Lucid Intervals (2010)

envelope and extracted some eight-by-ten color photographs. A naked man lay on a gurney with a cloth laid over his crotch. His chest was badly bruised, and there was a cut on his chin. He looked very much like an older version of the Stanley Whitestone photograph Felicity had given him.
    Hackett sat down on the sofa next to Stone’s chair. “Whitestone was my guest up here two years ago. I loaned him a car so that he could see some of the island. We had a dinner reservation, and when he had been gone for several hours I called the police to report him missing. I was passed on to an officer who asked me to describe Stan and the car he was driving. I did so, and he told me that Stan had been badly injured in a head-on collision with a fully loaded dump truck, a few miles from here.
    “I went to the Bar Harbor Hospital and found that he had died only a moment before my arrival. I took those photos with a pocket camera I occasionally carry.”
    Hackett sighed. “I knew that he wasn’t married and that his parents were dead. There were no siblings, either, so there was no one I knew of to inform. Finally, after the body had been in the hospital morgue for a couple of days, I called Lord Wight, who had recommended that I interview him for an open position in my firm, and he couldn’t help, either. He did tell me that the man, who I had been told was named Robert Foster, was Stanley Whitestone. I had heard something of him on the grapevine. I made arrangements with the local funeral directors and bought a plot in the churchyard. Apart from the funeral director, I was the only person at the burial. There’s another envelope inside the envelope in your hand.”
    Stone extracted a smaller envelope, opened it and found a death certificate. “Had you ever met him before he came to see you?”
    “No, he called from New York and flew commercial up here, and I put him in the guesthouse. We talked for a while over lunch the following day, and I was impressed and had about decided to offer him the job. Then he went sightseeing, and I didn’t see him again until he was dead.”
    “What did he tell you of his background?” Stone asked.
    “He was the son of a career Royal Army officer, a colonel, educated at Harrow and Sandhurst, served for some years in the army as an intelligence officer, rose to the rank of major, then left and traveled for several years. He had an inheritance, I believe.”
    “What impressed you?”
    “Intelligence, wit, knowledge of the political situation in a number of countries, especially in the Middle East. I needed someone to work out there, to be based in Saudi Arabia.”
    “Did he tell you where he had traveled?”
    “Middle East, North Africa. I believed he lived in Morocco for a while.” Hackett looked at his watch. “I said I’d have you back by dinnertime. You can keep the photographs if you like. I expect Dame Felicity would like to see them.”
    Stone didn’t reply to that. He stuffed the items back into the envelope and took it with him.
    Back in the airplane, he followed Hackett’s instructions again and flew them back to Teterboro, where he flew an instrument approach into the airport. “I’m very impressed with the airplane,” he said, as they shut down the engines. “Thank you for letting me fly it.”
    “Come to work for me, and you’ll have one of your own next year,” Hackett said.
    “I don’t think I could afford to run it,” Stone replied.
    “I’ll see that you can,” Hackett said as they deplaned. The man who had seen them off was there to tend to the airplane.
    Back in the car, Hackett pressed a switch, and a thick glass window between the front and rear seats slid up. He turned toward Stone. “You think I’m Stanley Whitestone, don’t you?”
    “It crossed my mind,” Stone said.
    “I invite you to check out my background as thoroughly as you like,” Hackett said. “I’m sure Dame Felicity would want you to.”
    Stone still didn’t acknowledge the reference.
    “Have you known her for long?”
    Stone said nothing.
    “Oh, come, Stone,” Hackett said. “The two of you were together at the ambassador’s dinner, and you introduced her to Wight. You can’t deny that you know her.”
    “I don’t deny it,” Stone said.
    “How did you meet?”
    “In London some years ago. I was doing some work for a client there.”
    “Did you know what she was at the time?”
    “She didn’t talk about her work. Ours was a social