‘Odd. Deb Attracts Spectral Phenomena. You don’t seem the psychic type.’
‘Well, of course, in the end they weren’t spectral at all only I thought it would be a pity to spoil it –’
‘Not at all bad, Hilary. Keep it up. Not so many adjectives.’
‘Harriet,’ I said to his back, for already he had turned to a pile of papers behind him and was riffling through them. ‘And I’ve never been a debutante.’
He did not seem to hear me.
‘Like a nice Chocolate Oliver, dear?’ asked Muriel when I returned to the office. ‘My niece gave them to me for Christmas. They’re ever so luxurious.’
I took one. I have always thought it undignified to bear grudges. Besides, they are my favourite biscuits. Mr Podmore came in while we were munching.
‘You.’ He looked at Muriel. ‘Break-in in Baker’s Row. Pensioner in Shock. Burglar Exposes Himself. Possible tie-in with Jack the Zipper.’
‘Oh, that old chestnut,’ muttered Muriel. ‘Jack the Zipper must be a hundred and forty by now. If he ever existed.’
But Mr Podmore had already slammed the door of his sanctum. A few wisps of smoke drifted out and Eileen coughed delicately into her cupped hand. Usually Muriel would have sent me on such a pedestrian story but this time she put on her coat, fastened her headscarf under her chin and went, grumbling fearfully, to Baker’s Row.
Mr Podmore appointed me to do research for a series of articles he was writing, about the breakdown of community spirit. This week it was the Nuisance of Noisy Neighbours. Luckily, as it was a cold wet afternoon, I could do most of it by telephone. I got the street directory and started ringing people up.
It was extraordinary how willing people were to fill me in on the intimate doings of their neighbours. Nobody had a good word to say for anybody else. It turned out that most of these upright citizens were living next door to men who regularly put their wives into hospital with multiple fractures, received pantechnicons of stolen goods and were frequently seen digging six-by-two-by-six-shaped holes in their back gardens at dead of night. As for next-doors’ wives, it seemed they only stopped battering their children and entertaining tradesmen in scarlet underwear – the wives not the tradesmen – in order to nip down to the off-licence to lug back crates of gin.
Certainly these people led colourful lives. Drugged practically senseless, they thieved, fornicated and held orgies throughout the livelong day. At night they did the same but with devil-worship thrown in. Travelling home that evening on the bus through these same dull grey streets I looked in vain for even one lighted window where the inhabitants were not sitting immobile in front of their televisions with trays of chips on their knees. But until the bus drew up at the bottom of our road I had not thought once about the divorce and had been free all day of nagging unhappiness. Cordelia met me on the doorstep.
‘You’re late. That sewing machine is the most stupid thing ever invented. You’ve got to help me.’
‘All right. But you’ve got to help me, then. Inspector Foy’s coming to supper.’
Cordelia brightened. ‘Oh good. He’s rather yummy, I think. And not queer.’ She looked thoughtful. ‘It’s a pity my trousers won’t be finished. But there’s always your black.’
I unpacked the food I had bought on my way home. Cordelia helped herself to one of the grapes I had intended to go with the cheese. To my dismay, she shuddered and spat it out. ‘Sour as pickled onions.’
‘Oh, blast! Really?’ I started to feel harassed. We put the grapes on the windowsill for the birds. A blackbird flew down at once, gave them a peck and flapped off in disgust. While Cordelia peeled potatoes I struggled with the sewing machine, which had made an annoying tangle on the underside of the seersucker. I had to admit defeat but Cordelia had been put into a good mood by the imminent arrival of the inspector. When he came she met him on the doorstep and led him at once into the drawing room where she gave him a drink and entertained him with grown-up conversation. I heard snatches of it as I rushed up the basement stairs flinging off my apron as I went.
‘So sorry,’ I panted. ‘You know what cooking’s like – so much last-minute stuff.’ Actually I had been chasing Mark Antony through the maze as he made off with the salmon from which I had carelessly averted my eyes for a moment. It was looking a little the worse for wear, not only minus its head but its gleaming silver sides marred by teethmark and by the battering it had received against the yews. I had given it a good wash before putting it into the fish kettle, making a mental note to come down in three minutes to turn the gas down in order to achieve a gentle simmer.
