Skylark by Sheila Simonson Page B

my
mind kept puzzling over Milos's disappearance. I had pooh-poohed the idea that he was dead, but
I was by no means sure he wasn't. The knife had punctured his lung.
    Around eight thirty the bell rang again, and Ann went to the door. Daphne Worth
entered, looking rumpled and forlorn.
    Ann showed her into the living room. I felt awkward at first, and I think Daphne did,
too. We paid her a week's rent from the stash Miss Beale had returned, and I poured a round of
wine from the carton I had opened for dinner. Ann murmured baroque condolences and tut-tutted
about the press, and all three of us had another glass of plonk. I mentioned that Jay was arriving
early. By the time we finished off the carton we were on first-name terms, and Daphne was
telling us her troubles.
    Miss Beale's will named Daphne and her brother as co-heirs. While proving the will
would take some time, the lawyers saw no reason the flat should remain unoccupied. Daphne had
moved in. She would be able to walk to work in five minutes instead of commuting for an hour
from Chiswick--and someone had to dust the knick-knacks, after all. The problem was that
Trevor had just announced his intention of moving in, too.
    "Don't y'all get along, honey?" Ann was pink from the effects of too much wine, and her
accent had thickened.
    Daphne blinked at her like an owl.
    "You and your brother?"
    Daphne gave a small shrug. "Oh, we go on well enough these days, though we fought
like cat and dog when we were children. I'll fetch up darning his bloody socks and cooking his
meals, and I can't abide his posh friends."
    Ann and I made universal female noises. Men.
    Emboldened, Daphne went on, "And he'll stick me with the housekeeping tab. Brother
Trevor is not precisely scrupulous about money." She glanced at us and made a moue. "I don't
mean he's dishonest, but he did borrow from Auntie. As far as I know he never repaid her.
Trevor went to public school. He picked up the accent and a lordly attitude toward debt."
    The phrase public school triggered off Ann's teacher persona, and she launched into a
series of questions about the differences between the British and American educational systems
which Daphne answered with relish and less prejudice that I expected. After all, Daphne was a
teacher, too. I poured a round of bad burgundy from a half-empty bottle that had sat in the
cupboard for a week.
    Burgundy induced melancholy. Daphne began to reminisce about her aunt. According to
her, Miss Beale was a saint. She had nursed Daphne's grandparents through the cantankerous
ailments of old age, devoting herself to them, while Daphne's Mum married a wastrel
car-salesman and bore two kiddies. When the car salesman scarpered, Miss Beale came to the
rescue.
    "I was eleven," Daphne enunciated, holding her glass out. I poured the last of the
burgundy. "Trevor was thirteen and set to leave for his posh school. Auntie paid the fees. I'll
never forget Mum's relief."
    "Couldn't Trevor have applied for a scholarship?" Ann was interested. Also pinker.
    Daphne wrinkled her nose. "Trevor's not a scholar. He was always good at
    games--tennis, you know, and cricket. He's a stylish cricketer. He left school when his A
    level passes weren't good enough for university."
    "What does he do for a living?" I asked. I had imagined Trevor in the wig of a
barrister.
    Again the shrug. "Sells posh automobiles. Like father, like son."
    "Rolls Royces?" Ann took a ladylike sip of burgundy.
    "And Mercedeses. The odd Maserati." Daphne hiccupped and patted her acetate blouse.
"Sorry. I'm tiddly. Do you know that showroom on the Old Brompton Road, the one with the red
Porsche in the display window?"
    Ann and I nodded.
    "Trevor works there," she said dispassionately, "but he never could persuade Auntie to
buy a car. She walked or took a taxi or rode the Tube. Poor Auntie."
    "I suppose your aunt lived here all her life," Ann murmured.
    "In this house? Yes, except for the time she spent studying in Europe. Auntie was