout. "Well, he stops by the shop from time to time, and he spends quite a lot of time working on fund raisers and other events for the Sexual Tolerance League."

Bodie batted his long eyelashes at her. He wanted a little sexual tolerance, and he wanted it right about now. "How fascinating. I'd love to talk with you more about all this, though it would be nice if we could do so somewhere more...elegant. Perhaps I could talk you into dinner?" He leaned in closer to turn his most sensual gaze on her.

"I beg your pardon?" She arched an eyebrow.

"Fine restaurant," Bodie persevered, "a good bottle of wine, candlelight--I'll bet your hair looks lovely in the candlelight."

She stood abruptly. "I think you can leave now, Mr. Bodie. And I've a good mind to tell Ray what you've been doing."

Bodie blinked. "Just a bit of harmless fun--"

"Fun? You were trying to chat me up!"

"Well, yeah." No point in denying it. But what was she getting so upset about?

"Of all the rude--you just get out of here! That's no way to treat Ray. He's such a lovely man. How dare you try to cheat on him like this!"

"What?" Bodie dropped his tea cup, and the liquid streamed across the carpet. He jumped up. "I'm sorry--"

"Sorry, hell. Just get out!" She opened the door. "Now!"

Bodie dashed out of the office, and the door slammed shut behind him. He stood numbly in the corridor. What the hell? Cheating on Doyle? Cheating on him? Bodie shook his head. There was only one way to clear up the confusion. He stalked back to the cash register to demand Doyle's whereabouts.

"I think he's in the stockroom," the girl told him.

"Right. And where's that?"

"At the far end of the corridor. But customers aren't allowed-- "

Bodie was long gone. He stormed down to the door at the end of the corridor, ignored the Employees Only sign, and pushed it open. Doyle stood at a work table, surrounded by shelves of books and towering boxes. He was busy stuffing books in boxes, ticking off titles on an order form, and barely glanced up at Bodie's entrance. "'ello," he said casually. "What're you doin' back here?"

"I'm looking for an answer." Bodie planted himself on the opposite side of the table, hands on top, leaning menacingly towards his partner. "I've just had a little talk with your boss."

"Oh, yeah?" Doyle didn't look up from his work. "You doing your interview?"

"Among other things." Bodie slapped at the order form in Doyle's hands. "Will you bloody well look at me?"

Doyle looked up. "What the hell's up with you?"

"Either your boss is one strange lady, or there's something you haven't told me, sunshine, 'cause I just got thrown out of her office, and I want to know why, and I want to know now." He poked at the books for emphasis, knocking the top two off the pile.

"Oi, watch it, mate." Doyle crossed his arms and glared back at Bodie. "What did you do to her?"

"Nothing! Only tried a little chat up. Nothing threatening, that's for sure."

"Oh." Doyle suddenly paled, and he shifted a bit from foot to foot. "Think I need to go take a leak--" He started towards the door.

"Hold it." Bodie put a world of threat into the two words.

Doyle halted. He gave Bodie a weak smile. "She's a bit weird, Colleen is."

"So are you. Keep talking."

"Well," Doyle let out a long sigh. "Well, she's got some very odd notions of foreplay, you see." He scratched his head. "I tried it on with her earlier today."

Bodie tapped his foot. "I'm still listening. This better be good, Doyle."

Doyle inched closer to the door. "She kept going on about the class struggle, Bodie. All about middle-class people ruining lower-class kids in school. She wouldn't shut up. And she kept coming on to me the whole time. It was 'orrible."

"Really? Make me believe it."

"It was, I swear. I couldn't take it. Didn't want to have anything to do with her. She's nuts. You wouldn't want to go out with her. It would be criminal to let you--"

"Couldn't let me decide for myself, could you?" Bodie advanced on him. "What the hell did you tell her?"

Doyle made another move towards the door. Bodie blocked his way. "Nothing," Doyle muttered. "Just that I wasn't, um, available."

"And why is that, Ray?" Bodie backed Doyle up against a tall shelf overflowing with books. "Why aren't you available, hm? Already got someone, is that right? But you didn't tell her you had a girlfriend, did you?"

"Not exactly, no." Doyle gulped. "She happened to mention Pellin, and I thought, well, it wouldn't do any harm to get out of it by pretending to be, um, you know--"

"You told her we're lovers!"

"Yeah." Doyle nodded. "Sorry."

Bodie put his hands over his eyes, gritted his teeth, and counted slowly to ten. When he lowered his hands, he saw Doyle staring at him, face flushed, eyes wide, biting his lower lip. The books on the shelf behind him were teetering precariously. "Sorry," Bodie repeated. "You're sorry." Of all the stupid lies Doyle could have come up with, why did it have to be that one? "You realize she'll probably tell Lumley?"

"So? He won't mind."

"I bloody well know that!" Bodie jabbed at Doyle's shoulder. "You realize he's invited me to his Christmas house party? You realize he wants me to bring along a guest? Well, now he'll expect me to bring you! As my 'special' friend!"

"Sorry." Doyle tried to move away from the shelf.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"I'm trying not to get me head bashed by books!" Doyle shoved past Bodie and strode back to the work table. "I was only doing you a favor, anyway, so stop getting hot and bothered."

"A favor?" Bodie followed, stopping a couple of feet away, hands on hips. "You were doing me a favor by telling everybody I'm queer?"

"I didn't mean to. It just popped out. Got desperate--I'm telling you, she's a right nutter. And what's wrong with me going to Lumley's party, anyway? We're supposed to be investigating his friends--why not do it together?"

"Because they'll all think that we're...that you and I are...well, you know." Bodie fumbled, unable to talk about the wretched mess, especially as sex with Doyle had been on his mind so much of late. Of all the idiotic situations. "Why'd you tell her it was me, anyway? You could've made somebody up."

"You were handy," Doyle replied. He grinned.

"Oh, very funny." Bodie shook his head. "You're going to suffer for this, Doyle. Believe me." He turned and stormed out of the room without looking back.

---

Doyle counted out the last of the one-pound notes and jotted the number down. Then he used the calculator to add everything up, comparing the total to the one on the register receipt. "Fifty pence short."

"Do it again," Colleen said.

It was a little after half past five and the shop was closed. Katherine had left and Doyle was back at the register, where Colleen was showing him how to balance the till. He'd started the laborious process of counting the coins all over again when the phone rang.

"Red and Black Books. I'm afraid we're closed--"

"It's me." Bodie's voice sounded distinctly chilly.

"Oh. You still pissed off?"

"I've had the repair man in to the flat," Bodie said in brisk, clipped tones, "to fix the living room heater. You can sleep on the sofa tonight." He rang off.

"Same to you, mate," Doyle muttered as he slammed down the receiver.

"That was Bodie, wasn't it?"

Doyle felt a slight flush in his cheeks. "Yeah." He concentrated on counting coins.

"I don't know what you see in him," Colleen went on. "He's a brute."

"What? No, Bodie's all right. It's only that--" Doyle paused. He might have known he'd have to embellish the lie once it was started. "You see, this is the first time we've tried living together, and we're having a few rough patches, that's all." He'd lost track of the count, and had to start over.

"Are you sure he's not taking you for granted? He seems so casual towards you."

Doyle shrugged. "I know he enjoys flirting with everyone he meets. Doesn't mean anything." He gave her a quick smile. "Don't worry. I can handle Bodie."

"If you ask me," she replied, "you deserve better." She crossed over to the shop's bulletin board, took a business card down, and handed it to him. "Here, I want you to have this. Just in case. They're very good, and they're quite open- minded."

Doyle looked at the card. BREMIS AND KNORR, Sexual Counselors, with a phone number and address. "Um, thanks." He put the card in his jacket pocket and started his count of the coins for the third time.

