The Affair of the Thirty-Nine Cufflinks E-Book

Anderson James

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: The Affair Of… Mysteries
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 488

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2011

Beschreibung

Lord Burford had some serious misgivings about hosting yet another house party at Alderley. After all, the previous two could, at best, be described as disastrous. But with family members travelling down for the funeral of an elderly relative, the Earl really had no choice but to offer accommodation. It did not take long for things to go wrong even before a body was found. For readers who want the twist in the tale to be as elegant as a well-tied cravat, it would be criminal to miss The Affair of the Thirty-Nine Cufflinks.

Leseprobe

THE AFFAIR OF THETHIRTY-NINECUFFLINKS

JAMES ANDERSON

Contents

Title PageAUTHOR’S NOTECHAPTER ONECHAPTER TWOCHAPTER THREECHAPTER FOURCHAPTER FIVECHAPTER SIXCHAPTER SEVENCHAPTER EIGHTCHAPTER NINECHAPTER TENCHAPTER ELEVENCHAPTER TWELVECHAPTER THIRTEENCHAPTER FOURTEENCHAPTER FIFTEENCHAPTER SIXTEENCHAPTER SEVENTEENCHAPTER EIGHTEENCHAPTER NINETEENCHAPTER TWENTYCHAPTER TWENTY-ONECHAPTER TWENTY-TWOCHAPTER TWENTY-THREECHAPTER TWENTY-FOURCHAPTER TWENTY-FIVECHAPTER TWENTY-SIXCHAPTER TWENTY-SEVENCHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHTCHAPTER TWENTY-NINECHAPTER THIRTYCHAPTER THIRTY-ONECHAPTER THIRTY-TWOCHAPTER THIRTY-THREECHAPTER THIRTY-FOURCHAPTER THIRTY-FIVECHAPTER THIRTY-SIXCHAPTER THIRTY-SEVENCHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHTCHAPTER THIRTY-NINECHAPTER FORTYCHAPTER FORTY-ONECHAPTER FORTY-TWOCHAPTER FORTY-THREEAbout the AuthorBy James AndersonCopyright

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Money values

At the period in which this story is set, money in Britain was worth approximately fifty-three times its value in the early 21st Century. So to get an idea of their present day equivalents, all sums mentioned should be multiplied by fifty-three. For example, £1,000 then would have had the purchasing power of £53,000 in the year 2001.

Those wishing to get an idea of the value of a sum in another currency, such as US dollars, have two choices:

They can convert using the rate of exchange as it was at the time of the events in the book. This will turn £1,000 into just under $5,000, and £53,000 into about $260,000.Alternatively, they convert at the rate of exchange at a more recent time. In 2001, for instance, this would have made £53,000 the equivalent of only about $78,000.

The matter is further complicated by the fact that the inflation rate has been lower in the USA than in Britain, so that $5,000 then would have had the purchasing power of about $63,750 in 2001.*

Readers who find all this as confusing as the author does should seek help from their friendly neighbourhood economist, or any good international currency dealer.

*(Figures from Economic History Services website: http://eh.net/hmit)

CHAPTER ONE

‘I want to make one thing absolutely plain,’ said the Honourable Mrs Florence Saunders. ‘After I’m dead, I will not come back.’

Jean Mackenzie, her companion, blinked. ‘I don’t quite…’

‘You know perfectly well what I mean. I don’t want you trying to get in touch with me at one of your séances. I’ll have far more interesting things to do than potter around down here, spouting a lot of platitudes about peace and love. Understand?’

‘Now, dear, you mustn’t talk like this. It’ll be many years yet—’

‘Jean, don’t talk nonsense. I’m ninety-six. It cannot possibly be many years. And I don’t mind at all. My husband’s dead. My only son is dead. I’ve had enough of this world now. I’ve repented of my sins and I’m ready to meet my Maker. So I want it made clear that there must be no long faces at my funeral. Let people enjoy themselves. I’ve taken one step in that direction already. Charlie Bradley has it in hand.’ She chuckled richly.

Jean looked doubtful. She was a thin, nondescript woman of about fifty, invariably clad in a tweed skirt and twin-set. Mostly her face wore an expression of doubt, or sometimes of anxiety. Doubt was now dominant as she didn’t know whether to take Florrie seriously. How could her solicitor ensure people enjoyed themselves at her funeral?

But then, Florrie had never been serious. Even the name. She should be called Florence, a properly dignified name for the widow of an Earl’s son. Jean had never felt quite comfortable calling her by her first name at all. But from the time she had come to her, Mrs Saunders had been quite clear. ‘Call me Florrie,’ she had said. ‘Everybody else does.’

It was her background, of course. Stage people were notoriously lax about such things. And although it must be seventy years since she had last trodden the boards, the music hall artiste, the old vaudevillian, was still there, struggling to get out.

Jean, though, wished she wouldn’t talk about her death. For that made her think about what was going to happen to her when Florrie passed over. She had hardly any savings and it was many years before she would qualify for a small state pension. With no qualifications, she would have little chance of getting any job, except one as companion. And most paid companions were really no better than nurse and housemaid combined. But otherwise, what would she do? After twenty-three years in this lovely detached house, on the river, just outside London, it would be very hard to settle in some pokey bed-setter, even if she could afford the rent. Oh, if only she knew whether Florrie—

‘Penny for ’em,’ Florrie said suddenly.

Jean gave a slight start. ‘I was just thinking what a remarkable life you’ve had,’ she said, untruthfully. ‘Tell me, would you change anything?’

Florrie shook her head firmly. ‘I had a wonderful time on the halls. Never made the West End, but might have done, if I hadn’t got married. And I certainly don’t regret that. People thought I was just Bertie’s little bit of fluff and I craftily trapped him into marriage. Not so. It was a love match, even though he was a good bit older than me. And I worked hard to make sure he’d never be ashamed of me. In a few months I could speak and dress so you wouldn’t know the difference between me and a Duchess. And I gave him a son. John was the apple of his eye. May sound shocking, but I’m always grateful Bertie died when he did. He saw John happily married to a lovely girl like Emma, with two daughters of his own. Then he passed away, less than nine months later Emma died, eighteen months after that John remarried – and within a few months was killed himself. It was a – a terrible time.’

Her voice quavered and stopped. Jean wisely remained silent while Florrie collected herself. She had, of course, listened to all this many times before. Florrie would reminisce for hours. But it didn’t bore Jean, who never tired of hearing about an early life so different from her own ultra-respectable middle-class upbringing.