‘I was telling Charles about our delightful stay with Sir Oswald and Lady Pye.’ Cordelia looked at me critically. ‘You’ve got fish scales on your cheek.’
‘Char …? Oh, yes.’ I had forgotten that this was the inspector’s name.
‘I’d like it if you’d call me Charles, too.’ He got out his pipe, waved it at me for permission to smoke and on receipt of my nod began to pack the bowl with tobacco. He was looking remarkably different in a black blazer, blue shirt and jeans. Despite the pipe he looked younger and more – less like an uncle, certainly.
‘Cordelia’s been telling me about the glittering social scene in Derbyshire.’ Despite the perfect solemnity of his delivery I could tell that the inspector – that Charles – was amused. But he was much too kind a man to wound Cordelia’s feelings by not appearing to take her seriously. ‘Lords, bishops and baronets. Film stars and foreign princes. Dancing every night. It sounds very glamorous.’
Cordelia looked quickly at me and blushed a little.
‘My goodness, yes,’ I said. ‘It was. And Cordelia’s hand was sought for every dance.’
‘Harriet looked very nice too.’ Cordelia paid off her debt. ‘And Portia, once she got rid of the cement-coloured Babygro.’
‘Well,’ said Charles, ‘Derbyshire must have been knocked sideways by so much beauty.’
I left them talking while I went to answer the telephone.
‘Sorry I haven’t rung before.’ Portia’s voice sounded excited and happy. ‘We’ve been busy looking for somewhere to live. We’ve found a tiny cottage just outside Manchester. It’s got a stream beside it and it’s incredibly primitive but cheap. Next to a field full of divine cream-coloured cows. It’s called Nightingale Cottage. Isn’t that romantic? Two rooms downstairs and one upstairs, right in the roof. Jonno can’t stand up straight in the bedroom because of the slope.’ She giggled. ‘He says he intends to be lying down in it most of the time, anyway. You have to wash in the kitchen sink. The lav’s outside but it flushes, thank God. Honestly it really is rather a love’s-young-dream, roses-round-the-door sort of place. Damp as hell but there’s a huge fireplace, bigger than the kitchen actually. How are you?’
‘Fine.’
‘Good. You’ve no idea how much fun we’ve been having. Jonno’s got to see his tutor tomorrow and start doing some work but while he’s in the library I’m going to be helping the farmer who owns our cottage, milking the cows and things. Only it seems it’s done by machine these days, which is a disappointment. I rather fancied myself as Tess of the D’Urbervilles.’ It was good to know we still shared fantasies, at least. ‘Still,’ Portia continued, ‘a pound an hour isn’t bad. Jonno has an allowance from his father so we won’t starve. And the farmer’s going to teach me how to shear a sheep. Imagine me, a farmhand! Isn’t it priceless, when I can hardly tell a hen from a goose? There are ducks on the stream and I want to train them to come up to the door. You’re not saying much.’
‘I’m listening to you. How’s Jonno?’
‘I’m crazy about him. This is it, Hat. This is love. But it isn’t what I’d thought it would be. We spend most of the time we aren’t in bed laughing hysterically. He’s my friend as well as my lover. The very best friend I’ve ever had. He says he feels the same. He hasn’t been drunk once. He says he doesn’t want to drink when he’s with me. It wouldn’t matter if the rest of the world flew o
ff to another planet. We don’t need anyone else.’
There was much more in this vein. As I listened I was hoping that nothing would happen to destroy the dream. Portia had been aux anges before and it had not lasted. She and Jonno were alike in being reckless and impulsive. I did not know if this was a good or a bad thing.
‘Yes, I really do like him. Very much,’ I said in answer to her question, ‘but Portia, listen a moment. There’s something I ought to tell you. Brace yourself, darling. It’ll be a bit of a shock. But don’t worry, I’m sure it’ll all be fine. We’ve just got to get used to the idea. Ma and Pa – they’ve decided that they can’t make each other happy in the old way and they think perhaps it might be a good idea to live apart for a bit.’
‘You mean they’re going to split? Get a divorce?’