---

Bodie rose grumpily to switch the TV channel. It was a black and white TV, and it was ancient. It made an odd hissing noise. The picture squeezed people into short, pudgy figures and the entire thing went into a flickering wave pattern every three minutes, except during adverts, when it was absolutely clear. The TV was, however, an improvement on the stereo, which didn't work at all.

"Bloody Cowley." Bodie returned to the hard, lumpy sofa and his Chinese take-away dinner. He was actually managing to enjoy the soggy chicken chow mein when he heard a key turn in the front door, and automatically stiffened.

Doyle strolled into the living room carrying a Chinese take- away bag in one hand and a bottle of scotch in the other. "Hi." He sat at the other end of the sofa. "See we had the same idea about dinner." He held up the bottle. "I got this for afters."

Bodie studiously maintained a dignified silence.

"You find out anything at the newspaper office?" Doyle asked as he dug into his food.

"Nope."

They ate quietly for a few minutes, except for the hissing of the television set.

"I didn't find out anything at the shop today," Doyle ventured. "I think Cowley's got the wrong end of the stick on this one."

Bodie munched thoughtfully on his noodles and kept his gaze riveted to the flickering images on the TV. He thought it was possibly a soccer match he was watching, though it could be lawn bowling. On the other hand, neither sport seemed like the sort of thing one would air in December. He squinted. It wasn't soccer. It wasn't lawn bowling, either. It was Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.

"There was a notice on the shop bulletin board about the Anti- Fascist Society," Doyle persevered. "Said the December meeting was cancelled 'cause of the holidays. Lot of good that does us. There were a couple of contact names on the notice. One of 'em was your Ms. Solidarity."

Bodie nodded. "It's in her file." The picture and sound suddenly cleared up--advert time.

"The other name was David Northbrook."

"Um-hm." Bodie had got to the fortune cookie. He broke it open and read the slip inside. YOUR HEART IS IN THE RIGHT PLACE. Terrific. It wasn't his heart he was particularly worried about, though.

"You gonna talk to me, or are you gonna sit there and sulk all night?"

Bodie raised an eyebrow. "I am not sulking."

"You're doing a damn good imitation," Doyle replied. "And why are you watching a gardening program?"

"I'm not." Bodie stared at the TV, which had gone all wavy again. "It's Rudolph."

"It's gardening."

"Is not. Look, that's an elf there--"

"That's a turnip." Doyle leaned forward. "I think. And that bloke was talking about winter roots--"

"Was not. He was singing about someone's tooth. I've seen this one before. The elf wants to be a dentist."

"You're having me on."

"Am not."

"Definitely a turnip," Doyle insisted.

Bodie stood up and switched the channel. "There," he said as he sat down, "All Creatures Great and Small, the Christmas Special. It's listed in the Radio Times."

They sat in silence while Doyle finished his meal. He picked up his fortune cookie, cracked it open, and looked at the fortune.

"What's it say?" Bodie leaned over.

"Oh, are you talkin' to me now?"

"Just give it here." Bodie snatched the paper. YOUR HEART IS IN THE RIGHT PLACE. "Great." He tossed it on the coffee table.

Doyle got up to retrieve two glasses from the kitchen. He returned to the sofa and poured out the scotch, handing a glass to Bodie. Bodie took it, drank one small sip, and then fixed his attention on the short, pudgy figures on the screen.

Doyle gulped down a good portion of his drink. He turned to give Bodie a long look. "So," he said, "when are you going to tell me why you've been so moody lately?"

"What?" Bodie stared at him.

"I'm not talking about today," Doyle went on. "I'm talking about the past couple of months. Or didn't you think I noticed?"

With a great effort, Bodie managed to keep his expression blank. Bloody hell. "Noticed what?" he said casually.

"Don't give me that. You've been edgy as hell, and you know it. You've been giving me weird looks, and then turning away fast when I catch you at it. You don't come by on our days off anymore, but on the job you act as if nothing's different. You keep getting up and leaving the room when we're writing reports together, you smile at me one minute and frown the next, you leap ten bloody feet if I touch you. Something's wrong, mate, and I'm gonna get an explanation, and I'm going to get it soon."

Bodie swallowed a large portion of his scotch. How much did Doyle suspect? And how the hell should he handle it? Obviously, the chilly, distant bit would only make Doyle angrier. He had to make amends, and quick.

"Sorry," he said softly. "Don't know what's gotten into me lately. Honest."

"It's not some bird, is it?"

Bodie frowned. "Eh?"

"A bird," Doyle repeated. "You haven't gone and gotten serious about some bird, have you?"

Bodie thought Doyle looked genuinely disturbed by the idea. "No. It's not that." He shrugged. "Whatever it is, it'll sort itself out."

"Hope so," Doyle murmured. He stared into his glass. "You got awful pissed off at me today."

"Well, how'd you expect me to react?"

Doyle finished off his drink and refilled his glass. "You could've been a bit more understanding."

"Understanding? You tell everybody we're a couple of poofters and you want me to be understanding?"

"Did not. Only told Colleen. Yeah, she'll probably clue Lumley in, but where's the harm in that? I've been thinking about all this, and I think it's a good idea I came up with."

"Oh, you do, do you? How do you reckon that?"

"Like you said before, Lumley will expect us both at the house party now, and that means two of us to do the investigating instead of one. And Lumley's friends will probably trust us a hell of a lot more if they see us as a gay couple instead of just a snooping reporter and his friend. Besides, nobody knows us up here, so who bloody well cares what they think? It's just a big joke, Bodie, you know that."

It wasn't a joke, though, not to him. Bodie sighed. It would no doubt be best to treat it that way, though--a lark, something to tease each other about. Sulking just got on Doyle's nerves, and protesting too much would make him suspicious. Joking around would lighten things up, keep them both in a relaxed frame of mind. Yeah, that was the way to handle it, all right. Lighten up. Laugh about the whole mess.

"Yeah, I suppose you're right." Bodie reached for the bottle of scotch and topped off his glass. He grinned at Doyle. "Can I call you 'ducky' next time I come round the bookshop?"

Doyle smiled. "Yeah. Do it while Colleen's there. Maybe she won't think you're a brute any more."

"Did she say that?"

"Um-hm. Thinks I deserve better. But I told her I could handle you."

Bodie rolled his eyes. "That'll be the day."

"You're not still mad at me, are you?" Doyle cast him a wistful look.

"Nah." Bodie gave Doyle's shoulder a light punch. "Never can stay angry with you."

"Good."

They watched the rest of the Christmas special in companionable silence. At least, they tried to watch it. When Bodie determined that the credits were rolling across the screen, he got up and turned the set off. "So," he said, sitting back down a little closer to Doyle, "what exactly did Colleen say that got up your nose? I mean, you've had to seduce left- wing nutters before. It's all in the line of duty, you know."

"Yeah, I know. But she was so determined about it. She wants to ban Beatrix Potter!"

Bodie sputtered as a sip of scotch went down the wrong way. "That is insane. Why?"

"The animal families are too middle-class. Makes the lower- class kids feel inferior." Doyle shivered. "Made me flesh crawl, she did. And she was serious. S'pose she's gonna be at the party?"

Bodie nodded glumly. "I'd lay odds on it. Don't think we need to worry about the IRA, mate. We're gonna have our hands full with the bunny-hater and her pals."

"Wonderful."

"Who's this David Northbrook chap?" Bodie asked. "The bloke on the AFS notice--"

"Oh, him. He's one of Lumley's pamphlet writers. Hang on--I snagged one at the shop today." Doyle had slung his coat over the sofa back earlier, and he reached over to rifle the pockets. "Here it is. 'On the Evils of Property Ownership.' Can't see why Lumley would publish this. Hasn't given his property to the poor, has he?"