Florrie was continuing now, talking almost to herself. ‘Worst choice John ever made, marrying Clara. I can understand why he did it: he thought Agatha and Dorothy needed a mother. And Clara could really turn on the charm, when she needed to. I don’t know why she cut herself and the girls off from me completely after John’s death: jealousy, maybe, or snobbery. Yet I was always nice to her. I never let it show that she was a disappointment to me, after Emma. Then, when the girls are grown up, she suddenly realises I’m getting on, and she ought to make sure I don’t get my own back by cutting them out of my will. So she brings them to see me, and fawns all over me, saying how fond she is of me. Lying cat. And Dorry just sits there, staring at the carpet and fiddling her thumbs, and Agatha is red in the face and fuming. Very painful. Only happened once, though.’

‘Well, you did tell her you found three visitors rather tiring.’

‘I was hinting it would be nice to see the girls on their own. But she wouldn’t have that.’

‘Still, you do see Agatha regularly now. I was amazed later on when I answered the door one day and there she was, in jodhpurs and all her motor-cycling outfit.’

‘Yes, she’s one of a kind, is Agatha. But imagine having to come secretly, so her stepmother doesn’t find out! And Dorry so cowed she never comes at all and from what Agatha says is not much more than an unpaid skivvy.’

‘Agatha seems to have made an independent life for herself.’

‘As far as she could. She ought to get out of that house. But, of course, she’s got no money. What they get under my will is going to make a difference, though.’

CHAPTER TWO

‘You’re not going to get away with it, you loathsome old woman,’ said the voice on the phone.

Clara Saunders gasped and nearly dropped the receiver. She was about to slam it down, but some instinct stopped her. Managing with great self-control to keep her voice steady, she said coolly: ‘Who is that?’

‘Oh, this is nobody at all. Nobody of any importance.’ The words were slightly slurred, the voice husky. It could have been a man or a woman.

‘Obviously true. Equally obviously you’re drunk.’

‘Oh yes, I’m drunk. And you know why? Because you’ve ruined my life.’

‘You’re insane.’

‘Don’t play the injured innocent. You sent that piece to the paper about me, you bitch.’

Clara drew her breath in sharply. But she wasn’t going to take this sort of thing lying down. ‘How dare you speak to me like that, you uncouth, insolent creature!’

‘Insolent? How can one be insolent to a slimy toad like you?’

‘I am not going to stand here and listen to insults from a contemptible, cowardly drunk. And let me warn you that if you call again—’

‘No, let me warn you, my fine lady, that you’re not going to get away with it.’ The voice got louder. ‘You’ll pay, yes, you’ll pay. I’m going to get you. I’m—’

At this Clara did ring off. She stood quite still in the hall of the old, rambling house in Hampstead. Her heart was pounding and her legs felt weak. Never before had she been spoken to in that ghastly way. Old, indeed! She wasn’t sixty yet. But she did feel she’d handled the person with considerable dignity.

Suddenly she needed to sit down. She turned, to make her way back into the drawing-room, then gave a jump. Standing just two feet from her was a young woman. Clara clasped her hand to her heart. ‘Oh, Dorothy, don’t creep up on me like that!’

‘I didn’t. I just came to answer the phone,’ Dorothy Saunders said defensively. She was in her early thirties, painfully thin, with short, mousy brown hair, and a deathly pale complexion. She was wearing a drab brown dress, about ten years out of date, thick stockings and flat shoes. At the moment her eyes were big with alarm. ‘Mother, who was that?’

‘I don’t know. Just some drunk.’

‘He threatened you, didn’t he?’

‘Certainly not!’

‘But I heard him say, “You’ll pay, I’m going to get you.”’

‘He didn’t know what he was saying. He was totally out of control.’

‘It was terrible. It’s the way Al Capone and those other Chicago gangsters talk to their enemies.’

‘I’m pleased to say, I wouldn’t know. And I don’t know how you do.’

‘Only from the talkies. It was one of them, wasn’t it?’

‘A gangster? Don’t be ridiculous!’

‘No – one of those people you’ve told the papers about.’

‘I tell you I don’t know who it was.’

‘Aggie’s always said something like this would happen – that one of them would try and get revenge.’

‘Your sister is absurdly melodramatic sometimes.’

‘But he did threaten you. Mother, you must tell the police.’

‘No. What could they do? Besides, it was only empty bluster.’

‘It might not be. And at least if he rings again you could tell him the police had been notified. It might just frighten him off.’

‘Well, I’ll think about it, if it’ll keep you quiet. Now I don’t want to hear another word on the subject. Go and do something useful. Clean the bathroom.’

‘I cleaned it this morning.’

‘Well, clean something else!’

And Clara strode into the drawing-room and slammed the door behind her.

CHAPTER THREE

‘I wonder how many people will come to my funeral,’ Florrie said reflectively.

Jean Mackenzie gave a tut. ‘There you go again, dear. You really must not think about these things.’

‘I like thinking about it. I want it to be a good one.’

‘I’m sure it will be, if a funeral can ever be good. And no doubt there’ll be lots of people there.’

‘Hardly any family, though. All my generation long gone, and John’s, too – all my nephews and nieces. Happened everywhere, of course. First the Great War, then the Spanish Flu.’

‘But you’ve got lots of great nephews and nieces, and great-greats.’

‘Four great nephews, one great niece and two great-great nieces. Yes, I expect they’ll come. I think they’re all in my will, aren’t they? Let me have another look at it, will you, dear?’

Jean got to her feet and carefully navigated her way between the many stools, pouffes, chairs and occasional tables to the big Victorian bureau. She had no difficulty in locating the will, as this was a routine which was gone through at least once a week. Florrie knew quite well who was in her will and who would be coming to her funeral. But she enjoyed the little ritual, it helped pass the time and at her age such harmless whims could be indulged.

Jean glanced down at the envelope wistfully as she made her way back. If only she knew whether she was mentioned in it. She had never liked to ask; it would seem such bad form. And Florrie hadn’t ever given the slightest hint. It would be so easy, she thought for the umpteenth time, just to come in one day, when Florrie was in bed, and look. But it wouldn’t be right. The mere fact that Florrie gave her the opportunity would make it wrong to take advantage of it. Though it was such a temptation…

She handed the envelope to Florrie, who opened it.

