BOOK 9

George Dixon watched the large crocodile of people emerge from the intermediary house by the east wall.

As the owner of fifteen per cent of the Orchid House, he’d been asked to attend the full day’s festivities, of course, but he’d only just decided to put in an appearance.

It was three-fifteen p.m.

The extra waiters and waitresses hired for the lunch had been circulating in the grounds all afternoon, laden with trays of champagne, fruit juice and little nibbles. He hijacked a waiter and grabbed a glass of cold Moet et Chandon and a few smoked salmon pastries that melted in the mouth.

He was lounging against the fountain that was the centre-piece of the outer grounds. Round, made of stone, and full of fish and water-lilies, it shot a fountain of water nearly thirty feet into the air.

It was cooler there.

George didn’t much like the heat. He was a small but very fat man, with a round belly and short, stocky legs. He could only imagine what the heat must be like inside the hot-houses.

G