Cast For Death by Margaret Yorke Page B

she said.
    ‘Good, that’s settled, then.’
    ‘But I must leave tomorrow afternoon. I’m going to a concert in the evening,’ Liz said firmly.
    ‘Very well.’
    With whom, Patrick wanted to know.
    Jane, who was out in the garden cutting the withered blooms off daffodils, was surprised when a shabby Triumph Herald drew up outside the house, and at first she did not recognise Liz as she was helped to get out by a slight, dark man who sped round from the passenger’s side to aid her. It was some seconds before the bulk of her brother extricated itself from the rear.
    Liz hung back, shy now that they had arrived, but Manolakis was smiling eagerly, waiting to be introduced. Jane did her best to wear a welcoming expression; how like Patrick to turn up without even a telephone call; did they all expect to be fed? She shook hands with Manolakis, and told Liz how pleased she was to see her, which was true.
    ‘Well, Patrick, what’s happened to your passion wagon?’ she enquired drily, and to Liz, ‘Have you seen his new car?’
    ‘Yes.’ Liz began to laugh. ‘Is that what you call it?’
    ‘I do – the colour, and the room-for-two-only bit,’ said Jane. ‘It’s his bird-catcher.’
    ‘Jane, really—’ Patrick looked cross and confused.
    ‘Liz has known you forever. I don’t see why I have to censor my speech before her,’ said Jane.
    Manolakis was looking puzzled through this exchange.
    ‘I do not understand, please,’ he said.
    ‘It’s just as well,’ said Patrick.
    ‘I’ll explain, Dimitri,’ said Liz, who was still laughing.
    ‘We’ve been to Stratford. There wasn’t room for three of us in my car,’ said Patrick sourly. ‘Where’s Michael?’ At least he might expect some support from his brother-in-law.
    ‘Fetching Andrew from a friend’s house. He took Miranda with him,’ said Jane. ‘Come in. I’m sure you want a drink.’
    She did not sound very hospitable, Patrick thought, as she led the way into the house. He turned to let Liz and Manolakis go ahead of him, but they were in a huddle, with Liz busy talking and Manolakis listening intently, his hand on her arm; she must be explaining about the car.
    ‘Have they been friends for long?’ Jane asked, nodding towards the two.
    ‘They met for the first time a few days ago. They get on very well, as you see,’ said Patrick in an acid voice.
    ‘Good,’ said Jane. ‘It’s awkward when one’s friends don’t like each other.’
    When Michael and the children returned, Manolakis was describing the Morris dancers and making a serious comparison between their performance and Greek dancing.
    ‘The bells are—’ he sought for the word.
    ‘Quaint,’ supplied Patrick.
    ‘It’s pretty energetic,’ Jane said. ‘Very good exercise for those taking part.’
    ‘Bit folksy for me,’ said Michael. ‘Can’t say I care for it.’
    ‘Greek dancing’s quite different,’ Jane said. ‘And so is the music – less jiggy . . . all that haunting melody. Bouzoukis aren’t at all like concertinas.’
    She went away to put the children to bed, and when she returned found that the three visitors were staying for supper, which Patrick had gone to buy at a Chinese takeaway place nearby. By the time he got back, more plans had been made.
    ‘Dimitri’s very keen to go to Woburn, and so’s Liz,’ Jane told him. ‘So we’re all going tomorrow. Liz is staying here for the night, but you and Dimitri will have to go back to Mark’s – we haven’t room for you all.’
    Patrick gaped at Liz. What sort of betrayal was this? All the same, it did solve the problem of where she was to sleep, a matter to which he had not yet turned his mind.
    ‘I thought you wanted to get back in good time tomorrow,’ he said to her, nevertheless.
    ‘I can go straight to London from Woburn,’ said Liz.
    ‘She’s meeting her friend at the Festival Hall,’ Jane informed him, spiking in a fresh barb. ‘We must leave in good time – you must both get here