‘Now, let me see. Well, George and Lavinia will come. I’m sure of that. They’ve always kept in touch. Never any snobbery with the real aristocrats you know, the one’s who’ve got aristocratic natures, not just a title.’

‘Oh, I know. And that time we stayed at Alderley was so wonderful. I’ll never forget it. Even now, when they visit, I can’t believe I’m actually talking to the Earl and Countess of Burford. They treat me just as though I were, well, one of them.’

‘That’s precisely what I mean. And Geraldine’s a lovely girl, such a live wire. So interesting, all she had to tell me about those terrible murders they had there. I do hope she’ll be happy with that young man.’ She gave a sigh. ‘It must be lovely at Alderley now. I wonder what they’re all doing at this moment. Keeping very busy I’m sure.’

* * *

The August sun beat upon the half-drawn curtains of the mellow, oak-panelled room. Through the open French windows wafted the smell of roses and the faint hum of bees. In a large, well-worn black leather easy chair an untidy-looking man with wispy grey hair, a pink complexion and a straggly moustache whistled softly and not unmusically as his chest rose and fell rhythmically. The Times crossword puzzle, half finished, was open on his lap. George Henry Aylwin Saunders, twelfth Earl of Burford, was enjoying his usual post-prandial snooze. It was a peaceful scene.

It did not long remain so, as the double doors were thrown open and a girl breezed into the room. She was in her mid-twenties, petite, red-haired, with a tip-tilted nose and deceptively innocent large hazel eyes. She seemed to ooze energy. ‘Hello, Daddy,’ she said loudly.

Lord Burford awoke suddenly and blinked pale blue eyes several times before focusing on the speaker. He gave a grunt. ‘Oh. You’ve arrived.’

Lady Geraldine Saunders looked hurt. ‘What happened to “My darling daughter! You’re home at last! It’s been so long!”’

‘It seems about three hours. How’s London?’

‘Big. Noisy. But fun.’

‘It’s the noisiness – and the smelliness – that always strikes me most these days. Which is why I go up as little as possible. Is that Peepshow?’ He pointed incredulously to a garishly coloured magazine she was holding.

‘Yes. A little present for you.’

She held it out to him. Lord Burford took it gingerly and gazed at it with distaste. ‘Why the deuce did you bring me this? It’s an appallin’ rag.’

‘There’s something in it that will interest you.’

The Earl read the caption to the picture on the cover: ‘“Shirley Temple: America’s Little Sweetheart.” You surely don’t—?’

‘No, no – page twelve.’

The Earl reluctantly flicked through the pages and opened the magazine out. Then his eyes bulged. ‘Good gad!’

A banner headline, across two pages, read:

IS ALDERLEY CURSED?

The rest of the pages consisted mainly of photographs, but there was a small block of text. The Earl read it.

Twelve months ago this week two sensational murders were committed at Alderley, the 17th-Century Westshire home of the Earl and Countess of Burford. Amazingly, less than six months later, another, completely unconnected murder took place. Involving, among others, a government minister, film stars, American millionaires, European aristocracy, foreign diplomats and an Olympic athlete, with the murder weapons valuable firearms from Lord Burford’s world-famous collection, these crimes have led many people to ask if an ancient gypsy’s curse is still exerting its malign influence over the beautiful, stately home, and if this could lead to further tragedies. See the following pages for the full astounding story.

The Earl looked up. ‘This – this is preposterous!’

‘I know.’

‘It’s absolute nonsense! It’s ridiculous! It’s – it’s—’ He groped for words.

‘How about balderdash? That’s a good strong word.’

‘Claptrap,’ said the Earl defiantly.

‘Yes, claptrap’s good, too.’

‘This business about a curse, I mean. The eighth Earl turfed some gypsies off his land and one old woman swore at him a bit and told him he’d regret it.’

‘And within twelve months he and his younger son were both dead.’

‘The Earl had apoplexy – probably what they’d call a stroke today – and the boy most likely got pneumonia. There wasn’t anything mysterious about it. Since then there’s been nothin’ out of the ordinary. Most of my ancestors died peacefully, usually at a ripe old age.’

‘You don’t have to convince me, Daddy. I’m not scared of any gypsy’s curse.’

‘And those murders didn’t involve the family. The people just happened to be here. I shall complain to the editor.’

‘I don’t honestly think you’ve got any grounds. The story has appeared in a couple of books, after all.’

Lord Burford turned the page to reveal a page of text broken into many short paragraphs and headed THEALDERLEY MURDERS: FULL STORY. ‘You’ve read this?’

‘Skimmed through it. Nothing that wasn’t in the papers at the time. They seem to have got the facts right, and they don’t libel anybody, so we’ll just have to grin and bear it.’

‘Bear it I may. Grin I will not.’

‘The pictures aren’t bad.’

‘Didn’t look at ’em.’ He turned back the page. ‘My word, they’ve really gone to town. That’s your mother and me when she opened the County Show last month. Nice photo of you.’

‘It’s the one that was in The Tatler.’

‘Oh yes. But they’ve put you in a line with all these other girls. “Beauties Involved in Murder.” You, Jane Clifton, Anilese de la Roche, Laura Lorenzo, the little Dove – and Mabel Turner, for heaven’s sake! This picture of her must be twenty years old, at least.’

‘That “involved in” is a bit rich. You’d think they’d have had the decency to distinguish between the victims, the criminals and the innocent bystanders.’

‘Well, you weren’t a bystander, either time. You were gettin’ mixed up in the investigations.’

Gerry nodded, a wistful expression on her face. ‘You know, in spite of all the horrible things that happened, it was fun, wasn’t it – looking back?’

‘I look back as infrequently as I can. Reckon those weekends put twenty years on my life.’

‘There’s even a photo of Chief Inspector Wilkins – see.’

‘Oh yes. “The Man Who Solved Both Cases.” Looking as bewildered as ever. He came up trumps, though. Er, did you just get the one copy of this?’

‘Two. Mummy’s got the other.’

‘Oh, you’ve shown her. How did she take it?’

‘As you’d expect: phlegmatically.’

‘Good. I was just thinkin’, rubbish as it all is, might be a good idea to get a few more copies. I can think of quite a few people who’d like to see it – some of the others who were here, apart from anybody else.’

‘OK, I’ll get another half dozen.’

‘Better make it a dozen. So, what you doin’ here? Row with the boyfriend?’

‘Of course not! And he’s my fiancé, not just my boyfriend; remember?’

