Part Three

Again, any concerned reader may want to review the last lines of Chapter Eight to get up to speed. We were in the Honoré police station on Saint-Marie . . .

Chapter Nine: On the Acceleration of Time Toward Its Uncertain Destination

Fidel patrolled the trinkets and clothing part of the market, smiling broadly, as Dwayne took the produce and bakes side, swaggering. Each kept alert, vigilant for any sign of trouble, as well as any inquiring beckonings or shouts from the stallholders. Then they'd grin wider and nod. Everything was proceeding as planned.

Above, in the station house, Camille had gushed at the sight of the ring, Camille had shed a tear as Richard Poole had placed it on her finger (and it fit, miraculously), and Camille had expressed her appreciation to an extent where Poole had to let go of her and grab at the side of his desk to keep from being bent back over it. It was at this point the other ranks had picked up their caps and left, trusting to their sergeant to conduct affairs from there.

Poole could no longer feel the station floor beneath his reaching shoes, but strangely, he was beginning not to care. The kiss in the Defender had been a surprise. This, or rather these, were . . . well, how to describe – um, or even, should he try to . . . or even, could he . . .

Camille seemed to know without thinking what directions to give even an awkward, inexperienced duffer like him whilst snogging. The touch of her hand gliding up his shirt front to curl over his shoulder triggered an automatic tighter clinch on his part, and a subtle twitch of her lips, shifting over his, set off an involuntary inquiry as to the exact angle at which a kiss could be deepened . . .

Then she broke away for a second to rasp out "You will have so much more than this, my darling, four days from now, on our wedding night!"

It was quite a different jolt of electricity that went through Poole then. "Four days! You can't be – four days?!" He struggled to get upright, pushing her back manfully. "We're not ready! I mean – the, th-the license! And the clobber and the announcements and that bloody awful pavilion and – Camille!" He seized her hands, unintentionally drawing her back toward him. "The shack, I mean the bungalow – we can't live there! You'll need . . . that is to say, you're, well, a – a woman . . ."

"Oh, yes," Camille murmured, and slipping back into his arms, intent on proving it, "I am." But Poole's brief moment of in-phase with the rest of humanity was over. Even as Camille fastened her lips to his once more, he was scrabbling in his back pocket again, drawing the little book out and feeling for a pen from the cupful on his desk at the same time.

"Mmm, what's that?" Camille asked, loosening her kiss and trailing her hands away from his manly shoulders down his chest and to his arms. She was not an experienced undercover agent for nothing.

"What's, umm . . ." The number of ticks in his book that Poole had yet to make was fading from his consciousness, under the frisson of being touched like this. "What's, uh, what?"

"This." With a twist, the little book was out of his hand and in hers.

Instantly aware, Poole clutched on to it. "Oh, th-this?"

"Yes." Camille tugged, only half playfully.

"Nothing." Poole tugged back, very much in earnest.

"Something, I think, mon cher?" Camille pulled rather more forcefully.

"No, no. Nothing. At all." Poole yanked rather more than forcefully.

"Let me see." Camille jerked firmly, laughing.

"No." Poole heaved back. "You'll tear it!"

"Ha!" Camille wrested it away and made to flourish it in front of her beloved's green eyes. "So it is import-"

"No, it's not!" Poole wrenched it back and swept it up, half-way to the ceiling trusses, hopefully out of her reach.

"Give it to me!" Camille flailed in the air after it, pressing Richard fully back over the desk this time, scattering his pencils and folders, and preparing to use him as a ladder if need be. The happiness inside her was nearly fit to burst.

"No! You don't need to see . . . it."

Poole had faltered off because he had seen the face of Commissioner Selwyn Patterson loom up from behind Camille, looking not at all amused, as usual.

"Inspector?" The word sounded like a death knell.

"Sir!" Camille scrambled back to her feet and thrust the ring into her commanding officer's view, leaving Poole to right himself as best he could. Nothing could daunt her now. "Inspector Poole and I – see, we are to be married indeed – in four days!"

"Four days," Poole repeated, in the same way an upturned turtle might, once it resigns itself to its fate.

"So I observe." Patterson peered at the stone. "Three carats, a 'D' in colour, I would guess, and VVSA in clarity. Very nice." He straightened. "I congratulate you both. And if I may add; high time, as well."

Poole jerked his head up from his supine position to eye his superior, who was smirking gently. "As it happens, Inspector, it was in relation to just this matter that I wished to speak to you."

Poole rolled off the devastation on his desk and pulled his tie straight, secreting the little book in his pocket as he did so. "Yes, sir. I, um – yes, sir. Anything we can do, uh . . . within reason – I mean, of course, er –" An ugly suspicion was writhing to the surface of his beleaguered brain.

"You will, of course, have to appoint a best man."

Oh, glory in heaven!

"I regret to inform you, Inspector Poole, that I will not be available for that position."

"Oh!" escaped Poole before he could stop it, and he was forced to add "What – a – shame, sir! We had, uh, hoped?" He shot a panicked look at Camille.

She stifled a laugh. "The Commissioner has already agreed to act as a beloved uncle and give away the bride," she told him, and shrugged as if to add We can't have everything, dear one. "You'll have to ask Dwayne, or Fidel?"

The fact that this was really happening had nibbled and nudged at Poole several times by now, but this brought it home in a way nothing else had. He needed a best man, because in four days . . . four days! He needed two!

His mind snapped into police emergency mode and he launched toward the veranda, only to meet his returning officers on the threshold. "Fidel! Dwayne!" He grasped at their respective shoulders, ignoring their shocked looks; he was too distracted to realize this was the first time he'd actually touched them. "Four days! Dwayne, they'll expect parties. You're in charge of those. Fidel – everything else. Transport, rentals – we'll have you two in your dress whites. First thing: license. Get the Enfield!"

"Yes, sir!" barked Fidel, backing out. If he hopped, he could get to the bike first.

"Dress whites? Aww," Dwayne was beginning, when the Commissioner cut in.

"The Registrar awaits you, Inspector. All the required paperwork was forwarded to her office this morning, but I believe your officers will be needed as witnesses. I myself am prepared to remain here and man the station while you complete the legalities." He removed his cap, gave Camille a casual kiss on the cheek, and waved her toward the station doors. "Gentlemen?"

Poole dashed back, grabbed up his jacket, briefcase and bride, and with a rushed thanks, dashed again for the door. Dwayne hesitated, grinned at his highest superior, caught up the cheese, and followed.

The Registrar's office was cool, calm and paneled. Poole gallantly let Camille sign her name first, allowing the clerk a moment or two to admire the ring as she did so. Then he took the pen. This was paperwork, and his career in the Met Police had left him with no fear of any administrative details.

"The full name, please," said the clerk, as he hesitated just after the 'Richard' bit.

"Sorry?"

"The law requires your full name on the license, Inspector." Was that a smirk on the clerk's lacquered lips?

"I – really? That is, no one mentioned I'd have to –"

"The full name, please." Oh, that was a smirk, definitely. He slid the form away from Camille and the lads and turned his back to write, but she was already angling for a look at the required papers on the counter. Then his intended began to giggle, and Fidel took advantage of his height to lean over her shoulder, and Dwayne flashed his smile at the clerk, who simpered and mouthed a name in reply.

"Really?" Camille asked, in a tiny, choked voice.

"Yes." Poole's patented quick-snap end-of-conversation answer got its usual response; that is, it was ignored.

"That would make your initials –"

"Yes, it would, now can we please get on?"

Any guesses as to what Richard's middle name might be?