Parry’s son and Lady Furnival’s burglary, she had no way of solving either case. Of course she ought to make some sort of effort to meet the fellow again, but she simply could not summon up the enthusiasm to contact Toby.
She rolled over onto her stomach and twitched the volume knob on the amplifier in the hope that the louder the music the more likely it was to drown out thought. But her thoughts, despite the music, moved quite naturally from the futility of her present life to contemplating the peace and pleasure of her past life. She thought of the private world she and Andrew had inhabited, the world within the library, the world within the rose garden; their own hortus conclusus. It had been a world firmly dislocated from the twentieth century. Theirs had not been a great love affair, but a great friendship. This led her to a more curious thought. Having now met Susan Furnival on a couple of occasions, she wondered how on earth such a misalliance as that of the gregarious socialite and the awkward academic had ever come about. She had never before been curious about Andrew’s past; it had been enough that they were happy together. But she had met so many people who had known a young Andrew, a person she had never met, nor ever before heard about. He certainly had not spoken of his youth. Could he have changed much?
Anna’s contemplations were interrupted by the rasping sound of her phone ringing. This was an occurrence so rare as to make her jump. She sat up, wriggled across the floor on her bottom, and picked up the receiver.
“Wellington Bureau, can I help you?” she said.
The person at the other end spoke, but she could not make out what was being said, “Wait, just one minute...” She went and turned the music off. “I'm sorry about that. Can I help you?”
“There’s this body in my bath!” hissed a muffled voice.
“Toby, you ass! What do you want?” replied Anna.
“I admit to being an ass,” replied the voice. “But I most emphatically deny being Toby.”
Anna was momentarily confused. “Who is speaking, please?” she asked in her crispest business voice.
“Percy,” said the voice. “Percy Blyth. You may recall that you did me the honour of dancing with me at the Furnival’s party.”
“I do recall. But I don’t recall giving you my phone number.”
“Ah, but I have your business card.”
“So you do. Well, what can I do for you?”
“You can do me the honour of coming to supper with me.”
“Oh!” said Anna. “That’s very kind of you,” she instinctively started to frame a polite refusal, but was hampered by the fact that he had not specified an evening.
“I would be delighted if you would come. I knew you would turn me down if I asked you to dine with me alone, so I’ve arranged to have a little dinner party. Toby has agreed to come. So have Julia and Caroline. You’ve not met Jane have you? Jane Duff. No? Well, you are certain to like her. Warren and Philip will complete my specially selected octet. Tell me that I may expect you.”
“You haven’t yet told me when or where this little soiree is to be.”
“At my flat in Warwick Gardens. Would Friday or Saturday suit you best?”
So gallant was his address that Anna decided that it would be churlish of her to decline. At the same time, it gave her an opportunity of reviving her investigations; at least as far as the unpromising Warren case was concerned. It was this latter fact, she assured herself, that clinched it.
“Either would suit me well enough.”
“Splendid! Saturday would be the best day. I’ll send you a proper invitation with my address on it.”
“How very correct of you.”
“We aim to please!”
After Anna had put the phone down she wondered if she had done the right thing. Perhaps by accepting his invitation to dinner she might be considered to be encouraging his attentions. But it occurred to her that this attitude was needlessly old fashioned of her. Flirtation was an art and Percy, no doubt, the master of it. A young widow, his friend’s stepmother, formed an interesting new challenge. According to Toby, he was a man who wooed and abandoned women without compunction. Why should she be so scrupulous? She could simply enjoy his charms with impunity. She no longer had a heart to lose. These considerations were disturbed by the phone ringing again. “Twice in one day!” she muttered to herself.
“Lady Quartermain? It’s Harris Butterworth speaking.”
“Hallo.”
“I wanted to know if you would care to come to dinner. A ladies’ night.” The Brigadier’s invitation was as terse as Percy’s had been extravagant.
“Oh! How kind of you to think of me. When is this ladies’ night?”
“Saturday.”
“That’s rather a shame. I’ve just promised Percy that I would go to dinner with him on Saturday. Percy Blyth – you met him at the Furnival’s.”