"Not unless you count Susan Solidarity and the Wolfhound Three," Bodie replied. "At least, I don't think they're paying rent." He took the pamphlet and skimmed through its pages. " 'Violence is a direct result of property ownership,' " he read aloud. "Somebody ought to tell Cowley." He skimmed further along. " 'Mankind's troubles will end the day the fences come down. It is in man's best interest to dwell not in separate houses, but in large, communal buildings, where people can learn to cooperate rather than compete, to share and share alike.' Hmpf." Bodie threw the pamphlet aside. "Load of rubbish. Don't want to share. Want my privacy, thank you very much."

"Well, you'd better get used to sharing with me," Doyle replied cheerfully. "Don't think Lumley will put us in separate rooms, do you, sweetheart?"

Bodie narrowed his eyes. "Don't call me that."

"I'm deeply hurt. What shall I call you, then? Sunshine?"

"No." Bodie set his glass down and tried to look menacing, while simultaneously trying not to burst out laughing. The pent-up tension of the day was definitely getting to him, and there were only two ways to deal with it--anger or laughter. Fortunately, laughter was winning. Keep it light he reminded himself, make it a joke. Relax.

Doyle set his own drink down, and looked deeply into Bodie's eyes. In an overly serious tone, he whispered huskily, "How 'bout your favorite--how 'bout if I call you 'ducky'?"

"You like breathing, don't you?"

"'Bubbles'?"

Bodie lunged for him. They wrestled about on the sofa, grappling harmlessly. Doyle's laugh was infectious, and soon they were both chuckling madly as they rolled and twisted, nearly falling off, jostling each other relentlessly until, exhausted, they collapsed against the cushions, heads lolled back, arms and legs spread wide, gasping, trying to catch their breaths.

"Feel better?" Doyle said.

"Yeah." Bodie reached over to ruffle Doyle's hair. "Thanks, Goldilocks."

"There you go. Perfectly good nickname. You can call me that at Lumley's. They won't know."

"Won't know what?"

"That you call me that anyway."

Bodie frowned as a sudden chill tingled along his spine. It was true--he'd been calling Doyle affectionate nicknames for years. What the hell did that mean? He didn't want to think about it.

"You okay?"

"Hm? Oh, yeah, I'm fine." Bodie furiously concentrated on changing the subject. "I was thinking about Lumley's place. I've never been stuck in a house full of liberals before. What the hell am I supposed to talk to them about? How do I break the ice--discuss the differences between revolvers and pistols? Should I tell them how many ways there are to kill a man with your bare hands?"

"Ah, it won't be so bad," Doyle replied. "You'll think of something."

"No," Bodie shook his head, "it's gonna be awful. I mean, once I get the commune question out of the way, what then? I bet they're all a load of bleedin' intellectuals. They'll want to chat about art, and classical music, and foreign films."

"Yeah, you're right. You better tread carefully there." Doyle waggled a cautionary finger at him. "Don't bring up books. You might've read something that'll insult 'em. Like Peter Rabbit."

"Oh, God," Bodie groaned. "It's gonna be 'orrible."

"We'll survive."

"Optimist. Wait'll you get a look at Lumley's mansion."

Doyle looked puzzled. "Why?"

"I'm going to let it be a surprise."

"Oh, ta very much." Doyle stretched his arms over his head. "You know, this sofa is lumpy."

"Is it?"

"And it's too short."

"Looks fine to me."

"Then you sleep on it," Doyle said.

"I've got a perfectly good bed to sleep in," Bodie replied.

"So you have. A nice, big bed. Without lumps."

"You snore."

"Me? What about you?"

"That's different," Bodie said with what he thought was impeccable logic, "I don't have to listen to my snoring."

"Ah, come on. I have to work tomorrow--I need me rest. Not like some lazy sods."

Bodie did his best to look affronted. "I'm doing my bit. Might even need to drive into Town tomorrow. Thought I'd check out the galleries where Geoffrey Evans shows his work, see what they think of him."

"I'm sure it'll be very taxing."

"I'm sure it will."

"But nowhere near as hard as flogging books," Doyle said. "Takes an alert, well-rested mind and body, that does."

"You toss and turn all bloody night," Bodie replied.

"Do not."

"Do too." Bodie jabbed a finger at Doyle's shoulder. "And you make peculiar noises when you're dreaming."

"I don't." Doyle's brow furrowed. "Like what?"

Bodie derived great joy from imitating the whimpers and moans he'd heard last night, and watching Doyle's eyes widen as he did so. "Like that," Bodie said when he'd finished his recital. "Just what were you dreaming about, hm?"

"Can't remember."

"How convenient."

"You sure you're not making all that up?" Doyle gave him a suspicious look.

"Scout's honor."

"You never were."

"Yeah, well, it's the thought that counts," Bodie said.

"No," Doyle replied, "it's the bed that counts. And that's where I'm sleeping tonight."

Don't protest too much, Bodie thought reluctantly. Make it a joke. "Whatever you say, sweetheart." He chucked Doyle under the chin, and resigned himself to another fitful night.

---

Chapter Four

"There you are, Mr. Brody! So glad you could come. And Mr., um, Mr.--"

"Doyle. Ray Doyle."

"Yes, of course. Come in, come in!"

Doyle gaped at the entranceway murals. So that's what Bodie was on about. Mounds of naked flesh towered around him, writhing in frenzied antics. Must have taken ages to paint all those convoluted bodies.

"Ray?"

"Oh, sorry." Doyle followed Bodie and Lumley into the main hallway. He stopped to stare at the sculptures lining it.

"Georgie will take your bags," Lumley said, ringing a bell pull. "George! Where are you, dear boy? Ah, there you are. Be a good lad and take Mr. Brody and Mr., um--"

"Doyle," Bodie prompted.

"Yes, yes, that's right. Be a good lad and take these gentlemen's bags up and show them their room--first floor, west wing, first on the right. And do come down to the drawing room once you're settled, dear chaps--we're having a little tea, and I'm sure everyone is dying to meet you. We've got a lovely big tree up in there and everyone is helping to decorate...well, everyone except the pagans--they've gone out to the garden to make some sort of circular stone thing--you're not pagans, are you?"

"Don't think so," Bodie replied.

"Well, that's all right, then. Rather cold out in the garden. Do go on up--we're having a lovely buffet luncheon later, and don't worry about dressing--we're terribly informal around here. I must dash. I'm so glad you could come."

Doyle watched Lumley hurry off towards an open doorway, from which the sounds of merriment echoed. As he reached the threshold, a stocky, dark-haired man stepped out of the room and planted a kiss on Lumley's lips before they turned to enter the room, arm in arm.

"Ray?"

"Sorry." Doyle followed Bodie and the servant to the staircase, pausing to look at the newel posts. "Did Evans do all this decoration?"

"Yeah. Seems to have a one-track mind, doesn't he?"

"And then some." Doyle went up the wide steps, eyes darting everywhere, searching for the next piece of phallic decor. At the top of the stairs they turned down a hallway lined with oil paintings which left little to the imagination. Doyle braced himself at the door to their room. Would it, too, be decorated in Early Modern Penis?

George swung the thick door open, dropped their bags just inside, and hurried away. Doyle walked cautiously inside, Bodie close behind.

"Looks fairly normal," Bodie said. He picked up his bag and dropped it on the queen-size bed. "No nude paintings on the walls." He unzipped the bag, pulled open the drawer of a chest beside the bed, and tossed his clothes in. It was a pity they couldn't bring their guns on this assignment; he always felt vaguely naked without one.

"The bed posts aren't carved into giant cocks, either," Doyle replied. "What other surprises has this place got?"

"The library is full of porn." Bodie crossed to the windows and opened the drapes. "Hey, we've got a view of the gardens."

