I
In the shade of a gnarled chestnut tree, she waited for Edward in a clearing in the east garden of Ashford Hall. As they did every Sunday, they would meet to read the draft of his next novel, an autobiographical fiction about his childhood and adolescence in Italy until his exile to Ireland because of the victory of fascism. He had crafted the narrative according to the taste of his target audience, of which Edward was a part as a zero reader of all his works.
"Elizabeth?"
Someone called from the edge of the clearing. Her strained eyes distinguished a figure in a refined cream-colored suit.
Edward.
It didn't take long for them to meet again. They kissed each other on the lips. Her rose-scented perfume mingled with his vanilla fragrance.
"Shall we go?" she suggested.
"Let's go." He followed her.
They strolled leisurely, she clinging to his arm until they reached a bench sheltered under a century-old oak tree. Each took his favorite place, Elizabeth on the left and Edward on the right. As Elizabeth prepared the typewritten draft for reading, she detected Edward's self-absorbed posture, with his legs crossed and his gaze wandering; a sign of obvious uneasiness.
"What is troubling you?" she asked.
"Nothing, I'm fine." He groomed his mustache evasively.
Elizabeth stroked his arm to coax him. She guessed the source of his obfuscation.
"Is it Spencer?"
Edward swallowed:
"Yes."
"What's the matter?"
Edward sighed:
"I don't want Spencer to break his promise."
"Don't you trust him?"
"Yes. No. I don't know. I'm undecided." He tensely stroked the hand she had laid on his arm.
"Are you going to cancel your participation in his company?"
"I don't know."
"Give him some time off."
"Yes... Anyway. Sorry... Let's change the subject. I want to know what happened with Lisbeth. What happened after the black shirts came knocking on her door?"
"Let's find out" Elizabeth invited.
II
The carillon at Saint Michael's chimed one o'clock in the afternoon. The mayor of Raccoon City, George Brown, had not yet returned to his office, where an impatient Oswell rested on a leather couch behind a window overlooking a picturesque village of brick and wood buildings in the foothills of the Arklay Mountains. He had requested an audience with the local representative to negotiate the construction of an Anzec factory in the town.
Raccoon City was, compared to the surrounding towns, a tiny village mostly inhabited by whites who had migrated for the sole purpose of nibbling at the remnants of the Midwest's buoyant industrial wealth. On the face of it, there was no reason for a British aristocrat to take up residence in such a shabby place. However, there were two reasons. First, it's a fledgling, virginal industry, with no foreign investment. And secondly, an inbred and corruptible city council. He envisioned the place as a prototypical corporate city, with automotive and pharmaceutical factories of its own.
The office door opened. Finally.
"Excuse me, Mr. Spencer. I'll be right with you" said a deep voice parched with tobacco.
George Brown hurried into the office, shook Oswell's hand a second time, and then settled into his own chair behind a desk decorated with all sorts of trinkets and a couple of shoddily stuffed animals. Brown was a squat, monastically coiffed fellow whose baggy brown suit didn't match his bushy black mustache.
"Don't worry. I understand the demands of your position, Mr. Brown." He didn't like to be referred to as mister.
Brown pulled a notebook from one of his desk drawers and a pen.
"Tell me, Mr. Spencer, what kind of investment you would like to make in Raccoon City."
"I would like to open a factory for Anzec Pharma, my pharmaceutical company, for the production of drugs. I recently bought a patent and would like to put it to use. I'm confident that the rumors I've heard about the city's fiscal and industrial potential are true."
"Yes, I assure you they are." Brown smiled broadly. "I'm sure that with the support of big businessmen like yourself, Raccoon City will be one of the best cities in the Midwest."
"Aha" Oswell cut off the flattery. "As I said, I'm confident in the city's potential."
"Yeah, yeah, good. Don't worry. We will see to it that you are provided with all the means necessary to accomplish your objectives." He wrote in the notebook.
"If so, I wouldn't mind supporting your party in a future election."
"Sure. When do you plan to build the factory?"
"As soon as I get the title to the property. Early summer." Brown went back to writing in the notebook.
"Understood. We'll take care of it. And also the benefits you are entitled to as a foreign investor."
"Well."
One goal remained: to seal his partnership with Earl Ashford to dispose of his political and patrimonial power.