believe his widow’s still at Throgmorton.’
She made no comment, but went on. ‘You mentioned that you’d been helping a General with his memoirs. Eversley was particularly interested by that.’
He moved uneasily. The interview was much more business-like than he had expected. Then he smiled. The smile was one that he had practised in the glass, and he considered it devastating. ‘I practically wrote half the book. But there’s something I didn’t tell you. We parted on bad terms, I’m afraid.’
‘I couldn’t ask him for a reference?’
‘He might explode if you did.’
‘So there’s nobody I can write to at the moment.’
This really was a little bit too much. Anybody would have thought he was applying for a job at the Bank of England. He started to get up from his chair. As he did so she folded the two letters carefully and smiled.
‘I’m terribly sorry, I really am insulting you.’ He did not contradict her. ‘And I’m being stupid. It’s just that I’m doing it for Eversley. If you’d like to take the job we should both be very pleased.’
He sat down again and she started to talk about money. She suggested an arrangement that was fair, even generous, for a job that was five days a week, mornings only, from ten o’clock each morning. ‘When can you start? Will tomorrow morning be all right?’
‘There’s no need for an interview with your husband?’
‘The problem is to keep him occupied. He’s not very strong and doesn’t work. He doesn’t know what to do with his time.’ Her tongue came out and licked her pale lips. There was again a hint of complicity, of a shared secret, in her manner as she showed him to the door.
A classic situation, he thought on the way back in the bus. Elderly valetudinarian husband, young discontented wife playing while husband’s away. Yet this analysis did not satisfy him. There was something forbidding about Mrs Foster, and this was part of the attraction she held for him.
Chapter Six
He presented himself at precisely ten o’clock on the following morning, met Foster and began work.
Foster was far from the elderly valetudinarian of Tony’s imagination. Mrs Foster – Jenny as he thought of her although the name was not appropriate – was about his own age, and Foster was perhaps three or four years older. He was a small man, a head shorter than Tony, of a weak Byronic handsomeness. A single white streak marked his black hair. The three of them sat in the drawing-room for half an hour talking.
‘Mr Bain-Truscott really can type,’ she said. ‘I tested him. His fingers fairly flew over the keys. Not like the last one.’
‘That’s good. He was not at all satisfactory.’ Foster seemed uncomfortable.
‘And he has splendid references.’ Her tongue crept out, touched her lips, went in again. The quick glance she gave him held no visible sign of amusement or irony.
‘I leave all that to you.’ Abruptly Foster said, ‘Are you interested in topography?’
‘To be frank I don’t know the first thing about it.’ The moment seemed right for his smile. ‘But I can learn.’
‘I rely on my wife. She doesn’t often make mistakes.’
They talked about the weather and about the town and then Jenny said, ‘Perhaps you should start Mr Bain-Truscott off, darling.’
Foster led him into the study, and took out several large quarto volumes from the glass-fronted case. ‘What I’m trying to do is to reproduce a complete topographical survey of this area, and not only topographical but historical, so that it compares each period shown in the more important maps with every period preceding it. I want to make the comparison fully detailed about every village.’
‘That sounds like quite an enterprise.’
‘It’s a survey of a kind that has never been attempted before,’ Foster said solemnly. ‘Just now I’m still in the stage of accumulating comparison notes. I’d like them typed up on separate cards and then I shall analyse
She made no comment, but went on. ‘You mentioned that you’d been helping a General with his memoirs. Eversley was particularly interested by that.’
He moved uneasily. The interview was much more business-like than he had expected. Then he smiled. The smile was one that he had practised in the glass, and he considered it devastating. ‘I practically wrote half the book. But there’s something I didn’t tell you. We parted on bad terms, I’m afraid.’
‘I couldn’t ask him for a reference?’
‘He might explode if you did.’
‘So there’s nobody I can write to at the moment.’
This really was a little bit too much. Anybody would have thought he was applying for a job at the Bank of England. He started to get up from his chair. As he did so she folded the two letters carefully and smiled.
‘I’m terribly sorry, I really am insulting you.’ He did not contradict her. ‘And I’m being stupid. It’s just that I’m doing it for Eversley. If you’d like to take the job we should both be very pleased.’
He sat down again and she started to talk about money. She suggested an arrangement that was fair, even generous, for a job that was five days a week, mornings only, from ten o’clock each morning. ‘When can you start? Will tomorrow morning be all right?’
‘There’s no need for an interview with your husband?’
‘The problem is to keep him occupied. He’s not very strong and doesn’t work. He doesn’t know what to do with his time.’ Her tongue came out and licked her pale lips. There was again a hint of complicity, of a shared secret, in her manner as she showed him to the door.
A classic situation, he thought on the way back in the bus. Elderly valetudinarian husband, young discontented wife playing while husband’s away. Yet this analysis did not satisfy him. There was something forbidding about Mrs Foster, and this was part of the attraction she held for him.
Chapter Six
He presented himself at precisely ten o’clock on the following morning, met Foster and began work.
Foster was far from the elderly valetudinarian of Tony’s imagination. Mrs Foster – Jenny as he thought of her although the name was not appropriate – was about his own age, and Foster was perhaps three or four years older. He was a small man, a head shorter than Tony, of a weak Byronic handsomeness. A single white streak marked his black hair. The three of them sat in the drawing-room for half an hour talking.
‘Mr Bain-Truscott really can type,’ she said. ‘I tested him. His fingers fairly flew over the keys. Not like the last one.’
‘That’s good. He was not at all satisfactory.’ Foster seemed uncomfortable.
‘And he has splendid references.’ Her tongue crept out, touched her lips, went in again. The quick glance she gave him held no visible sign of amusement or irony.
‘I leave all that to you.’ Abruptly Foster said, ‘Are you interested in topography?’
‘To be frank I don’t know the first thing about it.’ The moment seemed right for his smile. ‘But I can learn.’
‘I rely on my wife. She doesn’t often make mistakes.’
They talked about the weather and about the town and then Jenny said, ‘Perhaps you should start Mr Bain-Truscott off, darling.’
Foster led him into the study, and took out several large quarto volumes from the glass-fronted case. ‘What I’m trying to do is to reproduce a complete topographical survey of this area, and not only topographical but historical, so that it compares each period shown in the more important maps with every period preceding it. I want to make the comparison fully detailed about every village.’
‘That sounds like quite an enterprise.’
‘It’s a survey of a kind that has never been attempted before,’ Foster said solemnly. ‘Just now I’m still in the stage of accumulating comparison notes. I’d like them typed up on separate cards and then I shall analyse
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