‘Thought you youngsters preferred these new-fangled terms. Anyway, why are you home?’

‘I explained in my telegram. He’s had to go away on family business. You know there was a death in his family – which is why we had to postpone the wedding. Well, it’s led to a lot of legal and financial complications and he’s had to go and help sort it all out. It was going to be lonely until he got back and I wanted a break.’

‘Why didn’t you go with him?’

‘I felt I’d be in the way.’

‘Lor, you’ve got sensitive all of a sudden. Anyway, it’s nice to have you home, sweetheart. Place seems pretty empty sometimes, without you.’

Gerry looked surprised and pleased. ‘Why, thank you Daddy. Anyway, I’m going to have a shower.’ She started towards the door, then stopped and turned round. ‘Oh, while I remember, I saw Great Aunt Florrie last week. She sent her love to you both.’

‘Oh, good. Your mother and I called to see her for a couple of hours back in the spring. How is she?’

‘Perky as ever. Apart from my wedding, all she wanted me to talk about was the murders – much to Miss Mackenzie’s disapproval. I filled her in on all the undercover stuff that never came out publicly. I think I’ll send her a copy of Peepshow. I’m sure she’ll enjoy making Mackenzie read it to her.’

‘Suppose I ought to read it – just to make quite sure they have got their facts right.’

‘Oh, absolutely,’ Gerry said.

She went out. The Earl buried his head in Peepshow.

CHAPTER FOUR

‘Then there’s Gregory,’ said Florrie. ‘He’s certain to come when he learns he’s in the will. Don’t suppose his wife will bother, though. She’s never been here.’

‘That’s Alexandra, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. Don’t think it’s much of a marriage. She’s very politically ambitious, and I imagine the fact Gregory’s not exactly had a dazzling career has been a disappointment to her.’

‘But he’s very respected as an MP, isn’t he?’

‘I believe so. I can’t trust him, though. Maybe just because he’s a politician. I don’t believe a word one of them says. Frankly, I’d never be surprised to learn…’

She tailed off.

‘To learn what, dear?’

‘Oh, nothing,’ said Florrie.

‘Greggy, darling, I saw an absolutely too divine dress in Bond Street today.’

Gregory Carstairs, MP, who was pouring himself a gin and tonic at the time, gave a grunt. His companion, a sinuous dark-haired girl with pouting, scarlet lips, who was lounging artistically back on the sofa, displaying very long and shapely legs, clad in black stockings of the purest silk, went on: ‘It’s chiffon, the palest shade of blue, with these delicious little pleats…’ She prattled away, but Gregory wasn’t listening. He gazed out of the window over the roofs of St. John’s Wood to the famous Father Time weather vane of Lord’s Cricket Ground, just a few hundred yards away. Useful, at least in the summer. If anybody should happen to see him in the neighbourhood, it provided the perfect excuse. Watching cricket was something nobody objected to a Member of Parliament doing; it was almost expected.

He was a heavily built man of about fifty with closely cropped grizzled hair, a florid complexion, the beginnings of a double chin and a neatly trimmed moustache, which he fondly believed gave him a military appearance. He always refused to talk about his war experiences, leading many people to assume he must have had a good record. In fact, he had been rejected because of flat feet, and had spent the whole of 1914 to 1918 in a Whitehall office.

He turned round and surveyed the chicly furnished, ultra-modern sitting-room of the flat, with its sharp angles and chromium fittings. ’Strewth, but this place was costing him a fortune. How long would he be able to keep it up? Or Poppy, for that matter? He was going to have to do something about it. But what? Poppy was such a clinger. And she wouldn’t forgive easily if he just dumped her. He had to keep her sweet. It wouldn’t be so bad if it wasn’t for that damned letter he’d written her. What a fool he’d been! Tipsy at the time, of course, and in those days he’d been really smitten by her, but that was no excuse. He had to get out of this entanglement soon. But how?

‘…and it was only ten pounds – well, guineas, actually. It would really suit me.’

Gregory dragged himself back. ‘I’m sure you’d look absolutely breathtaking in it, my sweet. We must certainly think about getting it for you, er, sometime.’

‘Sometime?’ There was a suspicious edge to her voice.

‘Yes, Christmas perhaps.’

‘Christmas?’ This time the voice was an octave higher. ‘But that’s months and months away. And this is a summer dress!’

‘But you’ve got dozens of summer dresses. And look so perfectly ravishing in all of them.’

Poppy gazed at him, a disconcertingly acute and appraising expression in her large violet eyes. ‘Greggy, you’re not getting hard up, are you?’

‘Good lord, no! Whatever gave you that idea?’

‘You haven’t bought me anything nice for weeks and weeks.’

‘Well, I am a bit short of the ready just now. But it’s just a temporary thing. Hold up in funds, lots of expenses, have to take the old woman to Monte later this month, as I explained.’

‘You’ve never taken me to Monte Carlo.’

‘I know, my sweet, and I’d like nothing better, believe me. But we did have that weekend in Brighton a month ago.’

‘That was no fun, not with you peering over your shoulder all the time, in a blue funk in case someone recognised you.’

‘Well, I do have to be careful, sweetheart. I mean if we were seen together, it would cause the most awful scandal in my constituency. I’ve explained what a provincial backwater it is, and how narrow-minded they are there. Any hint of what they’d call impropriety could cost me my seat. Do you know what my majority was last time?’

‘Five hundred and sixty-eight,’ Poppy said in a bored voice.

‘Oh. Then you can see how easily I could be kicked out.’

‘Would it really matter if you were? You seem totally fed up with it half the time, and there’s all these late-night sittings and asking questions you know the answers to already and having to write letters to all those silly little constituents. And you’re never going to get into the Government, are you? You’re always going to be a backbencher.’

‘I say, that’s a bit below the belt. Besides, it’s not true. One of the Whips was only saying to me a month ago that the Prime Minister’s always got me very much in mind.’ He straightened his shoulders and unconsciously straightened his tie. ‘Anyway, it’s a matter of duty. Family’s got a long history of public service. Men from my background have a responsibility to serve this country.’ He took hold of the lapel of his jacket with one hand and gazed out over the rooftops. His voice took on a more resonant tone. ‘I often think, when I gaze at a view such as this, and look down at the people going peaceably, freely and unafraid about their business, how greatly blessed we are to live in a land like ours.’