"Yeah? Are the pagans out there?" Doyle joined him. In the grounds below, two women and a man pranced about in a circle, holding hands.

Bodie cracked the window. "They're chanting. Sounds like a foreign language."

"Druid, no doubt." Doyle chuckled softly. "Couldn't make it to Stonehenge this year."

"Think they're secretly planning to blow up Parliament?" Bodie asked.

"Absolutely. All terrorist gangs masquerade as druids these days. Haven't you been keeping up? Nobody ever suspects 'em, you see. Can travel anywhere inconspicuously."

Bodie smiled as he shut the window and closed the drapes. "Can't believe we're getting paid for this lark."

"Quiet." Doyle put a finger to his lips. "Cowley's got big ears."

"Too right."

Doyle set about unpacking his bag. "This is definitely an improvement on the flat. Bet they'll feed us well. And it beats working, too." He'd spent an entire week at the bookshop, getting nowhere, until Christmas Eve finally rolled around, the shop closed up, and the house party started. Three days of being catered to in a mansion--the party wouldn't end until after Boxing Day--Doyle figured he could handle a bit of luxury now and then.

"Will you look at this." Bodie opened an inside door. "We've got our own bathroom."

Doyle came over to check it out. Toilet, washbasin, tub--all to themselves. And all in flaming pink. "Nice. More or less."

"Just close your eyes while you're in there."

Doyle retrieved his shaving kit and set it on the basin counter. "What do you reckon Lumley meant by 'informal'?"

"Means wear whatever you're wearing," Bodie said.

Doyle looked down at his shirt, blue jeans, and trainers. Then he looked at Bodie's good white shirt, tie, slacks and jacket. "You sure?"

"There are pagans dancing on the lawn," Bodie replied. "I really don't think anyone here cares who we are or what we look like. You could go starkers and they wouldn't mind."

"Yeah." Doyle grinned. "Maybe Evans would want to paint me-- what do you think?"

"Would you want your private parts splattered all over the walls?"

Doyle grimaced. "Put like that--not exactly, no."

"Shall we go down for tea and crumpets?" Bodie said in a posh tone.

"Crumpet?"

Bodie shook a finger at him. "You stay away from the crumpet, Raymond. You're supposed to be mine."

"Oh, yeah." Doyle let out a sigh. "Almost forgot about that."

"Well, I didn't," Bodie replied with a trace of menace.

"I said I was sorry ages ago." Doyle paled as a thought struck. "You don't think they'll expect us to be--you know, demonstrative--in front of everybody, do you? I mean, did you see the way Lumley and Evans acted? Everybody in the drawing room must have seen them. Are we gonna have to hold hands?" He studied Bodie's lips, wondering if he'd have to kiss him. Shouldn't be all that horrible, he thought. They were nice- enough looking lips. And it wasn't as if he didn't like Bodie...Doyle checked his thoughts. This damn assignment was starting to get to him in peculiar ways.

"What are you staring at?"

"Hm?" Doyle shook his head. "Oh, nothing. What do you reckon we should do, then? Play it by ear? Do as the natives do and follow Lumley and Evans' lead?"

"S'pose so." Bodie looked distinctly nervous. "I think I can hold your hand without falling down laughing."

"What about a kiss?" Doyle pressed.

"Why don't we wait and see what happens?"

"'Cause if they're so informal that they're all over each other down there, and we decide to not look suspicious and at least act a little like a gay couple, it will look suspicious if we start fumbling all over the place, won't it?"

Bodie's face had gone positively white. "Are you suggesting we practice or something?"

Doyle nodded. "Why not? Can't hurt." He smiled. "What's wrong--not up to it?"

"It's not that."

Bodie was trembling, and for some reason, his nervousness excited Doyle. It was as if he had found a new hold over his cool, controlled partner. And all because Bodie was skittish about physical contact. That was odd, considering how much he enjoyed giving Doyle friendly touches and pats. Of course, a kiss was decidedly different, but still--he was Bodie's best mate, it shouldn't matter that much. They should be able to handle any situation together.

"Then what is it?" Doyle asked, moving in close. "What are you worried about? I don't bite, you know. Come on, it's just an undercover role. Gotta make it look good, right?" He touched a finger to Bodie's lips, and felt a galvanic shock as Bodie leaped backwards. "Coward," Doyle said in a friendly tone. He closed in again, backing Bodie up against the wall. "You're gonna blow the op if you keep acting like that."

Bodie gulped. "You really think we'll have to act that...well, friendly in front of the others?"

"We should at least be comfortable around each other." Doyle was enjoying Bodie's discomfiture tremendously. Imagine hard-as- nails Bodie walking on tiptoes around anything--it didn't seem possible. But Doyle had certainly found a button to push. And he liked pushing it. "How about one quick kiss, just to loosen up? Hm?" He advanced, took hold of Bodie's shoulders, and leaned in for a chaste peck on the closed mouth before Bodie could pull away. "There, that wasn't so bad, was it?" It had barely been a brushing of lips, but Bodie looked dazed and flushed. Now, that was interesting. Curious about Bodie's responses, Doyle decided to push further. "Wouldn't fool anybody, of course," he said. "So let's try a real kiss." He pulled Bodie close and kissed him, pressing forcefully against Bodie's lips until they opened for him, and then he was sucking energetically, tongue probing boldly into Bodie's mouth. Suddenly he felt Bodie's arms around his waist, then they moved to stroke his back and Doyle felt a warm tingling up his spine. He gasped and pulled away, staring at Bodie, who stood there with his eyes shut, mouth open, breathing raggedly.

Bodie's eyes flew open and he spun away from the wall, striding to the center of the room, where he leaned against the bedpost, his back to Doyle.

Christ. Doyle, shaken, studied the slumped line of Bodie's back, wondering what the hell had happened. His own words of the past week suddenly came back to him. Why have you been so edgy lately? You don't come round anymore, you leave the room, you jump when I touch you. He thought of the varied reactions Bodie had to this whole gay couple ploy-- first he was angry, then joking, and now this incredible nervousness. And then there had been his attempts to keep Doyle from sharing a bed.

"Bodie?"

"I'm not talking about it." Bodie's back straightened.

"Talk about what?" Doyle couldn't say it, couldn't even fathom the idea that Bodie might be attracted to him.

"Nothing." Bodie turned to face him, expressionless. He patted down his shirt and jacket. "We'd better get down there."

Doyle decided to let it lie. For now. "Right. Then let's go." He moved past Bodie to the door.

---

"I read one of your pamphlets the other day," Doyle said as he sipped his tea. He'd been approached by David Northbrook, who turned out to be a short, pudgy, bald man in his early fifties. "It was all about how owning property leads to violence. Very interesting."

"Oh, why, yes, thank you," Northbrook replied in a high- pitched, nasal voice. "I'm engaged in writing a book now, as a matter of fact."

"So's he." Doyle nodded across the room at Bodie, who sat on the arm of a plush sofa chatting to, of all people, Colleen Dunbar. "On British communes."

"Really? I must go and have a word with him sometime. The thing of it is, I lived on the commune here, as a matter of fact. For five years. We had such a communal spirit then, such a glorious sense of sharing. Don't you think people should share more, Mr. Doyle?"

"Ray." Doyle continued staring at Bodie, who was laughing loudly. Yeah, some people should share more, all right--they could start by telling their best mates how they truly felt. He frowned as Colleen laughed back, and patted Bodie's thigh. What the hell were they talking about?

"Oh, why, yes, and please do call me David."