“Yes, I do recall meeting him.”
“I am sorry.”
“That’s perfectly all right, it was short notice. I hope you are keeping well.”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Good. Have you any plans to go to Herefordshire?”
“No, I can’t say I have.”
“I will be calling in at Quartermain House sometime to collect a few things.”
“That’s fine. Douglas will be there. What is it you want to collect?”
“Just some documents that Andrew had in his care.”
“Why not get Douglas to sort them out for you? It will save you a journey.”
“No. I planned to go there myself.”
“I’ll let Douglas know. When are you going?”
“Probably next weekend.”
“Fine. You should really be telling Toby; it’s his house now. Anyway, Douglas knows you well enough.”
“Will he have the keys to Andrew’s desk?”
“Almost certainly. What were these documents? Something to do with military history, knowing Andrew. He probably lost them or muddled them up with something else.”
“I rather think not. Well, thank you very much, Lady Quartermain.”
“Thank you for the invitation. I’m sorry I was tied up.”
There the brief conversation ended and Anna was left wondering why talking to the Brigadier was always so awkward. She noticed it particularly over the phone. Was it because he was so relentlessly formal? She must ask him to call her Anna, although that might mean her having to call him Harris, and she didn’t think she could manage that. She would feel impertinent. He was too rigid and correct a person to possess anything as casual as a Christian name. Still, he was considerate. He obviously thought that she needed to be encouraged to go out. But what would this ladies’ night have been like? Some interminable regimental affair, making polite conversation with crusty old colonels and retired generals, no doubt. But might it have offered her an opportunity to get to know the Brigadier, to find out what went on under that bland exterior he presented to the world? Certainly that would have made the evening worthwhile. It was incredible how little she knew about him. What did he do with himself? He was too young and too vigorous to have retired. Come to think of it, he had given her two phone numbers in case she ever needed to contact him in London. One was a daytime number. Maybe she would try it sometime and see who answered. She might find out where he worked. In fact she didn’t even know where he lived. Didn’t he have a place in Surrey or Kent? The man was a mystery in his own right.
When Anna arrived at Percy’s Warwick Gardens flat she found that only Toby had preceded her.
“I never thought that the Quartermains were a punctual family,” was Anna’s comment as Percy greeted her with a kiss. “I thought that Toby could be trusted to bring some good wine, so I brought some good cheese.”
“I’m overwhelmed!” said Percy. “And you were right about Toby. I try to invite at least one wine merchant to every dinner party I give. It saves on expenses.”
“So what treats has Toby provided for us?”
Toby was indulging in his favourite pastime of p
icking up interesting items from shelves and examining them.
“Oh, four of Chablis and two of a rather nice Muscat we’ve just got hold of. Generous of me, eh?” He was looking through a book.
“If you want to know a man, study his book shelf,” commented Anna. “Trust Toby to pick up a picture book!”
“You won’t learn much about me from that little lot,” called Percy from the kitchen.
Anna cast her eye over the small collection. There were all the commonplace reference books looking rather new, and a couple of general books on art. The only novels were a couple by Evelyn Waugh and a very dog-eared James Bond novel.
"James Bond looks well used. That tells me something about you.”
“No it doesn’t. Those books came with the flat.”
“Oh. What happened to your history books?”
“I sold them to a fresher.”
Toby gave a sudden whoop of laughter. “I’ve learnt something about you! Who’s Evelyn then?” he flourished a letter which he had found between the pages of the book he was holding. “Your ADORING Evelyn! Who is this woman?”
Percy came into the room wiping his hands on a cloth. “You are an ass!” was all he said. But he took the letter and put it in a drawer.
“Don’t worry, Percy, old fellow. I won’t tell Caroline!”
“It’s none of her business,” said Percy shortly.
“Anyway, I didn’t read it. I don’t like reading other people’s love letters. They make me giggle, and only girls are allowed to giggle.”
Percy retreated into the kitchen and Toby winked at Anna. She thought Percy might have been more blasé about having
The Wellington Bureau: A Quartermain Mystery Page 13