He turned round and addressed her earnestly. ‘Across a mere twenty-six miles of water, storm clouds are gathering and tyranny is raising its vile head. Yet how often we in Britain tend to take our blessings for granted. It has been wisely said that the price of liberty is eternal vigilance. Such vigilance is the duty of us all, but particularly of those happy few of us called to serve in the front line of liberty’s defence, in the Mother of Parliaments. We—’

Poppy raised her hand to her mouth and ostentatiously stifled a yawn. Gregory gave a blink and came back to earth. ‘Well, you do see, don’t you?’

‘But do you really enjoy it, Greggy – all this defending liberty? Wouldn’t you rather be spending your time with me?’ The tone was wheedling.

‘Well, of course I would, precious. You know that.’

‘Then why don’t you chuck it in? After all, you’ve done nearly twenty years of public service. You could get your divorce and never have to worry about who saw us. And it’s not as though the salary is up to much. You told me once it only made up a teeny bit of what you earned.’

‘Yes, but you don’t understand. I’m on the Board of six companies, five of whom only want me because it looks good to have an MP on their letter heads. I’m an adviser to two business associations, simply because the idiots believe I can influence Government policy, or at least know what it’s going to be. Then there’s the odd bit of journalism. I’d lose all that if I gave up my seat. Besides, what would I do outside politics?’

Poppy gave a pout. ‘So I suppose that means you’ll be going off to your dreary old constituency more and more, does it?’

‘’Fraid so: make a few speeches, shake a few hands, kiss a few babies. And don’t worry – I mean the sort that guzzle milk, not the kind that quaff champers.’ Gregory gave a forced chuckle.

‘Will she be going with you?’

‘Alex? Yes. She’s dam’ good at that sort of thing, I will say that. Worth a good few hundred votes.’

‘I could do all that sort of thing.’

Gregory tried unsuccessfully to imagine Poppy earnestly discussing child welfare or old age pensions with the wife of his constituency party Chairman. But he wasn’t forced to make a response, because she changed the subject.

‘So, when you going next?’

‘Tomorrow, actually.’

‘How long for?’

‘Rest of the week.’

‘Oh, Greggy!’

‘Frightfully sorry. But it can’t be helped.’

Poppy gave a sigh. ‘What about next week?’

‘Not sure. Monday and Tuesday I’ve got speaking engagements. I’ll phone you sometime Tuesday. Perhaps we can arrange something for Wednesday or later in the week.’

‘I won’t budge an inch from the phone, darling,’ said Poppy.

CHAPTER FIVE

‘Timothy will come, I’m sure,’ Florrie said. ‘I think he’d want to, but he’d come even if he didn’t. Always does the right thing, does Timothy.’

‘Such a distinguished-looking man, I always think. And a very clever barrister, I believe.’

‘Oh, Timothy’s all right. Terrible stick, though. How he came to have such a flibbertigibbet daughter as Penny I’ll never know. She’s a pretty little baggage, with no thought in her head apart from finding a husband.’

‘So sad her mother dying as young as she did.’

‘Yes. Can’t have been easy for Timothy, bringing up a girl on his own. Still, he always seems completely in control of every situation.’

‘Thank you, Mr Jackson,’ said Timothy Saunders. ‘I have no further questions. I’m sure his lordship and the jury will now know just how much weight to attach to your evidence.’

He sat down, as Jackson, looking decidedly shaken, hurriedly left the witness box. A cross-examination by one of the sharpest forensic minds of the English bar left few people unscathed.

Timothy’s face showed no expression. It hardly ever did. He felt no pleasure at having demolished one of the opposition’s most important witnesses: just the quiet satisfaction of a professional at a job well done. He gathered his papers together as the judge announced the end of the day’s proceedings. His junior counsel gave him a sideways glance. It had been a ruthless performance, one that made him feel slightly uncomfortable. But undeniably effective. ‘Nearly over, do you think?’ he asked quietly.

Timothy nodded shortly. ‘We can expect an offer in the morning.’

He was a slim man of no more than average height, with small, regular features, a neatly trimmed toothbrush moustache, a pale complexion and thinning light brown hair, concealed now under his barrister’s wig. A man who would never be noticed in a crowd, whom most people would have difficulty in describing, even after spending half an hour in his company. He recognised that it was probably the constant experience of being unnoticed and ignored when young that had driven him relentlessly on in his determination to make an impact of some kind on the world.

He strode rapidly back to his chambers. It was only four thirty. Time for a full three hours’ work on the opinion he was preparing for Hargraves & Hargraves. Not that there was any urgency. He could go home now. But the house would be empty, apart from the servants, tucked away in their quarters. Penelope would certainly be out. What would he do? Read a law book? He sometimes envied those men who had some all-consuming interest or hobby – gardening or golf or, like his distant relative, Lord Burford, gun-collecting. But he had never left time for things like that. And now he was surely not far away from achieving his life-long ambition: elevation to the Bench, leading, in all probability one day, to the position of Lord Chief Justice, and the opportunity not merely to practise law but actually to influence it, to change it. He knew that that was what his fellow lawyers expected. Even if none of them liked him very much, they all held him in the highest respect. And what was more important than respect?

Arriving back at his chambers, he sent his clerk home, poured himself a small glass of very dry sherry and sat down at his desk. He took out the case containing his pince-nez, thoroughly polished them with a clean linen handkerchief and put them on. He refolded the handkerchief and replaced it in his pocket, then opened his brief case, took out the papers – and saw It. His stomach gave a lurch. For a while he had managed to forget about It – this thing that clouded all his horizons, that threatened to shatter all his hopes for the future.

The Photograph.

Against his better judgement, he had to obey the impulse to look at it again. It was like the urge constantly to exert pressure on a painful tooth, just to see if it still hurt. His eyes gave the slightest flicker and his lips tightened momentarily – the closest he would ever come to wincing – and he hurriedly put it back in his case. He could not leave it in the office safe, as his clerk knew the combination, while Penelope knew that of the one at home. So he had been carrying it round with him. He ought really to deposit it at his bank. But then he would not be able to indulge the lacerating, but to him very necessary, urge constantly to stare at it, searching for some minute indication as to where or who… He knew when, but there was no clue, obviously, as to why. Was it a prelude to blackmail? If so, why was the demand delayed? Or was some enemy, someone he had destroyed in court, just playing with him, waiting to release it to the gutter press the moment his advancement was announced? The first he could put up with. And he would pay, unquestionably – provided he could think of some method to be sure he got the negative and all prints back; easier said than done, but it ought not to be beyond his wit. He just wished the demand would come tomorrow, so he knew where he was. But it was entirely out of his hands. And thinking about it at this time would serve absolutely no purpose.