Doyle felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned his attention back to Northbrook, who was smiling at him in a positively lecherous fashion. Doyle shrugged, dislodging Northbrook's hand. "Need a refill," he said, holding up his teacup. "Nice meeting you." He made his escape to the table in front of the room's French windows. An array of teapots sat on colorful trivets, cosseted by tea cosies. Each had a placard showing which variety of Lumley's long-life brews one could choose. He picked Golden Harvest Herbal and filled his cup. In the center of the table lay a tray piled with biscuits and tea cakes. Doyle ignored them, not wanting to spoil his lunch. He leaned against the table, sipped his tea, and took a long look at the house party guests.

He and Bodie had been introduced all around when they'd first come in; Doyle now put his CI5 training for faces and names to the test. The pagans had come in from the cold. All three of them sat on a settee in the corner farthest from the Christmas tree, where no one else dared venture near them. The two women were sisters, forty-ish and rail thin, with matching blonde hair done up in fancy braids intertwined with flowers. Must have cost a bit to buy daisies in December. They wore long flower-print dresses which didn't quite match the heavy boots they'd been wearing out in the garden and still had on. Emily and something else with an E. Doyle frowned. He couldn't be losing his touch already. He stared at his tea. Maybe Lumley had spiked it with herbs of a different color. Doyle looked back over at the pagan clan. Esther, that was it. Emily and Esther Moonglow. Doyle smiled at the recollection of Bodie's expression when they were introduced earlier. The contortions he'd gone through to keep from cracking up when Lumley announced the women's surname had been classic.

The man with them was named Rupert Flax, and he was as rotund as the Moonglow sisters were slim. He wore a purple track suit which clashed hideously with his bright orange ponytail. Doyle had no clue what the exact relationship was among the three, and he wasn't sure he wanted to know.

In the center of the room, Richard and Geoffrey stood over a box of decorations, debating which colored balls went best with pink tinsel. At the Christmas tree a married couple, Graham and Julia Hunt, were busy hanging sundry ornaments. They were odd, Doyle thought, in this particular company. The Hunts both wore very expensive suits, and Julia sported pearl earrings and necklace. Both had short, dark brown hair and even their long, patrician features were similar. Doyle edged along the table to catch their conversation.

"No, darling, do put that somewhere else." Julia Hunt gently tapped her husband's wrist. "It looks positively hideous beside the little drummer boy."

"Does it? Oh, sorry. What do you think of this spot over here, my dear?" Graham Hunt held the reindeer ornament close to a mostly empty branch.

"Yes, that's quite suitable. Oh, gracious, look at this angel. It simply won't do at all. We never allow plastic ornaments on our tree."

"No doubt purchased at one of those charitable events Richard is forever attending." Graham wrinkled his nose. He leaned close to Julia and whispered fiercely, just loud enough for Doyle to overhear, "He never really left the Sixties' idealism behind, poor fellow."

Julia nodded. "It's sad, isn't it, how some people never move on. But at least he managed to keep his money. It's the others- -" She turned to cast a disparaging glance towards the pagans. "--the ones who never learned that having money is the way to change things, who are truly pitiable, don't you agree, darling?"

"Yes, quite true. What do you think of this sleigh?"

"A bit quaint, isn't it? Don't we have something very like it on our tree, only all in solid gold? So much better than--" Julia sniffed. "--well, than whatever that is made of."

Doyle sidled away again. He'd heard enough. He remembered what he'd read of the Hunts from the CI5 file. They'd met each other at Lumley's commune and left shortly after to become highly successful real estate developers. They had a nine-year-old daughter named Victoria, who no doubt had been left at home with the nanny to prevent exposure to the Phallic Palace. The Hunts consistently voted Conservative and never gave a dime to charity.

Bodie's laugh broke into Doyle's thoughts again. He decided it was time to investigate Bodie's new-found amiability with Colleen. Doyle ambled over to the sofa, flashed a big grin at Bodie, then nodded at the empty spot beside Colleen. "Is this seat taken?"

"Not at all." She patted the sofa. "Sit down. We were just talking about you."

Doyle sat down, fixing Bodie, who still perched on the sofa arm, with a steely look. "All good, I'm sure."

Colleen let out a soft laugh. "Bodie was telling me about the time you locked yourself out of your flat with only your underpants on, in January, in the middle of the night. I never knew you led such an exciting life."

Neither did I, Doyle thought. What other fabrications had Bodie come up with? "He's a good storyteller, isn't he?"

"Oh, he's wonderful." She gave Bodie a wink. "And he's much nicer than I first thought." She leaned close to Doyle and said softly, "I think he must be very fond of you. You're all he talks about."

"Is that so?" Doyle smiled sweetly at Bodie, whose own smiling expression seemed ever so slightly strained. "What else did he tell you?"

"Well, I don't know if I should repeat certain parts."

"Go on," Doyle urged, looking not at her but at his partner, "I don't keep any secrets from Bodie."

"All right, then," Colleen said, "is it really true that you once got drunk in Soho and had a rose tattooed on your rear end?"

Doyle's eyes went wide. "You bastard!"

Bodie burst out laughing.

Colleen looked from one to the other, then focused on Bodie. "You've been having me on."

"Only a bit." Bodie shrugged, then grinned. "It's not on his bum."

"I'll get you for this, mate."

"Ah, don't be like that." Bodie looked to Colleen for support. "We were just having some fun, right?"

"Absolutely." Colleen patted Doyle's thigh. "No harm done. Please say you're not angry with him, Ray."

Doyle opened his mouth to protest, saw the triumphant look on Bodie's face, and shut it again. No, he wasn't getting off that easy. Retribution was in order, but not in the manner Bodie might be expecting. Doyle recalled the power he'd held over Bodie back in the bedroom, and how simple it was for him to make Bodie squirm. There would be no angry words, no recriminations-- quite the opposite. And Bodie would be helpless, unable to do a thing about it.

Doyle rose, set his teacup on the coffee table, and closed in on a suddenly nervous-looking Bodie. "You're right," he said to Colleen, "no harm done." He laid his hand on Bodie's thigh, which twitched in response. Bodie's eyes had narrowed. "And I'm not mad. See, his sense of humor is one of the things I love most about him." Doyle leaned in to rest his head briefly against Bodie's shoulder, and wrapped his arms around his waist for a tight squeeze. Feeling the tremors running through Bodie, he hugged him even tighter. Then he lifted his head to plant a kiss on Bodie's cheek before releasing him. Giving one last pat to Bodie's thigh, Doyle returned to the sofa. He gazed up at Bodie with the sweetest, most innocent expression he could manage, pleased beyond words to see the strained look on his partner's face.

"Good," Colleen said. "I find it sad that so few relationships work out these days."

Doyle replied with a noncommittal grunt.

Bodie, having regained his composure, nodded towards Richard and Geoffrey, who were happily hanging red and green ball ornaments with abandon. "They seem to be doing all right. Been together six years, haven't they?"

"Nearly seven. Yes, they do get on well."

"What about them?" Doyle nodded at the Hunts.

"I wouldn't know," Colleen replied. "I never see them except at these parties. Richard always invites everyone who was at the commune, but very few show up. And those two only come so they can gossip about all the others."

"Do you know of anyone else who's coming?" Doyle asked.

"Paul will no doubt turn up. He's Richard's nephew--his sister's son. I think he's only nineteen or twenty. The sister married a charming actor who never made any money, and Paul has never forgiven her for it. He can't stand Richard but shows up to all the parties to sponge off him. He really wants very much to be rich. Luckily, Geoffrey is quite practiced at warding off leeches."

"Is that all the guests?" Bodie asked.

Colleen shrugged. "Anyone else who was coming would have been here by now."

"S'pose I'd better make my rounds, then."

"Eh?" Doyle raised an eyebrow at Bodie.

"Need to find out if any of them want to be interviewed," Bodie replied. "You know, about the 'good old days'."

"Oh, yeah, your book." Doyle smiled. "Start with David Northbrook--he's quite keen on politics."

