Ellis Peters - George Felse 06 - Black Is The Colour Of My True Love's Heart by Ellis Peters
Authors: Ellis Peters
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happened to him? You don’t… you don’t think he’s…?”
“I don’t think anything yet,” said George. “I hope he’s simply suffered a crisis of his own, and run away from whatever was on
his
mind. Don’t think he’s exempt at twenty-three. Maybe he was so full of his own problems he couldn’t spare any consideration for yours. If we can find him, be sure we will. Now you go to bed, and leave it to us. If you’ve told me all you know, there’s nothing more you can do.”
“I’ve told you all I know.” She got as far as the door, and looked back. Her face was mute and stiff, but her eyes were full of haunted shadows. “Good night, Mr. Felse!”
“Good night, Felicity!”
And all that, thought George, watching her go, sounds like truth, and nothing but truth. But he still had an uneasy feeling that truth, with Felicity, was an iceberg, with eight-ninths of its bulk under water.
“I’d better tell you at once,” said Dickie Meurice, settling himself at his ease and spreading an elbow on Edward Arundale’s desk, “that of course I’ve realised what this is all about, even if there’s been no official admission that anything’s wrong. Old Penrose has given the impression that everything’s proceeding according to plan, and he had no intention of using Lucien Galt in to-night’s lectures. Without even saying so, which is pretty good going, but then, he’s a deep old bird. But I know too well what Lucifer costs. If they bought him at all, they wanted him on-stage the whole week-end. And I know
him
too well to miss the moment when he absents himself from among us. He went off, voluntarily or otherwise, between lunch and tea. And
you’re
here to cover the management, in case it turns out he didn’t disappear voluntarily. Solicitor? Or private trouble-shooter?”
“County C.I.D.,” said George without expression but not without relish, and saw with satisfaction the instant recoil, quickly mastered but not quickly enough.
Dickie Meurice tapped his cigarette on the arm of his chair, and stared, and thought so hard that his blond countenance paled. He said carefully, lightly: “You don’t mean you’ve found him? You’ve got a genuine police case? This is official?”
“Not yet. If everybody co-operates it may not have to be. No,
we
don’t know yet where Lucien Galt is. Do
you
, Mr. Meurice?”
“Why should
I
know?” The smile a little strained now, the voice demonstrating involuntarily its disastrous tendency to shrillness.
“You had, it seems, about the same chance of being the last to see him, this afternoon, as any of the others who passed up the sight-seeing trips and stayed at Follymead. Were you?”
“Look,” said Meurice, persuasively, leaning forward with the look of shining candour that meant he was at his most devious, “if this is on the level, if it’s a police job, of course I’ll co-operate.” He had made up his mind rapidly enough where his interests lay, and that they were already involved; tweak that string occasionally, and he’d cooperate, maybe even a bit too much. “Tell me what you expect of me, ask me whatever you want to know, and I’m with you.”
“I expect you to keep this strictly to yourself until, or unless, publicity becomes inevitable. Only a handful of people know about it, and it’s better for all concerned that it should remain that way. Better for Follymead, better for all these people attending the course, better for the artists involved, and better for me. Publicity may be very good business in your profession, of course, but only the right kind of publicity. And as you happen to be one of those who stayed at home to-day… Though of course, you may be able to account for every minute of your time, and provide confirmation of your account…”
The artless, concerned smile became even more winning and anxious to help. So he couldn’t account for his time; and he would play ball, though perhaps not strictly by the rules.
“I
“I don’t think anything yet,” said George. “I hope he’s simply suffered a crisis of his own, and run away from whatever was on
his
mind. Don’t think he’s exempt at twenty-three. Maybe he was so full of his own problems he couldn’t spare any consideration for yours. If we can find him, be sure we will. Now you go to bed, and leave it to us. If you’ve told me all you know, there’s nothing more you can do.”
“I’ve told you all I know.” She got as far as the door, and looked back. Her face was mute and stiff, but her eyes were full of haunted shadows. “Good night, Mr. Felse!”
“Good night, Felicity!”
And all that, thought George, watching her go, sounds like truth, and nothing but truth. But he still had an uneasy feeling that truth, with Felicity, was an iceberg, with eight-ninths of its bulk under water.
“I’d better tell you at once,” said Dickie Meurice, settling himself at his ease and spreading an elbow on Edward Arundale’s desk, “that of course I’ve realised what this is all about, even if there’s been no official admission that anything’s wrong. Old Penrose has given the impression that everything’s proceeding according to plan, and he had no intention of using Lucien Galt in to-night’s lectures. Without even saying so, which is pretty good going, but then, he’s a deep old bird. But I know too well what Lucifer costs. If they bought him at all, they wanted him on-stage the whole week-end. And I know
him
too well to miss the moment when he absents himself from among us. He went off, voluntarily or otherwise, between lunch and tea. And
you’re
here to cover the management, in case it turns out he didn’t disappear voluntarily. Solicitor? Or private trouble-shooter?”
“County C.I.D.,” said George without expression but not without relish, and saw with satisfaction the instant recoil, quickly mastered but not quickly enough.
Dickie Meurice tapped his cigarette on the arm of his chair, and stared, and thought so hard that his blond countenance paled. He said carefully, lightly: “You don’t mean you’ve found him? You’ve got a genuine police case? This is official?”
“Not yet. If everybody co-operates it may not have to be. No,
we
don’t know yet where Lucien Galt is. Do
you
, Mr. Meurice?”
“Why should
I
know?” The smile a little strained now, the voice demonstrating involuntarily its disastrous tendency to shrillness.
“You had, it seems, about the same chance of being the last to see him, this afternoon, as any of the others who passed up the sight-seeing trips and stayed at Follymead. Were you?”
“Look,” said Meurice, persuasively, leaning forward with the look of shining candour that meant he was at his most devious, “if this is on the level, if it’s a police job, of course I’ll co-operate.” He had made up his mind rapidly enough where his interests lay, and that they were already involved; tweak that string occasionally, and he’d cooperate, maybe even a bit too much. “Tell me what you expect of me, ask me whatever you want to know, and I’m with you.”
“I expect you to keep this strictly to yourself until, or unless, publicity becomes inevitable. Only a handful of people know about it, and it’s better for all concerned that it should remain that way. Better for Follymead, better for all these people attending the course, better for the artists involved, and better for me. Publicity may be very good business in your profession, of course, but only the right kind of publicity. And as you happen to be one of those who stayed at home to-day… Though of course, you may be able to account for every minute of your time, and provide confirmation of your account…”
The artless, concerned smile became even more winning and anxious to help. So he couldn’t account for his time; and he would play ball, though perhaps not strictly by the rules.
“I
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