Delia divested herself of her outer garb; the room was well heated. Someone was a smoker, but no odor of cigarettes lingered in the air, so the ventilation must be excellent. Odd cigarettes that Delia knew well, having smoked them herself in days gone by. Sobranie Cocktails, made of Virginia tobacco with gold paper tips and several pastel colors of paper — pink, blue, green, yellow and lilac. At night the Cocktails smoker apparently switched to black Sobranies — gold paper tips, black paper encapsulating pure Turkish tobacco. There were no butts in any of the immaculate modern glass ashtrays, but there were six boxes of Sobranie Cocktails and three boxes of black Sobranies scattered around the coffee tables.
Davina Tunbull tottered in, supported by her servant. She was wearing a purple satin nightgown and had a billowing lilac chiffon negligée over it. Long black hair, white skin, blue eyes,a bonily beautiful face of the kind Delia fancied Mata Hari might have owned. She looked like a mistress, not a wife. One long, graceful hand was pressing red fingertips to her brow, the other clutched at Uda, who must be remarkably strong. Mrs. Vina Tunbull wasn’t feigning giving her a lot of weight to support.
“Sit down, Mrs. Tunbull, and cut out this utterly ridiculous nonsense,” Delia said crisply. “Hysterics are wasted on me, and histrionics make me want to laugh. So none of either, please. Sit up straight and behave like a very intelligent woman who owns and runs a highly successful business.”
The lush mouth had fallen open; evidently Mrs. Tunbull wasn’t used to such plain speaking. “Pink!” she rapped at Uda, who opened a Sobranie Cocktails box, removed a pink cigarette, lit it, and handed it to her mistress. “What do you want?” she asked Delia rudely, the smoke trickling from her nostrils like a lazy dragon not prepared to stoke its furnace.
“First of all, what prompted you to have a formal dinner party in your home last Friday?” Delia asked.
The pink cigarette waved around as Davina shrugged. “It was overdue,” she said, her accent more an asset than a liability; without it, her voice wasn’t attractive. “My husband, Max, had his sixtieth birthday at New Year, that was one reason. For another, I wished to celebrate the birth of our son, Alexis — I have been very slow recovering. Finally, John had come back from the dead.” Her lids went down to veil her eyes; she handed the partially smoked cigarette to Uda, who stubbed it out. “It really was the prodigal son returned, my dear Sergeant Delia Carstairs.”
Well, well, so Uda told her my name and rank and everything, thought Sergeant Delia Carstairs.
“Max and his brother, Val, certainly regarded John as long dead,” Vina went on. “There had been a huge police search for John and his mother in 1937, and it was not abandoned for some years. It is traditional to kill the fatted calf when the long lost prodigal son returns, and I did — I had roast veal for the main course — wasn’t that clever of me?”
“Very clever,” said Delia dryly. “Was Mr. Tunbull sure that John was his son?”
“In the end he was quite convinced,” Vina said. “John had his mother’s engagement ring. Oh, there were many documents and papers, but it was the ring slew Max, who believed his eyes. Martita — John’s mother — had admired the stone in a geology shop, and Max had it made into an expensive ring for her. It is an opal, but the opal is in bands striped through a solid black stone, like a zebra. I will show you,” she said, literally snapping her fingers at Uda, who went to a box on a shelf, opened it, and brought a huge ring to Delia.
Amazing indeed! Delia had never seen anything like it, even when thumbing through the books of gemstones police sometimes had to consult. The stripes, black as well as white, were about two millimeters thick, the black dull and opaque, the opal white flashing from red to green fire as the stone was
Davina Tunbull tottered in, supported by her servant. She was wearing a purple satin nightgown and had a billowing lilac chiffon negligée over it. Long black hair, white skin, blue eyes,a bonily beautiful face of the kind Delia fancied Mata Hari might have owned. She looked like a mistress, not a wife. One long, graceful hand was pressing red fingertips to her brow, the other clutched at Uda, who must be remarkably strong. Mrs. Vina Tunbull wasn’t feigning giving her a lot of weight to support.
“Sit down, Mrs. Tunbull, and cut out this utterly ridiculous nonsense,” Delia said crisply. “Hysterics are wasted on me, and histrionics make me want to laugh. So none of either, please. Sit up straight and behave like a very intelligent woman who owns and runs a highly successful business.”
The lush mouth had fallen open; evidently Mrs. Tunbull wasn’t used to such plain speaking. “Pink!” she rapped at Uda, who opened a Sobranie Cocktails box, removed a pink cigarette, lit it, and handed it to her mistress. “What do you want?” she asked Delia rudely, the smoke trickling from her nostrils like a lazy dragon not prepared to stoke its furnace.
“First of all, what prompted you to have a formal dinner party in your home last Friday?” Delia asked.
The pink cigarette waved around as Davina shrugged. “It was overdue,” she said, her accent more an asset than a liability; without it, her voice wasn’t attractive. “My husband, Max, had his sixtieth birthday at New Year, that was one reason. For another, I wished to celebrate the birth of our son, Alexis — I have been very slow recovering. Finally, John had come back from the dead.” Her lids went down to veil her eyes; she handed the partially smoked cigarette to Uda, who stubbed it out. “It really was the prodigal son returned, my dear Sergeant Delia Carstairs.”
Well, well, so Uda told her my name and rank and everything, thought Sergeant Delia Carstairs.
“Max and his brother, Val, certainly regarded John as long dead,” Vina went on. “There had been a huge police search for John and his mother in 1937, and it was not abandoned for some years. It is traditional to kill the fatted calf when the long lost prodigal son returns, and I did — I had roast veal for the main course — wasn’t that clever of me?”
“Very clever,” said Delia dryly. “Was Mr. Tunbull sure that John was his son?”
“In the end he was quite convinced,” Vina said. “John had his mother’s engagement ring. Oh, there were many documents and papers, but it was the ring slew Max, who believed his eyes. Martita — John’s mother — had admired the stone in a geology shop, and Max had it made into an expensive ring for her. It is an opal, but the opal is in bands striped through a solid black stone, like a zebra. I will show you,” she said, literally snapping her fingers at Uda, who went to a box on a shelf, opened it, and brought a huge ring to Delia.
Amazing indeed! Delia had never seen anything like it, even when thumbing through the books of gemstones police sometimes had to consult. The stripes, black as well as white, were about two millimeters thick, the black dull and opaque, the opal white flashing from red to green fire as the stone was
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