‘Yes. I’m so sorry to have to tell you, darling, but I didn’t want you to read it in the papers. The journalists keep asking me if the rumours are true and –’
‘Has Pa got somebody new?’
‘Yes. A lawyer called Fleur. He says it’s serious.’
‘And Ma’ll stay with Ronnie?’
‘They seem to be rather happy. They’re going to buy a small hotel in Cornwall.’
Portia was silent for a moment. Then she said, ‘It isn’t a total surprise, is it? I mean, they haven’t been together really for ages. In body but not in soul. The heat went out of the thing years ago. I tell you one thing, Hat, I’m not going to mess about – with other men, I mean – and I’m not going to let Jonno do it with girls, either. It just hurts too much and you can’t go on really loving someone when they hurt you. You have to bank down the fires or you’re too vulnerable. I want something much better than that.’
I was impressed by Portia’s solemn tone. ‘I hope you make it work. I’m sure you’re right. But you’re so young to forswear all others. It won’t be easy.’
‘No. But I’ve always got our parents as a shining example of how not to do it. Does Cordelia know? About the divorce, I mean.’
‘None of the others do. Bron and Ophelia are still away. Pa asked me if I’d tell them when the moment seemed right. It hasn’t so far with Cordelia.’
Portia’s voice became sharper. ‘Why are you supposed to do our parents’ dirty work?’
‘Pa says he can’t face it. He’s not in very good shape, you know. He gets very agitated about things. Yesterday Cordelia slammed a door and Pa had to go and stand in the garden for half an hour. When he’s here we have to have all the doors open all the time.’
‘Mm. I hope this Fleur creature is long-suffering.’
‘I haven’t met her.’
‘Well, it’s a mess. I’m glad I’m out of it.’ There was a silence. ‘Sorry, that was rather selfish of me. Of course you’re right in it. Don’t get gloomy.’
‘I’ll try not to. I’m going to throw myself into my work. And there’s a lot to see to here. I’ll be fine.’
‘We’re not on the telephone at the cottage, natch, but I’ll let you have the farm number when I know it, so you can always get a message through if it’s vital.’
‘Thanks. I’d better go now. Charles Foy’s here for supper.’
‘Who? Oh, an inspector calls. That’s good. I’ve sometimes thought he’s taken a shine to you. You’d better look out. Or not as the case may be. He’s quite a duck. Though really your fond little heart’s already given away, isn’t it?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘If you don’t want to tell me, I’ll keep quiet and pretend not to know anything about it.’
‘I really don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Afterwards, when we’d said goodbye, I realised that I had forgotten to tell her how the murder had been done. If it was murder. Portia had promised to telephone at least once a week. I found myself wishing she was not so far away. The sound of a key in the lock of the front door broke into my thoughts.
‘Hello, Harriet. Give me a hand with my cases, would you? The taxi-driver’s being bloody. I shan’t give him a tip.’
Ophelia put down her bag and took off her coat. She looked sleek and elegant. She offered her cheek for me to kiss.
‘How was Sussex?’
Ophelia rolled her eyes. ‘One useful thing’s come out of it. Apart from my fee, that is. I’m prepared to look a lot more kindly on home and all its squalid little ways. My dear, they were so pure and good. A strange religious sect, a cross between the Mormons and the Plymouth Brethren. And yet they’ve got pots of money! It’s extraordinary.’
‘I don’t know why rich people shouldn’t be religious.’
‘I’ve always thought religion was a consolation for being plain and poor. It seems I was wrong. The Drosselmeyers have mink-lined and gold-plated everything but they don’t drink, they eat only boiled chicken and fish and they go to bed at nine o’clock. The only thing they do do is screw like mad. He has three wives and twenty children. Horrible little things. The boys wear miniature suits like their father’s and the girls wear strange missionary caps. They all have an intimate knowledge of the Old Testament and a distressing habit of quoting it on every possible occasion.’
‘Poor Ophelia. No champagne after all. We must have some this evening to make up. Charles Foy’s here.’
‘Ah. The great detective. When Pa rang me he seemed to think we ought to get up a subscription for a statue in the park.’ She shrugged. ‘Naturally I’m glad Pa’s out of that ghastly hole but I’m so bad at being grateful. And he – Foy, I mean – disapproves of me so much I can’t resist behaving badly just to tease.’
