Who would put about a story like that? Now just you listen to me . . .’ Wagging a finger, he began lecturing Wexford on the subject of Natalie Arno’s virtues and misfortunes. ‘One of the most charming, delightful girls you could wish to meet, and as if she hasn’t had enough to put up with . . .’
Wexford cut him short again. ‘It’s her identity, not her charm, that’s in dispute.’ He was intrigued by the behaviour of Jane Zoffany who was sitting hunched up, looking anywhere but at him, and who appeared to be very frightened indeed. She had stopped sewing because her hands would have shaken once she moved each out of the other’s grasp.
He went back into the shop. Natalie Arno was standing by the counter on the top of which now lay an open magazine. She was looking a this and laughing with glee rather than amusement. When she saw Wexford she showed no surprise, but smiled, holding her head a little on one side.
‘Good morning, Mr – er, Wexford, isn’t it? And how are you today?’ It was an Americanism delivered with an American lilt and one that seemed to require no reply. ‘When you close the shop, Ivan,’ she said, ‘you should also remember to lock the door. All sorts of undesirables could come in.’
Zoffany said with gallantry, but stammering a little, ‘That certainly doesn’t include you, Natalie!’
‘I’m not sure the chief inspector would agree with you.’ She gave Wexford a sidelong smile. She knew. Symonds, O’Brien and Ames had lost no time in telling her. Jane Zoffany was afraid but she was not. Her black eyes sparkled. Rather ostentatiously, she closed the magazine she had been looking at, revealing the cover which showed it to belong to the medium hard genre of pornography. Plainly, this was Zoffany’s under-the-counter solace that she had lighted on. He flushed, seized it rather too quickly from under her hands and thrust it between some catalogues in a pile. Natalie’s face became pensive and innocent. She put up her hands to her hair and her full breasts in the sweater rose with the movement, which seemed to have been made quiteartlessly, simply to tuck in a tortoiseshell pin.
‘Did you want to interrogate me, Mr Wexford?’
‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘At present I’ll be content if you’ll give me the name and address of the people whose party you and Mrs Zoffany went to on the evening of 27 January.’
She told him, without hesitation or surprise.
‘Thank you, Mrs Arno.’
At the door of the room where Jane Zoffany was she paused, looked at him and giggled. ‘You can call me Mrs X, if you like. Feel free.’
A housekeeper in a dark dress that was very nearly a uniform admitted him to the house in a cul-de-sac off Kensington Church Street. She was a pretty, dark-haired woman in her thirties who doubtless looked on her job as a career and played her part so well that he felt she was playing, was acting with some skill the role of a deferential servant. In a way she reminded him of Ted Hicks.
‘Mrs Mountnessing hopes you won’t mind going upstairs, Chief Inspector. Mrs Mountnessing is taking her coffee after luncheon in the little sitting room.’
It was a far cry from the house in De Beauvoir Square to which Natalie had sent him, a latter-day Bohemia where there had been Indian bedspreads draping the walls and a smell of marijuana for anyone who cared to sniff for it. Here the wall decorations were hunting prints, ascending parallel to the line of the staircase whose treads were carpeted in thick soft olive-green. The first-floor hall was wide, milk chocolate with white cornice and mouldings, the same green carpet, a Hortus siccus in a copper trough on a console table, a couple of fat-seated, round-backed chairs upholstered in golden-brown velvet, a twinkling chandelier and a brown table lamp with a cream satin shade. There are several thousand such interiors in the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea. A panelled door was pushed open and Wexford
Wexford cut him short again. ‘It’s her identity, not her charm, that’s in dispute.’ He was intrigued by the behaviour of Jane Zoffany who was sitting hunched up, looking anywhere but at him, and who appeared to be very frightened indeed. She had stopped sewing because her hands would have shaken once she moved each out of the other’s grasp.
He went back into the shop. Natalie Arno was standing by the counter on the top of which now lay an open magazine. She was looking a this and laughing with glee rather than amusement. When she saw Wexford she showed no surprise, but smiled, holding her head a little on one side.
‘Good morning, Mr – er, Wexford, isn’t it? And how are you today?’ It was an Americanism delivered with an American lilt and one that seemed to require no reply. ‘When you close the shop, Ivan,’ she said, ‘you should also remember to lock the door. All sorts of undesirables could come in.’
Zoffany said with gallantry, but stammering a little, ‘That certainly doesn’t include you, Natalie!’
‘I’m not sure the chief inspector would agree with you.’ She gave Wexford a sidelong smile. She knew. Symonds, O’Brien and Ames had lost no time in telling her. Jane Zoffany was afraid but she was not. Her black eyes sparkled. Rather ostentatiously, she closed the magazine she had been looking at, revealing the cover which showed it to belong to the medium hard genre of pornography. Plainly, this was Zoffany’s under-the-counter solace that she had lighted on. He flushed, seized it rather too quickly from under her hands and thrust it between some catalogues in a pile. Natalie’s face became pensive and innocent. She put up her hands to her hair and her full breasts in the sweater rose with the movement, which seemed to have been made quiteartlessly, simply to tuck in a tortoiseshell pin.
‘Did you want to interrogate me, Mr Wexford?’
‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘At present I’ll be content if you’ll give me the name and address of the people whose party you and Mrs Zoffany went to on the evening of 27 January.’
She told him, without hesitation or surprise.
‘Thank you, Mrs Arno.’
At the door of the room where Jane Zoffany was she paused, looked at him and giggled. ‘You can call me Mrs X, if you like. Feel free.’
A housekeeper in a dark dress that was very nearly a uniform admitted him to the house in a cul-de-sac off Kensington Church Street. She was a pretty, dark-haired woman in her thirties who doubtless looked on her job as a career and played her part so well that he felt she was playing, was acting with some skill the role of a deferential servant. In a way she reminded him of Ted Hicks.
‘Mrs Mountnessing hopes you won’t mind going upstairs, Chief Inspector. Mrs Mountnessing is taking her coffee after luncheon in the little sitting room.’
It was a far cry from the house in De Beauvoir Square to which Natalie had sent him, a latter-day Bohemia where there had been Indian bedspreads draping the walls and a smell of marijuana for anyone who cared to sniff for it. Here the wall decorations were hunting prints, ascending parallel to the line of the staircase whose treads were carpeted in thick soft olive-green. The first-floor hall was wide, milk chocolate with white cornice and mouldings, the same green carpet, a Hortus siccus in a copper trough on a console table, a couple of fat-seated, round-backed chairs upholstered in golden-brown velvet, a twinkling chandelier and a brown table lamp with a cream satin shade. There are several thousand such interiors in the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea. A panelled door was pushed open and Wexford
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