Death in the Andamans by M. M. Kaye Page B

while somewhere behind her in the shadowy depths of the ballroom a monotonous little drip, drip, drip, told her that the rain had discovered a weak joint in the armour of the roof tiles, and that the first of a series of small, gleaming pools was in process of forming on the polished wood floors of the living rooms.
    The house leaked abominably in wet weather, and Valerie thought resentfully of the array of bowls and pails that would presently litter the floors and lie in wait to entrap the feet of the unwary, and beckoned reluctantly over her shoulder to a servant who padded forward on noiseless feet and having received a low-voiced order vanished in the direction of the pantry. Presently the dull drip of water on wood changed to the small, metallic plink of water dripping into an enamelled bowl, and on the far side of the table Copper abandoned her methodical manufacture of bread pellets and lifted her head sharply: ‘Listen — the leaks have started. Now I suppose we shall have to go to bed in a swamp. I wonder if Kadera has remembered to move my bed? The last time it rained, a vindictive leak dripped right on to my pillow and I dreamt I was bathing — and woke up to find that I was.’
    Valerie laughed and turned to Mr Shilto who was sitting on her right: ‘Is your house as bad as this one, Mr Shilto? The last time it rained we had so many leaks that we might just as well have been living under a sieve.’
    But her effort at making light conversation fell on stony ground, for Mr Shilto, who had been staring with blank fixity into the darkness beyond the candlelit table, neither turned his head nor shifted his gaze, and Valerie realized suddenly that he had not spoken since the beginning of the meal and did not know she had spoken to him now. I suppose he’s bound to be a bit distrait, she thought, curbing an unexpectedly strong feeling of irritation, after all, his cousin has just been drowned, and even though they were on bad terms with each other, sudden death is always pretty shocking.
    Not, she had to admit, that there was anything to suggest shock in John Shilto’s pale, puffy face. It wore, if anything, a look of gloating excitement, and it flashed into her mind that he had at that moment an odd look of Kioh, her stepfather’s Siamese cat, when she was stalking a bird or a lizard. Becoming aware that she was staring at him, fascinated, she spoke hurriedly and at random: ‘The last time it rained, there were so many leaks that we ran out of pails and basins and had to start on the cups and saucers. The P.W.D. are always promising to get it put right, but you know how it is with them. They talk a lot, but nothing ever happens!’
    Mr Shilto did not reply, but the brief spell of embarrassed silence that followed his failure to respond to his hostess’s social efforts was broken with unexpected violence by the repetition of her last statement. Rosamund Purvis, subdued, unemotional Rosamund, who had sat throughout the meal in a silence that had been unobtrusive because she was seldom other than silent, spoke in a queer, high-pitched voice that somehow gave the impression that it did not belong to her:
    â€˜But nothing ever happens!’ she said. And suddenly, shockingly, threw back her head and laughed: a shrill, uncomfortable laugh that held no suggestion of mirth, but was purely hysterical.
    â€˜Rosamund!’ Ronnie Purvis’s voice cut across the discordant sound but did not check it.
    â€˜Nothing ever happens,’ gasped Mrs Purvis. ‘ Ha! Ha! Ha! That’s funny! That’s very funny. Nothing ever happens!’
    She rocked to and fro, her hands clutching the tablecloth in front of her while the tears of her uncomfortable mirth wet her faded cheeks and Dan Harcourt, standing up swiftly, crossed to the sideboard and poured out a glass of water: the others sitting in stunned silence.
    â€˜Stop that, Rosamund!’ commanded Ronnie Purvis furiously.