Victoria. She took a seat and leaned her elbows on the table. She didn’t pick up the letter.
‘What about Piers? Can’t he?’
‘No!’
‘But if it’s bad news?’
‘Not bad news so much as… danger.’
Victoria stood three feet away from the letter with her arms folded, staring at it nervously. She had a beautifully enunciated, ever-so-slightly-weary voice that suggested she had been bred to have servants and marry the kind of man who, in previous generations, might have joined the army and ordered his social inferiors to charge in vain against a better-armed enemy. Actually she had learned to speak that way in elocution lessons. Even so, even if she had belonged to some ruling class, surely she was anchored securely enough in modern times to understand that if she thought the letter contained anthrax, she shouldn’t be so selfish as to propose that Emily open the letter on her behalf and take the hit?
Emily looked at the letter, but she didn’t move. Danger? She couldn’t think what Victoria could possibly mean. She hadn’t had a good day, and in her tiredness and bewilderment she felt as though she were the stupid one.
‘Not that kind of danger,’ said Victoria, reading Emily’s expression. She came and sat down at the table without unfolding her arms, hooking a chair and drawing it back with one foot, all of which was quite a difficult manoeuvre, a bit like Russian Cossack dancing. Only when she was sitting opposite Emily did Victoria unfold her arms, putting her elbows on the table and clasping her hands together in prayer before Emily. Then she confessed.
‘I’ve been getting nasty notes. Poison pen. I can’t bear to look at it. Can you?’
‘Maybe Piers…?’
‘Piers mustn’t know. Quick, Ems, he’ll be home from work soon. Please! Please. Open it for me. You’re a clever girl. You’ll know what to do.’
It wasn’t a question, Emily thought, of whether or not she’d know what to do, but whether or not she wanted to get involved. Victoria didn’t seem to think that was up for consideration. She seemed to think that Emily would want to spend her Friday night opening and screening Victoria’s mail, spending her free time doing unwaged what she’d normally do during working hours to make a living.
She opened the letter.
The following message was printed in capital letters in blue biro on pale blue notepaper, the kind of stationery that you might use to write a thank you note if you were seventy years old:
WHAT A DISGRACE
TO THE RED, WHITE AND BLUE
VICTORIA’S BEEN NAUGHTY
WHAT SHALL WE DO?
There was no address or signature.
‘It’s another one, isn’t it?’ said Victoria, watching Emily’s expression.
‘I don’t know. What were the other ones like?’ She handed Victoria the letter so she could see for herself.
‘I’ll rip it up and put it on the compost heap – the slugs and snails can choke on it.’
‘You can’t do that. It’s evidence. If you’re being threatened, or blackmailed… Are you being blackmailed?’
‘“Evidence?” I can’t go to the police. What about Piers’s job?’
Piers was something important, Emily wasn’t quite sure what, in the civil service. ‘Victoria, what does it mean?’
Victoria said, ‘It seems to imply, doesn’t it, with the “red, white and blue” that they’ll cause a scandal and Piers’s job with the government will be at stake.’
‘Where are the other notes? If someone’s threatening you, you can’t let them get away with it.’
Victoria brought her large, grey handbag over from where it had been squatting on the Welsh dresser, in front of the slightly dusty display of never-used blue-and-white crockery. She said, ‘You know I used to be an actress?’
Yes. Everyone knew it. Victoria still had the cheekbones. She had done a bit of telly when she was younger, and popped up now and then in daytime repeats, in Rumpole of the Bailey or other dependable, once-popular British TV series. For whatever
‘What about Piers? Can’t he?’
‘No!’
‘But if it’s bad news?’
‘Not bad news so much as… danger.’
Victoria stood three feet away from the letter with her arms folded, staring at it nervously. She had a beautifully enunciated, ever-so-slightly-weary voice that suggested she had been bred to have servants and marry the kind of man who, in previous generations, might have joined the army and ordered his social inferiors to charge in vain against a better-armed enemy. Actually she had learned to speak that way in elocution lessons. Even so, even if she had belonged to some ruling class, surely she was anchored securely enough in modern times to understand that if she thought the letter contained anthrax, she shouldn’t be so selfish as to propose that Emily open the letter on her behalf and take the hit?
Emily looked at the letter, but she didn’t move. Danger? She couldn’t think what Victoria could possibly mean. She hadn’t had a good day, and in her tiredness and bewilderment she felt as though she were the stupid one.
‘Not that kind of danger,’ said Victoria, reading Emily’s expression. She came and sat down at the table without unfolding her arms, hooking a chair and drawing it back with one foot, all of which was quite a difficult manoeuvre, a bit like Russian Cossack dancing. Only when she was sitting opposite Emily did Victoria unfold her arms, putting her elbows on the table and clasping her hands together in prayer before Emily. Then she confessed.
‘I’ve been getting nasty notes. Poison pen. I can’t bear to look at it. Can you?’
‘Maybe Piers…?’
‘Piers mustn’t know. Quick, Ems, he’ll be home from work soon. Please! Please. Open it for me. You’re a clever girl. You’ll know what to do.’
It wasn’t a question, Emily thought, of whether or not she’d know what to do, but whether or not she wanted to get involved. Victoria didn’t seem to think that was up for consideration. She seemed to think that Emily would want to spend her Friday night opening and screening Victoria’s mail, spending her free time doing unwaged what she’d normally do during working hours to make a living.
She opened the letter.
The following message was printed in capital letters in blue biro on pale blue notepaper, the kind of stationery that you might use to write a thank you note if you were seventy years old:
WHAT A DISGRACE
TO THE RED, WHITE AND BLUE
VICTORIA’S BEEN NAUGHTY
WHAT SHALL WE DO?
There was no address or signature.
‘It’s another one, isn’t it?’ said Victoria, watching Emily’s expression.
‘I don’t know. What were the other ones like?’ She handed Victoria the letter so she could see for herself.
‘I’ll rip it up and put it on the compost heap – the slugs and snails can choke on it.’
‘You can’t do that. It’s evidence. If you’re being threatened, or blackmailed… Are you being blackmailed?’
‘“Evidence?” I can’t go to the police. What about Piers’s job?’
Piers was something important, Emily wasn’t quite sure what, in the civil service. ‘Victoria, what does it mean?’
Victoria said, ‘It seems to imply, doesn’t it, with the “red, white and blue” that they’ll cause a scandal and Piers’s job with the government will be at stake.’
‘Where are the other notes? If someone’s threatening you, you can’t let them get away with it.’
Victoria brought her large, grey handbag over from where it had been squatting on the Welsh dresser, in front of the slightly dusty display of never-used blue-and-white crockery. She said, ‘You know I used to be an actress?’
Yes. Everyone knew it. Victoria still had the cheekbones. She had done a bit of telly when she was younger, and popped up now and then in daytime repeats, in Rumpole of the Bailey or other dependable, once-popular British TV series. For whatever
Similar Books