"Is he?"

"Absolutely. Fascinating man." Doyle looked over at the balding, pudgy Northbrook. "I'm sure you'll get on famously."

Bodie cast him a suspicious glance, then shrugged and stood up. "I'll see you later."

Doyle sat back and relaxed, ready to enjoy watching Bodie deal with Northbrook. But his serenity was disturbed by Colleen.

"Ray." She laid a hand on his knee. "Can we talk about more serious matters?"

He swallowed a large gulp of tea. "Such as?"

"Have you ever heard of the POCS?"

Doyle felt a tingle of excitement--could this finally be it? A clue to the terrorist gang? Their first real evidence? He shook his head, but leaned forward, looking interested.

"It stands for Protect Our Children Society," she replied earnestly. "The group which is striving to remove classist books from the school libraries. I know you're interested in the class struggle, Ray, and I'm hoping you'll join us. We're meeting in early January to discuss the books of Enid Blyton- -"

Doyle sank back and let her rattle on, defeated again. And, in trying to appear at least vaguely attentive to Colleen's verbal assault, he failed to pay attention to Bodie and Northbrook, missing out on all the fun.

---

It took Bodie all of five minutes to figure out why Doyle had foisted him onto David Northbrook. The man couldn't keep his hands to himself, and Bodie only got him to cease and desist by forcefully aiming the heel of his shoe into Northbrook's shin. Another ten minutes of awkward conversation told Bodie all he needed to know, that Northbrook had but two topics on his mind-- the evils of property, and sex. So Bodie excused himself and made his way over to the pagan corner.

"How nice of you to join us." The Moonglow sisters spoke in unison. They shifted over on the settee.

"So kind." Bodie scrunched down between them, then smiled at Rupert Flax, who gave him a glowering look in return.

"Geoffrey has told us all about you," one of the sisters said. Bodie believed it was Emily, though it was hard to tell.

"How thoughtful of him," he replied.

"He says you're going to write wonderful things about the commune we lived on," Esther added.

"Well," Bodie said carefully, "naturally I'll try to tell the truth."

"The commune was a delightful place," Emily said. "We found Rupert at the commune."

Bodie smiled and nodded, then glanced over at Flax. He scowled back. Bodie turned back to Emily. "I'd like to talk to you about that sometime, if you don't mind."

"We'd adore that," she replied.

Bodie wondered if either of them ever referred to herself in the singular. He cleared his throat. "I'm also doing a sort of 'where are they now' chapter--you know, to follow the commune members into the present, find out what they're doing, how they've changed--"

"Oh, we haven't changed," Esther said. "Not much, anyway. Have we?"

"No." Emily dutifully shook her head. "We're quite, quite the same as ever. We just don't live here anymore, that's all."

"What do you do now?"

"We run a natural foods restaurant here in Oxford, in the market. Perhaps you've been there--the Brown Rice Cafe?"

"I'm afraid I haven't had a chance to eat there yet," Bodie replied, making a mental note to avoid it at all costs.

"Rupert is our chef," Esther said. "When we found him at the commune, he was making the most delightful herb salads you could ever put into your mouth."

"We bake the muffins and bread," Emily put in, "with all natural ingredients."

"You must come and eat there. We make a lovely wheatgrass juice."

Bodie made an effort to stop his lips from pursing. "Yes," he said slowly. "I must do that."

"And bring your friend, too."

"I'll do that." Bodie smiled benignly at the Moonglow sisters. "It's been delightful, but I must get back to Ray now. He never knows what to do or say without me, you see."

Esther and Emily simultaneously turned their heads towards the sofa where Doyle sat, looking totally uncomfortable with Colleen.

"Yes," Emily nodded, and her sister nodded with her. "We can see that. You'd best run along, then. We've thoroughly enjoyed meeting you, Mr. Bodie."

"Thanks." Bodie stood, giving Rupert Flax one last chance. "Nice meeting you all."

Rupert Flax curled his upper lip and made an unpleasant snarling sound.

Bodie bolted.

---

Chapter Five

"This place is full of lunatics," Bodie said.

He perched on the marble-topped coffee table, looking down at Doyle, who lay stretched out on the sofa. The tea party was over and everyone else had gone up to see the latest works in Geoffrey's studio. Doyle had begged off, claiming a headache. Bodie, who'd seen the studio recently anyway, had given Doyle a malicious grin, then told Geoffrey in a concerned tone that he "couldn't possibly leave dear Ray all alone." Geoffrey had given him an approving nod, while Doyle merely scowled. "I mean, I'm beginning to think there never was a commune here," he added. "It was really a sanitorium."

Doyle gazed up at him, one arm flung over his forehead. "Be fair. We haven't met the nephew yet."

"Bet you twenty quid he's crazier than the rest of 'em."

"You're on," Doyle replied.

Bodie studied Doyle's knitted eyebrows. "Do you really have a headache?"

"Yeah. Courtesy of Colleen. She went on at me again."

"Pity. She never tried to talk to me about banning books. She must have a soft spot for you."

"Terrific."

Bodie watched Doyle adjust his head on a small pillow. He wished he knew what he was thinking. Doyle had obviously caught on to something earlier, in the bedroom, after that incredible kiss. But precisely what had he made of it? And more important, how would he react if he knew the truth? No, he couldn't let Doyle know the truth. There was no need, not when he wasn't exactly sure what the truth was himself. There were plenty of ways to cleverly conceal how he felt, provided Doyle fell for them. First, though, he needed to know what his partner was thinking without bringing up that damn kiss himself. Maybe he could start with a lesser kiss--perhaps the one Doyle had planted on his cheek at the party. Bodie picked up his lukewarm cup of tea and took a sip. "So," he said casually, "did you have fun teasing me in front of Colleen?"

"You deserved it," Doyle replied. "I do not have a tattoo on my bum."

No, Bodie thought wistfully, wouldn't want to mar a perfect surface. "True. Caught me a bit by surprise, though, hugging me like that."

"And giving you a kiss." Doyle narrowed his eyes at Bodie. "Or were you trying to forget that?"

Bodie considered it a perfect opening. "'Course not. Why would I do that?"

"Oh, I don't know why you'd want to forget one of my kisses," Doyle replied sarkily. "Seem to get you pretty excited, don't they?"

"Nah, not at all," Bodie said breezily, as if it meant nothing to him.

"No? What about up in the room? I didn't imagine that flush on your cheeks, mate. And you were shaking hard enough to knock down a wall or two."

"Was not."

Doyle's eyes opened wide and his brow furrowed as he wagged an angry finger at Bodie. "Don't try denying it." He scooted up to a sitting position, crossed his arms, and took a deep breath. "You're my best mate--why can't you just tell me what's going on in that head of yours?"

"Because there isn't anything going on." Bodie tried to stay flippant, but it was difficult with an angry Ray Doyle glaring at him. "So what if I got a bit flustered upstairs? It's not every day my best mate sticks his tongue in my mouth."

"Wasn't only that."

Confused, Bodie said, "What do you mean?"

"I mean there's more to it. There's the way you've been acting edgy these past few months, the way you jump whenever I get anywhere near you, then this damn op and the way you tried to keep me from sharing the bed, and you nearly killed me with a bookshelf when you found out I'd told Colleen we were lovers, and then you act real damn strange about that kiss and then say you don't want to talk about it afterwards, and if I didn't know any better, I'd think you were having peculiar thoughts about me, mate." He sank back against the pillow, out of breath.