With the strength of will and concentration that made him such a formidable lawyer, he thrust all thought of it from his mind, got out the Hargraves papers and commenced writing in a quick, neat hand. Every few seconds his eyelid twitched irritatingly, but Timothy ignored it.

CHAPTER SIX

‘Now the one who I think’s really going to miss me is Stella,’ Florrie said.

‘Oh, I’m sure she will. I do like Stella. And she’s so smart and sophisticated.’

‘I suppose working as a fashion journalist in New York for ten years does that for you.’

‘I do enjoy her stories.’

‘Yes, she’s a wonderfully entertaining girl. I love her sense of humour. I’m sorry her magazine went broke, of course, but I am glad it brought her home.’

‘But she seems to be doing just as well with this London magazine.’

‘Don’t suppose she earns as much, though. She’s a very ambitious girl, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she moved on fairly soon. Ah well, we’ll see. Or at least you will.’

‘She’s the granddaughter of Margaret, your husband’s younger sister, is that right?’

‘I sometimes think you know my family better than I do. Yes. Margaret was pretty cool at first, but she came round in the end. We became quite good friends. And it’s nice that her grandson keeps in touch, as well as her granddaughter.’

‘Stella and Tommy are first cousins, aren’t they?’

‘Yes. I’m fond of Tommy – even though he’s not the brainiest lad you could hope to find.’

‘He’s so charming, though. And funny. He really makes me smile with all those tales of his pranks.’

‘Bit too funny and charming sometimes, perhaps, but his heart’s in the right place.’

‘He’s such a good listener, too. He always seems really eager to hear the little stories I am able to tell him about communications with the Other Side.’

Florrie strongly suspected that Jean’s little stories were secretly a source of great amusement to Tommy. But she said nothing.

The richly carpeted and gracefully appointed car showroom had the hush of a great cathedral. Here and there among the multi-coloured and glistening graven images, elegant and expensively attired young men, the priests of this secular religion, conversed in low and earnest tones with equally well-dressed but clearly timid acolytes. Occasionally a single word or phrase wafted, like a mantra, above the low hum: ‘torque,’ ‘compression,’ ‘power-to-weight ratio.’

Tommy Lambert, an exceedingly tall and slim young man of twenty-three, with a pink complexion and a mop of unruly sandy-coloured hair, stood gazing out through the plate glass window at the sunlit bustle of London’s Park Lane, his normally amiable expression replaced at this moment by one of profound gloom. No eager enquirers after truth had approached him that morning, perhaps sensing that he was as much a noviciate as they themselves. And no enquirers, to be promptly converted into cash-paying customers, meant no commission this week. And no commission meant no – what? Champagne cocktails? Tickets to the new Rodgers and Hart musical for himself and Ginny or Susie or Joanie? No afternoon at Epsom on Saturday? He could put up with that, though, if it wasn’t for the other business. The day suddenly darkened as he thought of it again. What the deuce was he going to do? For the moment Benny seemed reasonably content with ten shillings a week. But that was just interest. It could only be a matter of weeks at the most before he demanded payment in full. And when he didn’t get it he’d probably turn very nasty. Confound the fellow who’d given him that ‘sure-fire’ tip. Nothing seemed to have gone right since.

‘Hello, Tommy,’ said a soft and slightly breathless voice behind him.

Tommy spun round and his face lightened. ‘Penny, old bean, what a surprise!’

The girl standing there was a few years younger than himself. She had bobbed, platinum blond hair, done in lots of tight curls, and enormous pale blue eyes, set wide apart. She was wearing a cream cotton suit with peak lapels and patch pockets, and perched slightly to the side of her head was a light green Tyrolean hat, decorated with a pheasant tail. She looked extremely fashionable and very pretty. She was smiling rather tentatively at him.

‘How are you, Tommy?’

‘Oh, spiffing, really, you know.’

‘I saw you through the window. You were looking a bit in the dumps’

‘Was I? Well, suppose I am, really.’

‘Oh?’ She stared at him sympathetically. ‘Something wrong?’

‘Nothing more than usual. It’s just that I think that Lagonda might be exactly the car you’re looking for, madam. Let me show it to you.’ He ushered her towards a scarlet two-seater Tourer.

Penelope Saunders looked somewhat bewildered. ‘I’m sorry, Tommy, I didn’t really come in to buy a car.’

‘I know, but the Lord High Sales Manager was approaching. Got to pretend you’re a customer.’ He stopped by the Lagonda. ‘Look at the car, not me.’

‘Oh, right. I thought I’d just pop in and see how you were getting on at the new job. Sort of cousinly interest.’

‘Jolly decent of you. That is the trouble, really. I’m not much good at it. I’ve only sold three cars in four weeks.’

‘Is that bad?’

‘Well, they don’t expect you to be a super salesman in a month, but I am starting to get some rather old-fashioned looks.’

‘Oh, I am sorry. I was hoping this time you might have found something that really suited you. I mean, you’ve always been keen on cars, haven’t you?’

‘Keen on driving them, not selling them.’

Penny was staring intently at the sleek lines of the Lagonda. ‘It is awfully pretty, isn’t it? I wish I could buy it.’

‘It’s not all that expensive,’ Tommy said hopefully.

‘It is for me. Daddy keeps me most horribly hard up. My allowance is positively laughable. Only I don’t laugh. You’d think he’d want me to have a good time. But no. And it’s always ‘don’t do this, don’t do that.’ He doesn’t like me smoking in public. He won’t even let me paint my toenails. And he thinks night clubs are dens of iniquity. He’s like one of those Victorian fathers you read about.’

‘Well, I suppose he is, really, isn’t he? Victorian, I mean. How old is he?’

‘Forty-six.’

‘Well, there you are. He was born in the nineteenth century, so he is Victorian.’

‘But he doesn’t have to behave like it. It’s the 1930s now.’

Tommy said: ‘Get in the car – look as though you’re really interested.’

He opened the driver’s door and Penny got in. Tommy went round to the far side, gathering up a couple of brochures from a nearby stand on the way, and sat in the passenger seat. ‘I’ll pretend to be going through all this technical stuff with you.’

