dangerous.
‘I’ve done all you asked,’ she said sullenly.
‘I do not trust you, Mariella.’
‘But I’m your wife.’ She appeared hurt.
‘That’s why I
know
I can’t trust you. You don’t have any ideas about putting our plan into practice, do you?’
She lifted her large eyes to his. ‘Of course not.’
Miguel decided to make sure someone kept an eye on her. He couldn’t afford not to know exactly what Mariella was up to. Max perhaps, or better still, Fernando.
Max was at that moment lolling on a chair in the eating-room, an empty plate and half-empty glass before him. ‘A mutton chop, if you please.’ He waved a lordly hand towards Egbert Rose, who had decided he’d learn as much at his unofficial post as elsewhere – and not all about the art of broiling, either.
Egbert flipped the chop dexterously over on the hot-plate to give it a last warm. Nothing to this cooking game. Nice bit of mutton suet, and there you were. Typical of Auguste to spend half an hour lecturing him on gridiron heat, smoke, angle to fire and where you stick the fork. You put it on and you took it off, and that was that. ‘Don’t you have to go on stage, Mr Hill?’
‘Mr Hill never goes on stage.
I
go on stage as Will Lamb, as Horace Brodie, as Nettie Turner, as our Gracious King himself. Mariella is a trifle beyond my range, I fear, but as for any other characters in this blessed isle of ours, Max is your man.’ He gulped loudly, draining his glass. ‘Let me introduce you, my dear sir, to your new employer, Mr Didier.’
He stood up, a trifle unsteadily. Then twenty years slipped from him.
‘Ah non, merde,’
he cried. He danced up and down in self-approval. ‘Zis mutton chop it is great art, naturally for eet ees cooked by me, Auguste Didier, the Brillat-Savarin of 1902.’ He pored lovingly over an imaginary stove, peered anxiously into pots, tasted non-existent soup in ecstatic bliss. Then eyes flashed dangerously. ‘What is
zis
? he cried ominously, hands waving vigorously. ‘Eet is—’ He stopped. ‘Ah, Auguste, my dear chap,’ he greeted the unexpected arrival genially.
Auguste was mystified. Who was this self-important Frenchman he was mocking? A terrible thought came into his head. Could it be—
‘And let me do an impression of an inspector of Scotland Yard,’ roared Max.
Egbert slung down the implements of his new-foundtrade. ‘You’ve been inside, haven’t you?’ he said grimly. ‘Stir.’
‘In my youth,’ Max told him grandly. ‘I am a reformed character, you might say. Evil I forswore many years ago.’
‘You can always tell.’
‘As I can tell the Old Bill, my dear sir. I have this one advantage over you, however, I am no longer one of the criminal classes, but you will remain indelibly identifiable as a copper for ever – even if cooking my chop?’ The query in his voice went unanswered.
‘Max!’ Miguel came into the eating-room and stopped, seeing the assembled group. He smiled deprecatingly. ‘Forgive me, gentlemen, a word with my fellow artiste, if I might.’ What he had to say was nothing about their art, however.
It had all seemed a great adventure with a fairy-tale ending about to come true. Like a fairy-tale there was a wicked witch in the form of dreams and the raven, but surely that meant everything was going to be even more wonderful than he’d imagined, Will told himself stoutly. He remembered the first time he’d seen Mariella. She’d been plain Mary Elizabeth Pigg then, and eighteen years old, with great soft eyes and face and hair. So sweet, and she hadn’t changed at all. Nor had he. She was just as loving, just as gentle. When she was eighteen she hadn’t loved him, but now she did. Just like a fairy-tale. He hadn’t had any more dreams either. So that must mean William Terriss was happy that everything was all right. Everything except . . . But that was such a little thing, though hedid like everything being
tidy
in life, and he didn’t like to
‘I’ve done all you asked,’ she said sullenly.
‘I do not trust you, Mariella.’
‘But I’m your wife.’ She appeared hurt.
‘That’s why I
know
I can’t trust you. You don’t have any ideas about putting our plan into practice, do you?’
She lifted her large eyes to his. ‘Of course not.’
Miguel decided to make sure someone kept an eye on her. He couldn’t afford not to know exactly what Mariella was up to. Max perhaps, or better still, Fernando.
Max was at that moment lolling on a chair in the eating-room, an empty plate and half-empty glass before him. ‘A mutton chop, if you please.’ He waved a lordly hand towards Egbert Rose, who had decided he’d learn as much at his unofficial post as elsewhere – and not all about the art of broiling, either.
Egbert flipped the chop dexterously over on the hot-plate to give it a last warm. Nothing to this cooking game. Nice bit of mutton suet, and there you were. Typical of Auguste to spend half an hour lecturing him on gridiron heat, smoke, angle to fire and where you stick the fork. You put it on and you took it off, and that was that. ‘Don’t you have to go on stage, Mr Hill?’
‘Mr Hill never goes on stage.
I
go on stage as Will Lamb, as Horace Brodie, as Nettie Turner, as our Gracious King himself. Mariella is a trifle beyond my range, I fear, but as for any other characters in this blessed isle of ours, Max is your man.’ He gulped loudly, draining his glass. ‘Let me introduce you, my dear sir, to your new employer, Mr Didier.’
He stood up, a trifle unsteadily. Then twenty years slipped from him.
‘Ah non, merde,’
he cried. He danced up and down in self-approval. ‘Zis mutton chop it is great art, naturally for eet ees cooked by me, Auguste Didier, the Brillat-Savarin of 1902.’ He pored lovingly over an imaginary stove, peered anxiously into pots, tasted non-existent soup in ecstatic bliss. Then eyes flashed dangerously. ‘What is
zis
? he cried ominously, hands waving vigorously. ‘Eet is—’ He stopped. ‘Ah, Auguste, my dear chap,’ he greeted the unexpected arrival genially.
Auguste was mystified. Who was this self-important Frenchman he was mocking? A terrible thought came into his head. Could it be—
‘And let me do an impression of an inspector of Scotland Yard,’ roared Max.
Egbert slung down the implements of his new-foundtrade. ‘You’ve been inside, haven’t you?’ he said grimly. ‘Stir.’
‘In my youth,’ Max told him grandly. ‘I am a reformed character, you might say. Evil I forswore many years ago.’
‘You can always tell.’
‘As I can tell the Old Bill, my dear sir. I have this one advantage over you, however, I am no longer one of the criminal classes, but you will remain indelibly identifiable as a copper for ever – even if cooking my chop?’ The query in his voice went unanswered.
‘Max!’ Miguel came into the eating-room and stopped, seeing the assembled group. He smiled deprecatingly. ‘Forgive me, gentlemen, a word with my fellow artiste, if I might.’ What he had to say was nothing about their art, however.
It had all seemed a great adventure with a fairy-tale ending about to come true. Like a fairy-tale there was a wicked witch in the form of dreams and the raven, but surely that meant everything was going to be even more wonderful than he’d imagined, Will told himself stoutly. He remembered the first time he’d seen Mariella. She’d been plain Mary Elizabeth Pigg then, and eighteen years old, with great soft eyes and face and hair. So sweet, and she hadn’t changed at all. Nor had he. She was just as loving, just as gentle. When she was eighteen she hadn’t loved him, but now she did. Just like a fairy-tale. He hadn’t had any more dreams either. So that must mean William Terriss was happy that everything was all right. Everything except . . . But that was such a little thing, though hedid like everything being
tidy
in life, and he didn’t like to
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