Bodie sat paralyzed, staring at a harmless spot a foot above Doyle's head. It wasn't the reaction he'd wanted. Why the hell couldn't Doyle have simply accepted his flippant lie and let it rest? Brush it off as another joke, smile and forget it, go on with being good friends as before, and nothing more. Why did he have to push it, make it worse? Bodie took a calming breath, found his legs again, and got up. He crossed to the tea table and refilled the cup. Dammit, did Doyle honestly want him to confess his attraction? Did he like the idea, for chrissakes? No, that wasn't possible--he knew Doyle, he wouldn't like it. At least, he thought he knew Doyle. But then, he'd thought he'd known himself pretty well, too.

When he turned around to face the sofa, Bodie said simply, "What do you want, Ray?"

Doyle had brought his legs up and now sat cross-legged, staring at him intensely. "Not much. Only the truth."

"And what if you don't like it?" Bodie found it hard to look back at him.

"Won't know how I feel about it 'til I hear it, will I?"

Bodie drank the tea down in one long gulp and set the cup aside. He leaned back against the table, supporting himself with his arms. He felt a tremendous yearning to erase everything that had happened in the past few months, to pretend his world had magically changed and that the uncontrollable ache of desire he felt whenever Doyle was near would dissolve into nothingness. But reality refused to budge.

Doyle continued to stare at him. "Bodie?"

"The truth," Bodie replied slowly, each word hurting more than the last, "is that yes, I've been feeling...attracted to you. I don't know why, and I don't know what to do. I can't seem to stop thinking about what it would be like to--" He broke off, unable to go on. He pressed his palms hard against the tabletop to stop the trembling.

Doyle stayed put on the sofa. Bodie was grateful, not for the first time, for Doyle's intuitive sense of what he needed, and at this moment, Bodie needed to keep a physical distance. Though now that the truth was out, he didn't want to be alone, either. He knew they needed to talk.

"You ever felt that way before?" Doyle's question broke the silence. "I mean, about other blokes?"

"No." Bodie honestly shook his head, then, on some defensive impulse, asked, "Have you?"

Doyle hesitated just long enough.

Bodie's eyebrows shot up. "Ray?"

Doyle shrugged. "Not really. Well, once, maybe--nah, that was different."

"Why?" Bodie pounced on the revelation. "When was it? Where?"

"Art school," Doyle replied calmly. "Sometimes we got male models, and there was this one fellow--I swear everybody in the whole class was after him." He paused. "We had these parties, all the students would go. He was a student, too--most of the models were. So he came to the parties, and well, we used to get a bit wild back then. We were only experimenting, having some fun. Didn't mean anything."

Bodie tried to picture Doyle at a wild art student party-- maybe even an orgy, just like the murals on the entrance way walls. He shivered. "No?"

Doyle shook his head. "Don't think so. Just a phase I went through."

"Could be what it is for me, too, don't you think?" Bodie struggled to sound reasonable, despite the churning of his insides. Doyle was taking it far too calmly. Surely the fireworks were due any minute. "A passing phase. I'll get over it."

"Is that why you've run through more birds in the past two months than I've had in the past year? Were they supposed to help you get through this phase of yours? Doesn't seem to have worked, has it?"

"I'll get through it," Bodie insisted. "Being on this bloody op, in this damn house, hasn't helped any, you know."

"Reckon it wouldn't." A flicker of a smile crossed Doyle's features, then he sobered again. "I don't know what to say, Bodie. Don't know what to think. Doesn't make much sense. Why me? Why now?"

Bodie studied a spot between his feet. "You're not the only one who's confused." He hesitated, unused to expressing sentiment. "I do know that I've never felt as close to anyone as I do to you." He looked up. "Don't want that to change."

"It won't," Doyle said softly.

"You sure?"

Doyle nodded. "I'm sure."

Bodie wanted to believe it. He did believe Doyle was sincere, but that was now, and things had a way of changing whether one wanted them to or not.

"Bodie?" Doyle's smile was reassuring. "What do you want to do? We could call Cowley, tell him the op's a bust--"

"No." Bodie shook his head firmly. "I'm not blowing an op simply because I've developed a temporary quirk."

"Is that what it is?"

"Yeah." Bodie had nearly convinced himself that was true. "Shouldn't have even told you." He straightened. "I'm going for a walk. Alone." He strode across the room, stopping at the doorway to glance at the sofa. A puzzled and lost-looking Doyle stared back. Bodie let out a heavy sigh. "I'm not running away. I just need some time to myself. All right?"

After a lengthy pause, Doyle nodded.

---

He didn't know whether to be glad or not that his suspicions had been confirmed. In theory, Doyle believed it was always best to get one's feelings out in the open. In practice, it definitely could cause complications. So Bodie felt physically attracted to him. Well, it wouldn't be the first time a bloke had expressed such interest, though it was the first time his best mate had done so.

He cared for Bodie a great deal. He might even say he loved him, as a friend. It wasn't something Doyle consciously thought about--it was simply there. Bodie was a major part of his life, very possibly the most important part of his life. Obviously Bodie felt the same way, but Doyle had been surprised to hear him come out and say it. Never felt as close to anyone--it wasn't like his self-contained partner to get so emotional. Though he had heard it before. Doyle remembered a time, a bit over a year ago, when he'd been lying in a hospital bed, barely alive, flitting in and out of consciousness. Bodie was there, holding his hand, talking softly to him. Every time Doyle woke up, Bodie was there. And one morning, after a rough, feverish night, Doyle awoke to see Bodie leaning over him, red-eyed, unshaved, his shirt wrinkled, looking half-asleep. The moment Doyle's wakeful state registered, Bodie instantly brightened, squeezed Doyle's hand, and said in a parched whisper, "Had me worried there for a while, sunshine. Can't lose you, you know. Would hurt too much." He brushed back damp curls and lightly kissed Doyle's forehead. Then he slumped in his chair, head nodding, and thirty seconds later Bodie's snores filled the room. Doyle wondered, for a long time after, if Bodie even remembered that moment. Neither of them had ever mentioned it since.

Maybe that was when it had started, subconsciously, anyway. Bodie had been so protective of him during the following months, more than usual, and enough that they had argued over it. And he'd spent even more time in Doyle's company than before, like a shadow, to the point where Doyle sometimes felt spooked if he turned around and Bodie wasn't there. He'd got so used to it that Bodie's increasing reluctance to be with him during the past couple of months had stood out glaringly in contrast.

Doyle uncrossed his legs and stretched. Sitting here brooding over the mysterious workings of Bodie's mind made him tired. He needed to stop worrying it for a while, occupy his mind with something totally irrelevant. He stood and gazed about the room. Nothing there to distract him. There were the other guests. He could go join them. But he'd had his fill of that lot this morning, and would have to put up with them again at lunch. No, he wanted peace and quiet, maybe something to read would do the trick. Doyle wandered out and down the hall to the library, shutting the door behind him. He sat in an overstuffed armchair, leaned back, and idly picked up a book from a nearby table.

---

Bodie got his anorak and muffler from their room, then bounded downstairs and out the kitchen's back door. The crisp coldness of the outside air invigorated him. Heading off along a path through the rose garden, Bodie walked without a destination but with definite purpose--to release the stress of a very grueling morning.

Frost crunched beneath his boots. He paused at the end of the gardens to gaze upwards. Dark, looming clouds were rolling in. Bodie decided he didn't care if a blizzard engulfed all of Oxford--he needed a walk. So he kept going, heading out to the herb farm a quarter-mile off.

Bodie paced around the scraggly herb beds for half an hour, back and forth, up and down, trying hard not to think about anything at all, without succeeding. Doyle's query kept popping into his head unbidden. Why me? Why now? Damn good questions. He wished he could come up with a damn good answer.

Why Doyle...well, hell, Bodie quizzed himself, letting the answers take whatever reckless course they would, why not Doyle? Because he was a bloke, for one thing. So? So, well, so Doyle was also the closest friend he'd ever had, and probably ever would have, and shouldn't the person you fall for be a friend? What did he mean, fall for? Had he fallen or was he merely temporarily intrigued? Bodie stumbled over a tree root and stopped to take in his surroundings. He'd gone past the last herb bed and nearly ended up in the woods bordering the estate. He turned back and stomped around the farm some more, keeping half an eye on the dark gray cloud bank.

