The Serpent's Sting by Robert Gott Page A

there. I checked. I’m not worried. It is mysterious, though.’
    â€˜So she won’t be here for lunch tomorrow?’
    â€˜I think not. I’m sure she has her reasons for going away.’
    â€˜It’s strange, don’t you think, that Geraldine and John Gilbert should both go missing?’
    â€˜There can’t possibly be a connection between them.’
    â€˜I suppose not. Why does this have to happen at Christmas?’
    â€˜Damaging revelations? Complete upheaval of family life? That’s what Christmas is all about, isn’t it? It makes up for the lack of decorations this year.’
    With scant relevance to the subject at hand, Brian said, ‘I like Cloris Gilbert. I know I need to stay at arm’s length. Still, she’s got something. She’s lively and attractive. I don’t think she’s the type to have sex before marriage, though.’
    â€˜She mightn’t be the type to have sex after marriage, either. I do have one small question. Has she shown the slightest interest in you?’
    â€˜I’m being careful not to enliven any, and she is a little distracted at the moment. I don’t think she’s inclined to think romantically between bouts of frantic worry about her brother.’
    â€˜You need to get a decent look inside the Gilbert’s house.’
    He nodded.
    â€˜What am I looking for?’
    â€˜Poison, Brian. Poison.’

    Christmas lunch wasn’t the success it ought to have been. We’d only just sat down when Peter Gilbert was overcome with distress and announced that he couldn’t eat a thing and that he needed to be at Drummond Street. John clearly wasn’t going to show up at Mother’s house. Cloris couldn’t abandon her father, and she went with him. Mother was surprisingly calm about this disruption to her lunch. Even after they’d left, the pall of John’s disappearance, and for me, Geraldine’s, hung over the table. Mother had just put a leg of roast chicken on my plate when there was a knock at the door.
    â€˜That’ll be Geraldine,’ I said with poorly suppressed excitement. I opened the door to find two American soldiers standing there, who looked deflated when I didn’t immediately recognise them. They were spic and span, with crisp, starched uniforms and freshly shaven cheeks.
    â€˜Oh yes,’ I said, as it dawned on me who they were. ‘Harlen Quist and Anthony Dervian. Please, come in. You’re expected.’
    The Americans, who’d brought chocolates and whisky — they also brought cigarettes, but no one in the Power household smoked — were introduced to Mother and Brian, and some effort was made to make them feel welcome. The dark mood at the table wasn’t explained to them, and they must have wondered at our grim stabs at being cheerful. It wasn’t until that lunch, and the reminder of Geraldine’s energy and presence on the night we’d met Quist and Dervian, that her absence began to strike me as sinister. My effort to jolly the lunch along evaporated, and I only half-listened to the general conversation. The doughboys were encouraged to tell stories of Christmas at home in America.
    â€˜I’m Jewish, ma’am,’ Anthony said. ‘So we just do the presents.’
    â€˜And there’s Hanukkah not long after Christmas,’ Mother said.
    â€˜Yes, ma’am.’ He seemed delighted that Mother knew about the celebration. Harlen began a long story about Christmas in Ohio, but my attention drifted until I heard Geraldine’s name.
    â€˜We were hoping to see Miss Buchanan again,’ Harlen said.
    Mother, who’d been discreet about Geraldine’s absence, now felt able to express her view on the matter.
    â€˜I don’t know what it is about Will,’ she said, in a tone that approximated but fell well short of humorous, ‘but women just don’t seem to stick.’
    â€˜I’m sure