‘It’s really comfy,’ Penny said, leaning back in the seat. ‘You’d think he’d let me have a car, wouldn’t you? I mean, just because I gave his Daimler the teeny-weeniest dent the only time he let me drive it, he uses that as an excuse – says he’s frightened I’d have an accident. It’s the money, really, I’m sure.’

‘He must have oodles, too.’

‘He’s absolutely rolling. And it’s not as though he’s got anyone – or anything – else to spend it on.’

‘So, what’s he do with it?’

‘Just invests it. I think he gives a lot to good causes, as well.’

‘Well, I’m a good cause. Wouldn’t slip a few quid to me, would he? I’ve got all sorts of ripping ideas that just need a bit of capital.’

‘There’s not a chance of that, darling.’

‘He doesn’t like me, does he?’

Penny wriggled awkwardly. ‘It’s not that he doesn’t like you. But he doesn’t really approve of you. Thinks you should have trained for some proper profession.’

‘It’s all very well for brainy geezers like him. Can you see me as a lawyer or doctor or architect or something?’

Penny tried for a moment and failed.

‘I think I’ll turn to crime,’ Tommy said gloomily.

‘Don’t be silly.’

‘I’m not being silly. I’ve seriously thought about it. Oh, not anything that would hurt anybody, but where would be the harm in pinching something from somebody who’d never miss it? Just to put me on my feet.’

‘You mustn’t say things like that. I know you’re joking, but other people wouldn’t – people who don’t know how you’re always kidding and playing pranks and practical jokes. That’s something else which puts Daddy off you.’

‘That’s just fun! They never harm anyone.’

‘I know that. I think some of them are screamingly funny. But Daddy’s got no sense of humour at all.’

‘I say, I brought off an absolutely terrific wheeze a couple of weeks ago. This old chum of mine was working for a company owned by an absolute bounder. Name of Hodge. Frightfully rich, and he and his wife are the most appalling snobs. Anyway, he had an application for a job from the son of some marquis or other, old Etonian, and all that, but totally useless. Old Hodge-podge, though, couldn’t resist having a gen-you-ine aristocrat on his staff, so to make room for him, he sacked my pal. No excuse, no apology, just a month’s salary and out on his ear.’

‘How rotten.’

‘As you can imagine, he was pretty browned off and wanted to get his own back. He asked me if I had any ideas. So I put the jolly old brain-box to work and made a few enquiries. These people have got a big place in Sussex, swimming pool, acres of grounds. And it’s on a main road to the coast. I found out they were planning a big garden party for the next Saturday – lavish open-air buffet, marquee, and so on. Asking all the toffs of the county. So I went to a sign writer and got a lot of big placards done. The Saturday was a super day and my pal and I drove down. We got there just before the party started and we stuck these placards up about every fifty yards at the side of the road for the quarter of a mile leading to the house. They had things on them like ‘Open Day,’ ‘No Charge,’ ‘Everybody Welcome,’ ‘Free Refreshments,’ ‘Beautiful Gardens,’ ‘Swimming Pool,’ ‘Bring the Kiddies.’ And the ones nearest the house had big arrows, pointing through the gates. Then we beat it, pronto.’

‘What happened?’ Penny asked, wide-eyed.

‘I found out all about it later, from a johnnie who was at the party. As you can imagine, on a beautiful Saturday, the roads were jam-packed with people on their way for an afternoon at the seaside, and within minutes cars started to roll in. The Hodges didn’t realise what was happening at first, thought they were invited guests. The climax was when a charabanc, with about forty people on board, arrived. They twigged then, but it was too late. There were already about twenty cars parked on the drive, people were helping themselves to grub and drinks from the buffet, kids were trampling all over the flower beds, changing into their bathing costumes in their cars and jumping in the swimming pool. Some people actually went in the house and started poking round all over the place, using the bathrooms, what have you. The butler was trying to get rid of them, which led to a lot of nasty arguments. And the most topping thing of all was that one of the real guests was an eccentric old baronet, who always dresses in the most disreputable togs and hardly ever shaves or has his hair cut. The butler thought he was one of the gatecrashers and forcibly ejected him. By which time, most of the toffs were pretty fed up, and started to leave, en masse. Hodge was running round in circles, trying to get them to stay and the intruders to leave, all at the same time. Mrs Hodge was having hysterics in her boudoir. I’m delighted to say that their great day was totally ruined. And serve them bally well right.’

Penny gave a sigh. ‘Oh, Tommy, you’re so clever! To think of that!’

Tommy endeavoured unsuccessfully to look modest. ‘I do seem to have a flair for that sort of thing.’ Then he became gloomy again. ‘Good to have a flair for something, I suppose. Certainly haven’t got one for selling cars.’

‘What would you like to do?’

‘Dunno, really. Used to think I’d like to be a reporter. Must be terrific fun, going round interviewing film stars and racing drivers. I’m not much of a writer, but that doesn’t really matter; you just put down what they say. It was Stella getting her first job in that line that put the idea into my head. Incidentally, I hear she’s back.’

‘Stella who? Back from where?’

‘Stella Simmons. Cousin Stella. Home from the US of A. A pal of mine ran into her. Seems she’s working for some fashion mag, but I don’t know which one and her number’s not in the phone book, so I haven’t been able to get in touch with her. I thought she might have given me a call, actually. I used to have quite a crush on her, when I was about thirteen.’

Penny gave an almost inaudible sniff. ‘Really?’

‘And she was jolly nice to me.’

‘Really?’ said Penny again. The temperature in the Lagonda had dropped a degree or two.

‘Girls of that age haven’t usually got much time for young lads.’

Penny frowned. ‘What do you mean: ‘that age’?’

‘Well, she must have been twenty-three or more then.’

‘Oh.’ Penny’s face cleared. ‘Then she’s quite old?’

‘Mm, that was ten or eleven years ago.’

‘I see.’ The atmosphere was suddenly warmer again. ‘She sounds very nice,’ Penny said condescendingly.

‘You never met her, then?’

‘I’ve never even heard of her. And I don’t understand. If she’s your cousin and I’m your cousin, she must be my cousin, too, mustn’t she?’

‘You’re not my cousin.’

‘Don’t be silly, Tommy, of course I am.’

‘Not my full cousin – first cousin, nor even second. We’re different generations.’

Penny looked quite blank. ‘How do you mean?’

‘Well, let me see. Your grandfather and my father were first cousins. So I’m second cousin to your father. I think that makes you my second cousin once removed.’

