thin.’
Thumping his fist on the table, Oliver made them all jump.
‘Linda Gaveston is a stupid little trouble-maker,’ he said furiously.
‘I suppose that goes for me too?’
‘I didn’t say so,’ said Oliver, too angry to care. ‘But if the cap fits … I hate all this under-hand gossip. If you’re trying to say Carnaby gave Patrick cyanide you’d better come straight out with it.’ He drank some whisky too quickly and choked. ‘On the other hand, perhaps you’d better not. I don’t want to pay out whacking damages for slander.’
‘It won’t go any further. Anyway, it’s my duty as a citizen to say what I think. Everyone knows EdwardCarnaby had a terrific motive for getting Patrick out of the way.’
There was an appalled silence. Nancy had grown red in the face and her plump breasts rose and fell under the clinging pink wool.
‘You’re all crazy about Tamsin. I know that. But Patrick wasn’t. He didn’t care for her a bit. He was having an affair with that awful little Freda. Night after night he was round there while her brother was out at evening classes. He used to tie that great dog of theirs up to the gate. It was just a horrid sordid little intrigue.’
As much as Oliver, Greenleaf wanted to stop her. He was immeasurably grateful for Bernice’s rich cleansing laughter.
‘If it was just a little intrigue,’ Bernice said lightly, ‘it can’t have been important, can it?’
Nancy allowed her hand to rest for a moment beneath Bernice’s. Then she snatched it away.
‘They’re twins, aren’t they? It means a lot, being twins. He wouldn’t want to lose her. Patrick might have gone off with her.’
But the tension was broken. Marvell, who had taken a book from the fireside shelves and studied it as if it were a first edition, now relaxed and smiled. Oliver had moved over to the record player and the red glaze had left his face.
‘Well, what does Max think?’ Nancy asked.
How wise Bernice had been, laughing easily, refusing to catch his eye! Greenleaf didn’t really want to do a Smith-King and flee at the scent of trouble. Besides, Oliver had some good records, Bartok and the wonderful Donizetti he wanted to hear again.
‘You know,’ he said in a quiet gentle voice, ‘it’s amazing the way people expect the worst when a young person dies suddenly. They always want to make a mystery.’ He wondered if Bernice and, for that matter Marvell, noticed how dismay was evoking his guttural accent. ‘Real life isn’t so sensational.’
‘Fiction stranger than truth,’ Marvell murmured.
‘I can assure you Patrick didn’t die of cyanide. You see, of all the poisons commonly used in cases of homicide cyanide is the most easily detected. The smell, for one thing …’
‘Bitter almonds,’ Nancy interposed.
Greenleaf smiled a smile he didn’t feel.
That among other things. Believe me, it’s fantastic to talk of cyanide.’ His hands moved expressively. ‘No, please,’ he said.
‘Well, what do you really think, then?’
‘I think you’re a very pretty girl with a vivid imagination and Linda Gaveston watches too much television. I wonder if I might have some more of your excellent whisky, Oliver?’
Oliver took the glass gratefully. He looked as if he would gladly have given Greenleaf the whole bottle.
‘Music,’ he said, handing records to the discerning Marvell.
‘May we have the Handel?’ Marvell asked politely. Nancy made a face and flung herself back among the cushions.
The sound of the rain falling steadily had formed throughout the conversation a monotonous background chorus. Now, as they became silent, the music of The Faithful Shepherd Suite filled the room. Greenleaf listened to the orchestra and noted the repetition of each phrase with the appreciation of thescientist: but Marvell, with the ear of the artist
manqué
, felt the absurd skimped room transformed about him and, sighing within himself for something irrevocably lost, saw a green grove as
Thumping his fist on the table, Oliver made them all jump.
‘Linda Gaveston is a stupid little trouble-maker,’ he said furiously.
‘I suppose that goes for me too?’
‘I didn’t say so,’ said Oliver, too angry to care. ‘But if the cap fits … I hate all this under-hand gossip. If you’re trying to say Carnaby gave Patrick cyanide you’d better come straight out with it.’ He drank some whisky too quickly and choked. ‘On the other hand, perhaps you’d better not. I don’t want to pay out whacking damages for slander.’
‘It won’t go any further. Anyway, it’s my duty as a citizen to say what I think. Everyone knows EdwardCarnaby had a terrific motive for getting Patrick out of the way.’
There was an appalled silence. Nancy had grown red in the face and her plump breasts rose and fell under the clinging pink wool.
‘You’re all crazy about Tamsin. I know that. But Patrick wasn’t. He didn’t care for her a bit. He was having an affair with that awful little Freda. Night after night he was round there while her brother was out at evening classes. He used to tie that great dog of theirs up to the gate. It was just a horrid sordid little intrigue.’
As much as Oliver, Greenleaf wanted to stop her. He was immeasurably grateful for Bernice’s rich cleansing laughter.
‘If it was just a little intrigue,’ Bernice said lightly, ‘it can’t have been important, can it?’
Nancy allowed her hand to rest for a moment beneath Bernice’s. Then she snatched it away.
‘They’re twins, aren’t they? It means a lot, being twins. He wouldn’t want to lose her. Patrick might have gone off with her.’
But the tension was broken. Marvell, who had taken a book from the fireside shelves and studied it as if it were a first edition, now relaxed and smiled. Oliver had moved over to the record player and the red glaze had left his face.
‘Well, what does Max think?’ Nancy asked.
How wise Bernice had been, laughing easily, refusing to catch his eye! Greenleaf didn’t really want to do a Smith-King and flee at the scent of trouble. Besides, Oliver had some good records, Bartok and the wonderful Donizetti he wanted to hear again.
‘You know,’ he said in a quiet gentle voice, ‘it’s amazing the way people expect the worst when a young person dies suddenly. They always want to make a mystery.’ He wondered if Bernice and, for that matter Marvell, noticed how dismay was evoking his guttural accent. ‘Real life isn’t so sensational.’
‘Fiction stranger than truth,’ Marvell murmured.
‘I can assure you Patrick didn’t die of cyanide. You see, of all the poisons commonly used in cases of homicide cyanide is the most easily detected. The smell, for one thing …’
‘Bitter almonds,’ Nancy interposed.
Greenleaf smiled a smile he didn’t feel.
That among other things. Believe me, it’s fantastic to talk of cyanide.’ His hands moved expressively. ‘No, please,’ he said.
‘Well, what do you really think, then?’
‘I think you’re a very pretty girl with a vivid imagination and Linda Gaveston watches too much television. I wonder if I might have some more of your excellent whisky, Oliver?’
Oliver took the glass gratefully. He looked as if he would gladly have given Greenleaf the whole bottle.
‘Music,’ he said, handing records to the discerning Marvell.
‘May we have the Handel?’ Marvell asked politely. Nancy made a face and flung herself back among the cushions.
The sound of the rain falling steadily had formed throughout the conversation a monotonous background chorus. Now, as they became silent, the music of The Faithful Shepherd Suite filled the room. Greenleaf listened to the orchestra and noted the repetition of each phrase with the appreciation of thescientist: but Marvell, with the ear of the artist
manqué
, felt the absurd skimped room transformed about him and, sighing within himself for something irrevocably lost, saw a green grove as
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