chant, oddly enthralling.
“I’m just in
shock,”
she was saying now. Though her words were totally banal, we were all leaning forward to catch them just as if they had been vital for our salvation. “I don’t know what to say. I’m
poleaxed.
…”
Trailing off, she looked up at Stanley, who was hovering beside her. “You will find out who did this, won’t you, Stan? Promise me you will!”
“We’ll do everything we can,” Stanley promised.
“I know I can rely on you,” Barbara said gratefully, still gazing up at him. I saw exactly what Carol had meant about Barbara being a man’s woman; there was something eternally girlish about her calculated to appeal to the male protective instincts. She trod the line perfectly; she didn’t breathe her words, or bat her lashes, or behave too kittenishly. Very sensible. Such manoeuvres would be grotesque for anyone over sixteenand particularly for a woman who was as physically attractive as a babushka. And yet she projected her brand of appeal so powerfully that Stanley was busy patting her hand and saying “There, there” so reassuringly that he must have been restraining himself from adding that she wasn’t to worry her pretty little head about anything.
“Can we get you anything, Barbara?” Carol said sympathetically. “A glass of water, coffee …?”
I perked up when coffee was mentioned. If Barbara was getting some I was putting in my own order. But the wretched woman knocked it on the head.
“No, really, I’m fine,” she said. “But thank you, Carol. You’re so kind. I just need time to take this in.”
I subsided gloomily, beginning to nurse a grudge against her.
“Sure.” Carol pulled up her chair and sat down. “Barbara, if you’re OK to talk about this, we’re having a council of war right now, as you can see. We’re expecting the cops at any moment. Can I—”
“The cops?” Barbara stared at her. “Oh dear Lord, that was me, wasn’t it? I was so upset when you told me, I didn’t think! But”—she put one hand up to her mouth—“the publicity! Oh, why didn’t I just say to keep it quiet?”
The man who had come in with her was standing behind her chair, resting his hands on its back. He put them on her shoulders now, squeezing reassuringly.
“You know that’s what I suggested, darling,” he said. “Let Carol deal with it. She’s more than capable.”
She reached up and took one of his hands briefly, giving him a brave smile. They both wore wedding rings, I noticed. I could safely assume that this was Mr. Barbara Bilder.
“Oh, Jon,” she sighed. “Why didn’t I listen to you? Why am I such a silly thing?”
“There, there, honey. Try not to get too upset,” he said comfortingly. Though overlaid with a patina of American, I could tell that his accent was English, and I found myself looking at him curiously. It was ludicrous,this interest in other Brits abroad: so often they were people you wouldn’t give the time of day to at home. Some deeply rooted atavistic instinct, no doubt. But there was something very familiar about this one. It was niggling at me. He was tall and grey-haired with a long pleasant face, wearing a corduroy jacket and check shirt that looked as if he had had them for the past thirty years. I almost felt as if I recognised them. And when Barbara had called him “Jon” another piece of the puzzle had clicked into place. I knew him from somewhere, I was sure of it. Still, I was equally positive that I had never seen Barbara before. She was not the kind of person you forgot.
“Listen, Barbara.” Carol was biting the bullet. “The trouble is—our trouble, I mean, Bergmann LaTouche’s trouble—is that the gallery wasn’t broken into. Someone used the keys and knew how to deactivate the alarm.”
Jon, who had been bending over Barbara, now straightened up and stared at Carol almost accusatorially. She squared her shoulders and lifted her jaw, meeting him straight in the eyes.
“But
“I’m just in
shock,”
she was saying now. Though her words were totally banal, we were all leaning forward to catch them just as if they had been vital for our salvation. “I don’t know what to say. I’m
poleaxed.
…”
Trailing off, she looked up at Stanley, who was hovering beside her. “You will find out who did this, won’t you, Stan? Promise me you will!”
“We’ll do everything we can,” Stanley promised.
“I know I can rely on you,” Barbara said gratefully, still gazing up at him. I saw exactly what Carol had meant about Barbara being a man’s woman; there was something eternally girlish about her calculated to appeal to the male protective instincts. She trod the line perfectly; she didn’t breathe her words, or bat her lashes, or behave too kittenishly. Very sensible. Such manoeuvres would be grotesque for anyone over sixteenand particularly for a woman who was as physically attractive as a babushka. And yet she projected her brand of appeal so powerfully that Stanley was busy patting her hand and saying “There, there” so reassuringly that he must have been restraining himself from adding that she wasn’t to worry her pretty little head about anything.
“Can we get you anything, Barbara?” Carol said sympathetically. “A glass of water, coffee …?”
I perked up when coffee was mentioned. If Barbara was getting some I was putting in my own order. But the wretched woman knocked it on the head.
“No, really, I’m fine,” she said. “But thank you, Carol. You’re so kind. I just need time to take this in.”
I subsided gloomily, beginning to nurse a grudge against her.
“Sure.” Carol pulled up her chair and sat down. “Barbara, if you’re OK to talk about this, we’re having a council of war right now, as you can see. We’re expecting the cops at any moment. Can I—”
“The cops?” Barbara stared at her. “Oh dear Lord, that was me, wasn’t it? I was so upset when you told me, I didn’t think! But”—she put one hand up to her mouth—“the publicity! Oh, why didn’t I just say to keep it quiet?”
The man who had come in with her was standing behind her chair, resting his hands on its back. He put them on her shoulders now, squeezing reassuringly.
“You know that’s what I suggested, darling,” he said. “Let Carol deal with it. She’s more than capable.”
She reached up and took one of his hands briefly, giving him a brave smile. They both wore wedding rings, I noticed. I could safely assume that this was Mr. Barbara Bilder.
“Oh, Jon,” she sighed. “Why didn’t I listen to you? Why am I such a silly thing?”
“There, there, honey. Try not to get too upset,” he said comfortingly. Though overlaid with a patina of American, I could tell that his accent was English, and I found myself looking at him curiously. It was ludicrous,this interest in other Brits abroad: so often they were people you wouldn’t give the time of day to at home. Some deeply rooted atavistic instinct, no doubt. But there was something very familiar about this one. It was niggling at me. He was tall and grey-haired with a long pleasant face, wearing a corduroy jacket and check shirt that looked as if he had had them for the past thirty years. I almost felt as if I recognised them. And when Barbara had called him “Jon” another piece of the puzzle had clicked into place. I knew him from somewhere, I was sure of it. Still, I was equally positive that I had never seen Barbara before. She was not the kind of person you forgot.
“Listen, Barbara.” Carol was biting the bullet. “The trouble is—our trouble, I mean, Bergmann LaTouche’s trouble—is that the gallery wasn’t broken into. Someone used the keys and knew how to deactivate the alarm.”
Jon, who had been bending over Barbara, now straightened up and stared at Carol almost accusatorially. She squared her shoulders and lifted her jaw, meeting him straight in the eyes.
“But
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