Читать книгу Grave Mistake - Ngaio Marsh - Страница 11

As she drove home, Verity tried to sort out the events of the evening but had not got far with them when, at the bottom of the drive, her headlamps picked up a familiar trudging figure. She pulled up alongside.

‘Hullo, Mrs Jim,’ she said. ‘Nip in and I’ll take you home.’

‘It’s out of your way, Miss Preston.’

‘Doesn’t matter. Come on.’

‘Very kind, I’m sure. I won’t say no,’ said Mrs Jim.

She got in neatly and quickly but settled in her seat with a kind of relinquishment of her body that suggested fatigue.

Verity asked her if she’d had a long day and she said she had, a bit.

‘But the money’s good,’ said Mrs Jim, ‘and with Jim on half-time you can’t say no. There’s always something,’ she added and Verity understood that she referred to the cost of living.

‘Do they keep a big staff up there?’ she asked.

‘Five if you count the housekeeper. Like the old days,’ Mrs Jim said, ‘when I was in regular service. You don’t see much of them ways now, do you? Like I said to Jim, they’re selling the big houses when they can, for institutions and that. Not trying all out to buy them, like Mr Markos.’

‘Is Mr Markos doing that?’

‘He’d like to have Quintern,’ said Mrs Jim. ‘He come to ask if it was for sale when Mrs Foster was at Greengages a year ago last April. He was that taken with it, you could see. I was helping spring-clean at the time.’

‘Did Mrs Foster know?’

‘He never left ’is name. I told her a gentleman had called to enquire, of course. It give me quite a turn when I first see him after he come to the Manor.’

‘Did you tell Mrs Foster it was he who’d called?’

‘I wasn’t going out to Quintern Place at the time,’ said Mrs Jim shortly, and Verity remembered that there had been a rift.

‘It come up this evening in conversation. Mr Alfredo, that’s the butler,’ Mrs Jim continued, ‘reckons Mr Markos is still dead set on Quintern. He says he’s never known him not to get his way once he’s made up his mind to it. You’re suited with a gardener, then?’

Mrs Jim had a habit of skipping, without notice, from one topic to another. Verity thought she detected a derogatory note but could not be sure. ‘He’s beginning on Friday,’ she said. ‘Have you met him, Mrs Jim?’

‘Couldn’t miss ’im, could I?’ she said, rubbing her arthritic knee. ‘Annie Black’s been taking him up and down the village like he was Exhibit A in the horse show.’

‘He’ll be company for her.’

‘He’s all of that,’ she said cryptically.

Verity turned into the narrow lane where the Jobbins had their cottage. When they arrived no light shone in any of the windows. Jim and the kids all fast alseep, no doubt. Mrs Jim was slower leaving the car than she had been in entering it and Verity sensed her weariness. ‘Have you got an early start?’ she asked.

‘Quintern at eight. It was very kind of you to bring me home, Miss Preston. Ta, anyway. I’ll say good night.’

That’s two of us going home to a dark house, Verity thought as she turned the car.

But being used to living alone, she didn’t mind letting herself into Keys House and feeling for the light switch.

When she was in bed she turned over the events of the evening and a wave of exhaustion came upon her together with a nervous condition she thought of as ‘restless legs’. She realized that the encounter with Basil Schramm (as she supposed she should call him) had been more of an ordeal than she had acknowledged at the time. The past rushed upon her, almost with the impact of her initial humiliation. She made herself relax, physically, muscle by muscle, and then tried to think of nothing.

She did not think of nothing but she thought of thinking of nothing and almost, but not quite, lost the feeling of some kind of threat waiting offstage like the return of a baddie in one of the old moralities. And at last after sundry heart-stopping jerks she fell asleep.