‘Removed where?’

‘That’s just what they call it. Means a generation younger.’

‘I’m nothing like a generation younger than you, only three or four years.’

‘That’s got nothing to do with it. But if we were looking at the family tree, you’d be one level lower down.’

Penny was looking totally bewildered. ‘I don’t know anything about the family, really. Daddy never talks about them. So where does this Stella girl come in?’

‘Ah, well, my father and her mother were brother and sister. So she is my first cousin. And you’re her second cousin once removed, too, as well as mine. Aren’t you a lucky girl?’

‘Mummy had some first cousins. I used to call them Auntie or Uncle.’

‘Oh, that’s just an old convention. You needn’t call me Uncle.’

‘I wasn’t going to,’ Penny said blankly.

‘We’d better get out. Can’t sit here all day.’

‘Tommy, you were joking, weren’t you? About taking up crime.’

‘What? Oh yes, of course. You know me. Here, take these.’ He handed her the brochures. ‘I’ll give you my card. Look at it, say loudly: ‘Thank you, Mr Lambert. I’m very interested in the car. I’ll come back and see you when I’ve had a few days to think about it.’’

‘Say that again.’

Tommy did so, and Penny carefully repeated the words under her breath.

He got out, hurried round the car, opened the driver’s door for her and with a flourish handed her his business card. ‘Please don’t hesitate to contact me, if you have any further questions, madam.’

Penny concentrated furiously. ‘Thank you, Mr Carr,’ she said in a loud voice. ‘I’m very interested in you. I want to think about you for a few days and see you again.’

CHAPTER SEVEN

‘I suppose Clara will let the girls come,’ Florrie said.

‘Surely she will! And come herself, I should hope.’

‘Hypocrite if she does. But be criticised if she doesn’t, I suppose. Unless she could claim pressure of work.’

‘Work? What do you mean, dear?’

‘I told you what Agatha told me about Clara’s nasty little money-making scheme. I put in a guarded reference to it when I made those little changes to my will last month. Anyway, Agatha should be here again any day now. I must find out if it’s still going on.’

Clara reached forward and took the rough-skinned hand of the plump young girl, who was sitting on the edge of the hard upright chair in the coldly furnished and immaculately tidy drawing-room, an expression of acute doubt on her pale, unattractive face. Clara’s claw-like fingers tightened in what was meant to be a reassuring, clasp, but which only made the girl wince slightly. Clara hastily let go.

‘Now, Martha,’ she said gently. ‘I know you’re a good, loyal girl. But when you learn of some terrible deceit, you do have a duty to make sure the truth comes out. It’s not right that your master should deceive your mistress in this way. Don’t you think she should know about it?’

Martha nodded.

‘Then can you tell her yourself?’

‘Oh no, madam, I couldn’t.’

‘But she’ll never find out unless somebody tells her. You tell me and I’ll make sure she learns just what’s been going on.’

Martha twisted her hands together. ‘I don’t know, I’m sure.’

‘You came to me, remember, my dear, not the other way round. All you’ve told me so far is that your employer is deceiving his wife with another woman, but you haven’t even told me his name. Why did you come, by the way? We’ve never met before, have we?’

‘It was Lily suggested it, madam, Lily Watson. She was in service with Dr. and Mrs Forbes-King.’

‘Ah yes, of course. And in that case, it was the mistress who was carrying on.’

‘That’s right, madam, and Lily said that after she told you about it, it all came out. They’re divorced now, of course, and Lily had to look for another position, but she said that wasn’t your fault.’

‘Of course it wasn’t. How can it ever be wrong to tell the truth? Now, I can see you’re an honourable girl and you hate carryings-on. They go against everything your mother ever taught you, don’t they?’

‘Yes, madam.’

‘And she was a good woman, wasn’t she?’

‘Oh yes, madam. She still is. She’s still alive.’

‘I’m so glad. The world can ill afford to lose women like your mother. Now I’m sure you want to be a credit to her – speak up fearlessly and uncover all this lying and deceit.’

‘Oh yes, madam, but…’ Martha ran her tongue round her lips. ‘Lily did say as how you made it worth her while, like.’

‘But of course. Virtue should always be rewarded.’

She opened her clasped left hand to reveal the crisp £5 which was folded in her palm. She made it crackle temptingly. ‘Well.’ Martha took a deep breath. ‘The master is Mr Terence Leigh.’

Clara’s eyebrows shot upwards. ‘The novelist?’

‘Yes, madam.’

‘Really? Right, now tell me exactly what happened.’

‘Well, it was Wednesday last week. That’s me usual half-day – the mistress changed it this week. Anyway, the mistress had gone to visit her parents and wasn’t expected back until late and the master was going to be working in his study. Now, he’d said he’d go out for a meal in the evening and told cook she could have the afternoon off, as well, which was very unusual. She went out about one. I went out about quarter past, and I noticed this big red and white American car parked a little down the road, with a lady sat in it. I didn’t think nothing of it, really. I ’adn’t gone very far when I found I’d left me purse behind, and I ’ad to go back. The car was still there, but the lady weren’t in it. Well, I went in through the servants’ door at the back and started up to me room. But when I was passing the main bedroom I heard voices coming from it.’

By now Clara’s long, narrow nose seemed to be almost visibly quivering. ‘What voices?’

‘One was definitely the master, and the other a lady.’

‘Could you hear what they were saying?’

‘Just a few words. I heard the lady laughing, and then she gave a sort of little scream. And I heard her say: ‘Terry, you’re a wicked man, you know that?’ And the master, he said: ‘And you’re absolutely wonderful, Marigold.’’

‘Marigold? Had you ever heard a mention of that name?’

‘No, madam. And nobody ever calls the master Terry.’

‘Go on.’

‘Well, I would have liked to have seen who the lady was, if she was the one in the car, but they might be in there some time, and when they did come out, it wouldn’t be likely I’d see her face, ’cos I’d have to keep out of sight myself, and anyway, it was me afternoon off, and I knew my friend would be waiting for me, so I just went on up, got me purse and scarpered. The car were gone, though, when I got back that night.’

‘What did the lady in the car look like?’

‘Real glamorous. Very blond hair, lots of make-up.’

Clara nodded to herself. ‘Yes, it could be…’ She fell silent for a few moments, then stood up. ‘Well, thank you, Martha. You did quite right in coming to me.’ The £