Why now...hell, he didn't know. Maybe because he'd already gone through all the warm, willing birds in London and been left wanting--well, okay, that wasn't fair. Maybe he'd only been through three quarters of them. Could still be the girl of his dreams out there, waiting for him, ready to make his life complete. Except that it did feel complete, whenever Doyle was around. The irritable, moody, overly concerned, feisty, goddamn lovable bastard had gotten to him. Bodie kicked a large rock off the path. Dammit, it wasn't supposed to be like this. He wasn't supposed to care this much. Look after number one first, that had always been the way of things. He didn't need to worry about himself and somebody else as well. Took far too much effort.

So what did that mean? He should never let anyone in close, ever? For his whole life? Suddenly that prospect looked to him as bleak as the surrounding landscape, cold and empty. But to love another man--no, scratch that--to want another man--he wasn't ready to call it anything else yet--surely that was a half-baked cure for loneliness. But then, he'd not exactly led the sanest of lives so far.

Bodie stopped again. He'd come back to the beginning of the farm and the edge of the gardens. Up ahead stood the desolate- looking summerhouse, and beyond it rose the mansion. What was Doyle doing right now? Having a good laugh? No, he wouldn't do that. Worry himself sick over it, that was more likely. Would no doubt psychoanalyze Bodie more thoroughly than any CI5 shrink could. Great. Probably be Twenty Questions Time again when he returned.

He had just started his way through the gardens when Bodie heard someone whistle. He saw a plump, gray-haired figure in the distance, near the kitchen door. Good old Susan Solidarity. She whistled again, a tremendous piercing sound. Oh, shit. She was calling those damn dogs.

Bodie whirled about, searching for signs of the beasts. Three huge shapes came bursting out of the woods beyond the herb beds, running at breakneck speed for the mansion. And between the farm and the mansion there was a clear route. Straight through the garden where Bodie stood.

He had no desire to be mauled by three wolfhounds, even if it was a friendly mauling. Bodie frantically sought for a haven, spotted the summerhouse, and made haste for its encircling porch. As he reached the stone pillars enclosing it and leaped up the few steps, he heard a continuous barrage of barking draw close. He tried the door. It was locked. He heard the heavy panting of large, excited dogs, and dashed round looking for entry at the building's windows. They were all boarded over. A loud thumping told him the beasts had gained the porch. There was another set of steps on the back side and he bounded down them, but not quickly enough. Huge paws landed on the middle of his back, knocking him flat. Bodie stayed rock still, face downward on the ground, hands covering his exposed head, and tried to play dead. A massive tongue slobbered over his fingers and it was all he could do to hold steady. Then a third sharp whistle sounded, and the Wolfhound Three took off for the mansion, leaving him in relative peace.

Cursing, Bodie sat up, wiping his hands on his jacket. As he stumbled to his feet, something shiny caught his eye. He bent to pick the familiar cylindrical object up.

A lark, that's what this assignment had been so far. A waste of time, a wrong turn. Except when a nine-millimeter cartridge turned up on the grounds.

Bodie pocketed it and headed towards the mansion. As he reached the safety of the main entrance, it began to snow.

---

It took him a good twenty minutes to track Doyle down to the library. Bodie found him scrunched in an armchair, snoring, an open book on his lap. Sitting on the chair's footstool, Bodie reached over to pick up the book and started reading the page it was turned to.

Trevor wrapped his powerful, wrestler's arms around Dirk's sleek, sun-tanned waist and gripped his firm buttocks.

Bodie's eyes widened as he read further. What on earth was Doyle doing reading this? Well, he wasn't reading it--looked as if the description of two men having sex had gone and put Doyle right to sleep. Bodie closed the book as Doyle stirred and stretched, rubbing his eyes. He blinked, then smiled at Bodie and sat up straighter, shaking his head and running his hands through long auburn curls.

"It's snowing," Bodie announced.

"Yeah? White Christmas and all that?" Doyle leaned over towards the window a few feet from the chair and pulled the drape aside. "Wow." Big, fat flakes poured down, virtually blotting out all else. "We could get stuck out here past Boxing Day if that keeps up."

"What?" Bodie feigned shock. "It's only a mile into town. Forgot to bring your snowshoes, did you?"

"Very funny." Doyle let go the curtain.

Bodie dropped the book onto Doyle's lap. "Doing a bit of research?" he asked pleasantly.

"Hm? Oh, that." Doyle laid it on the table. "First thing I happened to pick up, that's all." He grinned. "It's a little weak on plot."

"I'll bet. How's the headache?"

"Gone. Probably come back after another round of Colleen at lunch." Doyle checked his watch. "We've got a two-hour reprieve 'til then. What do you reckon we should do?"

"I think a bit of actual sleuthing is in order." Bodie retrieved the cartridge from his pocket and handed it over. "Going out for a walk proved quite productive."

Doyle rolled it between his fingers. "Nine mil. Very careless. Where'd you find it?"

"In back of the summerhouse. Door's locked, windows are boarded up." Bodie decided to leave out the details of his encounter with the wolfhounds.

"Perfect storage place for stolen arms," Doyle said. "Who'd look for anything in a summerhouse in mid-winter?" He handed the cartridge back. "So who has keys?"

"Lumley gave me a tour of the grounds when I interviewed him," Bodie replied, re-pocketing the evidence. "He was going to show me the summerhouse, but he didn't have the keys with him. I remember he said the place was 'special'. Knowing his tastes, that no doubt means it has more phallic art inside."

"Evans would surely have a key as well. Maybe Susan, too."

"Oh, she's at the top of my list," Bodie said, smiling. "After all, those dogs of hers are Irish wolfhounds."

"Come on. Tell me who's really on your list."

Bodie considered the roster of lunatics in the house. "Northbrook would be on top. He's actively political, and anti- status quo."

"Colleen's political," Doyle pointed out.

"She's too busy hammering Beatrix Potter's bunnies. Where's she going to find time to fit in the IRA?"

Doyle shrugged. "Maybe. Could be a smoke screen. She makes a point of rattling on to everybody she meets about banning harmless books, and then nobody takes her seriously."

"And nobody investigates her beyond the surface. I take your point."

"We can eliminate Lumley, right?" Doyle asked.

"Yeah. I don't think he's putting on an act. He's a genuine, lifetime member of the Space Cadet Corps."

"Geoffrey Evans?"

"Haven't noticed anything political about him," Bodie said. "Other than being secretary and treasurer of the Sexual Tolerance League. What did you make of the Hunts?"

Doyle wrinkled his nose. "They're too stuck-up to be terrorists. How 'bout the Moonglow sisters?"

"They're too weird to be terrorists. Rupert Flax, however, is an unknown quantity. Did you try talking to him?"

Doyle nodded. "He growled at me."

"Me, too." Bodie stood and paced in front of the floor-to- ceiling bookshelves. "So what do we have?" He ticked off suspects on his fingers. "David Northbrook, pamphlet writer who hates property ownership. Colleen Dunbar, who's Irish and may be covering up her true political aims. Susan Solidarity, who never left the Sixties. Flax is a wild card. Evans looks clean but he does have access to the summerhouse, as does Susan. Lumley's right out of it, and the Hunts and the Moonglows are damned unlikely candidates. Not exactly a promising line-up."

"There's still the nephew," Doyle replied. "If he shows up."

"Yeah." Bodie stopped pacing, halting in front of the window. He peered outside. The land was blanketed by snow as far as he could see, which wasn't very far through the heavy