‘Can I help you with your luggage, Miss Byng?’
The inspector – Charles – came into the hall. He must have heard what she said but he smiled very charmingly.
‘Oh, thanks.’ She was off-hand. ‘There are two more cases in the cab. If you wouldn’t mind.’
She turned her back on him haughtily but as she passed me on her way to the stairs she winked. Poor Charles struggled in a few minutes later with her baggage. I only found out much later that he had to pay the cab fare as well.
‘I ought to investigate these cases.’ He put them down and flexed his arms. ‘There must be at least one dead body in each.’
‘Better have another drink. Oh my God – the salmon!’
I had been so distracted by Portia’s telephone call and Ophelia’s return that I had quite forgotten about turning down the gas. The fish kettle had boiled dry and the underside of the salmon was stuck to its base.
‘Can I help?’ Charles had come down into the kitchen. ‘I don’t need to be treated with ceremony, you know.’ He peered into the kettle. ‘Mm. Here, let me.’ Masterfully he took over and got the fish onto a plate and the kettle cooling in the sink. ‘I think you can scrape off that burned bit and the rest will be perfect.’
‘It doesn’t look quite as I’d hoped.’
‘Smother it with slices of cucumber. It’ll be fine. The taste’s the thing. Now, give me a job.’
‘Why’ve I been left all on my own in the drawing room?’ complained Cordelia, coming down to find Charles putting the finishing touches to the risi e bisi which we were having for a first course while I struggled with the hollandaise sauce. ‘I’ve eaten all the peanuts and now I feel sick. I shan’t be able to eat any supper.’
‘Just as well.’ I looked sadly at the sauce. ‘This beastly stuff’s gone greasy and lumpy suddenly.’
Charles peered into the pan. ‘I think it’s curdled. Sorry I can’t help you. I’m only a coarse cook. That’s too advanced for me’
‘Damn! That was the doorbell. Pa must’ve forgotten his key. Cordelia, could you go?’
‘I’m feeling much too sick. I finished the bread sticks and the olives as well.’
She did look rather green. I ran up and flung open the front door. Rupert and Archie stood on the doorstep.
‘Oh, how lovely!’ Actually I wanted to kiss them both passionately, having missed them a surprising amount although it had o
nly been a few days. But, mindful of their possible distaste for the female embrace, I offered a chaste peck. ‘What a marvellous surprise! I’m thrilled to see you!’
‘I hope not as surprising as all that.’ Archie was looking particularly fine in a claret-coloured velvet frock-coat. ‘Waldo rang yesterday and asked us to come to supper.’ He sniffed. ‘An interesting smell. Fish. With a hint of scorch.’
‘How bad of him not to tell me!’ I was distraught. ‘Come in. It’s salmon. Only I forgot to turn the gas down. Will you help yourselves to drinks while I have another go at the sauce?’
‘A speech calculated to make a guest’s spirits droop.’ Archie strode towards the stairs. ‘You’d better let me see it.’
In the kitchen Charles was disentangling the sewing machine. I introduced him to Archie.
‘Good evening.’ Archie bowed. ‘I have heard your praises sung.’ He stood with his hands on his hips examining Charles, who remained calm. ‘Hm. A real detective. I call that intensely stimulating. If not inflammatory. However, you’ll forgive me if for the moment I concentrate on Harriet’s sauce?’ He beckoned to me to come closer. ‘You’ve let it overheat. You must begin again over hot water with a fresh yolk. Apron!’
‘There was too much tension in the upper thread,’ explained Charles to Cordelia. He showed her how to adjust it, then did some experimental runs on a spare piece of fabric. ‘It should be all right now.’
‘You aren’t gay, are you?’ I heard Cordelia ask him, sternly.
‘Not in the least. I have a manly way with machinery, rather than a flair for dressmaking.’
Archie raised his eyebrows and gave me a discreet thumbs down.
‘I mean, I really love queers but obviously they’re no good as husbands.’
Charles retained his sang-froid despite the heady atmosphere of latent seduction. ‘If you’ll take my advice you won’t think of marrying a policeman. Very unsociable hours. And our conversation isn’t up to much.’
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