manager. Sister Marrow is going to be an art
teacher at a girls’ school and Sister Rooke is going to continue with her
plumbing when her nerves permit. Very few think of les autres.
Love to Mum.
Margaret
SHORTLY after the wedding of Margaret and William Damien, Hilda Damien
telephoned twice from Australia to Chris Donovan. The second time she asked
Chris if she or Hurley would supervise and keep a check on a purchase she had
arranged through a sale at Sotheby’s of a painting by Monet.
Hurley
had come in from his studio, his day’s work over, when he heard of this
request. He was more than willing to be involved in this interesting deal; he
was positively excited. Hilda, so Chris told him, had instructed her lawyer in
London to give Hurley Reed free access to the deal and to decide about the
safekeeping of the picture.
Charterhouse
passed a tray with Chris’s dry martini, the latter with the glass expertly
iced. He was always ready with the drinks at this hour. He busied himself with
Hurley’s whisky and soda with ice.
‘What
Monet is it?’ said Hurley.
‘She
didn’t say. You know what Hilda’s like. She just buys “a Monet”.’
Hurley
gave a smile between tolerance and scorn. But he said, ‘I’ll soon find out.
Does she intend to take it to Australia?’
‘No. Do
you know what? In spite of all she said, she’s weakened and decided to give it
to the young couple as an additional wedding present. But it’s to be a secret.
She’s going to take it in to their flat in Hampstead and give them a surprise.’
‘I
thought she’d given them the actual flat?’
‘Yes,
well now they’re getting the Monet as well.’
‘What
did she pay for it?’
‘I
don’t know,’ said Chris. She sipped her welcome dry martini.
‘I’ll
find out. I expect it was a lot. Too much.’
Charterhouse
had left the room.
Luke in the public phone
box said:
‘I just
dialogued with the butler.’
‘And?’
‘It’s
confirmed for October 18th.’
‘And?’
‘People
called Suzy, a titled man and a titled woman.’
‘We’ve
done the Suzys. A waste of time.’
‘Untzingers.
They’re friends of mine, though. Not rich, I mean like the rich are rich.’
‘What
name?’
‘Untzinger.
I’d be obliged if —’
‘I’d be
obliged if you’d continue.’
‘Damien.’
‘Damien!’
‘Yes,
Damien. Mother and son he seemed to think are expected. She’s been doing up a
flat in Hampstead. A picture on the wall by that artist named Monet, that
French —’
‘You
said Monet?’
‘Just
bought it, just the other day.’
It was ten days before
Chris Donovan’s dinner party.
There
was ‘flu in the air and Roland Sykes had caught it. He sat up in a chair in the
sitting-room of his flat. Annabel had come round to look after him. ‘You should
go to bed,’ she said.
He was
fiddling with a bundle of press cuttings. ‘That person Murchie who is going to
be at Chris Donovan’s dinner,’ he said. ‘I’ve remembered. I worked on some
archives for the solicitor who represented two of her aunts. They were contesting
a will. It was settled out of court. But look at the background — I knew there
was something sensational. The grandmother of the Margaret Murchie who married
the Damien boy was murdered.’
He
sipped his hot whisky and water while Annabel read the press cutting with avid
attention.
‘It
doesn’t do your ‘flu any good but it makes you feel better,’ Roland said,
meaning his drink.
‘My
God! I’ve seen that face before,’ Annabel suddenly said. She had a newspaper
article with a large picture of Margaret, sub-titled ‘Margaret Murchie —
questioned by the police’.
‘It was
all over the papers at the time,’ Roland said.
‘No,
but I’ve seen it since. Somewhere on the television. Within the past year. Nothing
to do with the Murchie murder. It was some kind of popular programme, cultural
programme … I don’t know. I’d have to think,
teacher at a girls’ school and Sister Rooke is going to continue with her
plumbing when her nerves permit. Very few think of les autres.
Love to Mum.
Margaret
SHORTLY after the wedding of Margaret and William Damien, Hilda Damien
telephoned twice from Australia to Chris Donovan. The second time she asked
Chris if she or Hurley would supervise and keep a check on a purchase she had
arranged through a sale at Sotheby’s of a painting by Monet.
Hurley
had come in from his studio, his day’s work over, when he heard of this
request. He was more than willing to be involved in this interesting deal; he
was positively excited. Hilda, so Chris told him, had instructed her lawyer in
London to give Hurley Reed free access to the deal and to decide about the
safekeeping of the picture.
Charterhouse
passed a tray with Chris’s dry martini, the latter with the glass expertly
iced. He was always ready with the drinks at this hour. He busied himself with
Hurley’s whisky and soda with ice.
‘What
Monet is it?’ said Hurley.
‘She
didn’t say. You know what Hilda’s like. She just buys “a Monet”.’
Hurley
gave a smile between tolerance and scorn. But he said, ‘I’ll soon find out.
Does she intend to take it to Australia?’
‘No. Do
you know what? In spite of all she said, she’s weakened and decided to give it
to the young couple as an additional wedding present. But it’s to be a secret.
She’s going to take it in to their flat in Hampstead and give them a surprise.’
‘I
thought she’d given them the actual flat?’
‘Yes,
well now they’re getting the Monet as well.’
‘What
did she pay for it?’
‘I
don’t know,’ said Chris. She sipped her welcome dry martini.
‘I’ll
find out. I expect it was a lot. Too much.’
Charterhouse
had left the room.
Luke in the public phone
box said:
‘I just
dialogued with the butler.’
‘And?’
‘It’s
confirmed for October 18th.’
‘And?’
‘People
called Suzy, a titled man and a titled woman.’
‘We’ve
done the Suzys. A waste of time.’
‘Untzingers.
They’re friends of mine, though. Not rich, I mean like the rich are rich.’
‘What
name?’
‘Untzinger.
I’d be obliged if —’
‘I’d be
obliged if you’d continue.’
‘Damien.’
‘Damien!’
‘Yes,
Damien. Mother and son he seemed to think are expected. She’s been doing up a
flat in Hampstead. A picture on the wall by that artist named Monet, that
French —’
‘You
said Monet?’
‘Just
bought it, just the other day.’
It was ten days before
Chris Donovan’s dinner party.
There
was ‘flu in the air and Roland Sykes had caught it. He sat up in a chair in the
sitting-room of his flat. Annabel had come round to look after him. ‘You should
go to bed,’ she said.
He was
fiddling with a bundle of press cuttings. ‘That person Murchie who is going to
be at Chris Donovan’s dinner,’ he said. ‘I’ve remembered. I worked on some
archives for the solicitor who represented two of her aunts. They were contesting
a will. It was settled out of court. But look at the background — I knew there
was something sensational. The grandmother of the Margaret Murchie who married
the Damien boy was murdered.’
He
sipped his hot whisky and water while Annabel read the press cutting with avid
attention.
‘It
doesn’t do your ‘flu any good but it makes you feel better,’ Roland said,
meaning his drink.
‘My
God! I’ve seen that face before,’ Annabel suddenly said. She had a newspaper
article with a large picture of Margaret, sub-titled ‘Margaret Murchie —
questioned by the police’.
‘It was
all over the papers at the time,’ Roland said.
‘No,
but I’ve seen it since. Somewhere on the television. Within the past year. Nothing
to do with the Murchie murder. It was some kind of popular programme, cultural
programme … I don’t know. I’d have to think,
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