Читать книгу Inspector Alleyn 3-Book Collection 8: Death at the Dolphin, Hand in Glove, Dead Water - Ngaio Marsh, Stella Duffy - Страница 21

Desirée wore black for her April Fool’s party. On any other woman of her age it would have been a disastrous dress but, by virtue of a sort of inner effrontery, she got away with it. Her neck, her bosom and that dismal little region, known, unprettily, as the armpit, were all so many statements of betrayal, but she triumphed over them and not so much took them in her own stride as obliged other people to take them in theirs. With her incredible hair brushed up into a kind of bonfire, her carefree make-up, her eyeglass, and her general air of raffishness, she belonged, as Mr Period mildly reflected, to Toulouse Lautrec rather than to any contemporary background.

They had dined. The party had assembled, made a great deal of noise and gone off in pairs by car to follow up the clues. Bimbo was driving round the terrain to keep observation, rescue any couple that had become unintentionally lost and whip in the deliberate stragglers. Everyone was to be in by midnight. Supper was set out in the ballroom and in the meantime Desirée and Mr Period sat over a fire in her boudoir enjoying coffee and brandy. It was, Mr Period noticed, Desirée’s third brandy but she carried her drink with astonishing bravura. He nursed his own modest potion and cosily lamented his fate.

‘Desirée, my dear,’ he was saying, ‘I really don’t know what it is about you, but you have so got the gift of drawing one out. Here am I letting my back hair down in the naughtiest way and about poor old Hal, which is not at all the done thing, considering.’

‘Why not?’ she said propping her feet in their preposterously high heels above the fireplace. Mr Period, as she noticed with amusement, gazed tactfully at the flames. ‘Why not? I found Harold plain hell to live with and I don’t know why you should fare any better. Except that you’re nicer than me and have probably got more patience.’

‘It’s the little things. Every morning to tap on one’s door and say, “Bath’s empty for what it’s worth.” Every day to clear his throat before he opens his paper and say he may as well know the worst. And his dog, Desirée! The noise!’ Mr Period exclaimed, unconsciously plagiarizing. ‘And the smell! And the destruction!’

‘One of those mixed-up dogs that try to marry one’s foot, I’ve noticed.’

Mr Period gave a little cough and murmured: ‘Exactly. Moreover, every night, at one o’clock precisely, he takes it out of doors and it sets up the most hideous barking until, and indeed for some time after, he shuts it up. There have been complaints from all over the village. And now,’ he added, throwing up his hands, ‘this afternoon! This afternoon was too much.’

‘But do tell me, P.P., what happened? With Moppett and her flash friend and the car? I’ve heard Harold’s version, of course, but I’m having my own private war with him and was too angry to pay all that much attention.’

Mr Period told her the whole story.

‘And I do feel, darling Desirée, that you should be warned. It’s plain to be seen that this frightful person, the Leiss, is an out-and-out bad ‘un. And indeed, for your ear alone, we most strongly suspect –’ Mr Period looked about him as if the boudoir concealed microphones and began to whisper the story of the cigarette-case.

‘Oh, no!’ Desirée said with relish. ‘Actually a burglar! And is Moppett his con-girl, do you suppose?’

‘I fear, only too probably. And, my dear, here you are, in the kindness of your heart, asking them to your wonderful party.’

‘It wasn’t kindness. It was to spite Harold. He won’t give Andy his money. I can’t tell you how livid it makes me.’

She looked rather fixedly at Mr Period. ‘You’re a trustee, P.P. Have you discussed it with Hal, or with Andrew?’

Mr Period said uncomfortably: ‘Not really discussed it, my dear.’

‘Don’t tell me you disapprove, too!’

‘No, no, no!’ he said in a hurry. ‘Not disapprove, exactly. It’s just – leaving the Brigade and so on. For that rather outré world. Art … the Chelsea set … Not that Andrew … But there! ‘Nuff said.’

‘We’re not going to quarrel over it, I hope?’

‘My dear. Quarrel!’

‘Well,’ she said suddenly giving Mr Period a kiss. ‘Let’s talk about something more amusing.’

They embarked on a long gossip and Mr Period eased up. He was enjoying himself immensely, but he did not wish to stay until the return of the treasure-hunters. He looked at his watch, found it was eleven o’clock, and asked if he might telephone for the Bloodbath.

‘No need,’ Desirée said, ‘my car’s outside. I’d love to take you. Don’t fuss, P.P., I’d really like to. I can have a cast around the village and see how the hunt’s going. By the way, one of Bimbo’s clues leads to your sewage excavation. It says: “All your trouble and all your pain will only land you down the drain.” He’s not very good at poetry, poor sweet, but I thought that one of his neater efforts. Come on, darling. I can see you’re in a fever lest slick Len and his moll should get back with the first prize before you make your getaway.’

They went out to her car. Mr Period was a little apprehensive because of the amount of liqueur brandy Desirée had consumed but she drove with perfect expertise and all the way to Little Codling they talked about Mr Cartell. Presently they turned into Green Lane. A red lantern marked the end of the open ditch. They passed an elderly sports car parked in the rough grass on the opposite side.

‘Andy,’ said his mother, giving a long hoot on her horn. ‘He’s going to fall in love with your secretary, I can see.’

‘Already!’ ejaculated Mr Period.

‘Going to. Heavily, I fancy. I took to the girl, rather.’

‘Charming! A really nice gel. I’m delighted with her.’

‘P.P.,’ Desirée said, as they drew near the house, ‘there’s something extra Harold’s done to inflame you, isn’t there?’

There was a silence.

‘Don’t tell me if you’d rather not, of course.’

‘It’s very painful to me. Something he said. One shouldn’t,’ Mr Period added in a constrained and unnatural voice, ‘let such things upset one but – No, dearest Desirée, I shan’t bore you with it. It was nothing. I prefer to forget it.’

‘Fair enough,’ she said and pulled up.

Mr Period did not immediately get out of the car. He made another little speech of thanks for his entertainment and then with many hesitations and apologetic noises hinted obscurely at bereavement.

‘I haven’t said anything, my dear,’ he murmured, ‘because I felt you preferred not. But I wouldn’t like you to think – but never mind, I only wanted you to know –’ He waved his hands and was silent.

‘Do you mean about Ormsbury?’ she said in her direct way. Mr Period made a small confirmatory sound. ‘You didn’t say anything,’ he added. ‘So, of course –’

‘There are some sorrows,’ Desirée said and it was impossible to catch any overtones in her voice, ‘that go too deep for words.’

Mr Period gave a little groan of sympathy, kissed her hand, and left her.

He went in by the side gate. She watched him, by the light of her headlamps, pick his way in a gingerly fashion over the planks that had been laid across the ditch. He was safely inside his house and Desirée was about to drive away when she caught sight of a figure in an upper window. She stopped her engine and got out of the car.