Читать книгу Spinsters in Jeopardy - Ngaio Marsh, Stella Duffy - Страница 9
ОглавлениеThe sun shone full on the roof-garden now, but Ricky was shielded from it by the canopy of his swinging couch. He was, as he himself might have said, lavishly asleep. Troy knew he would stay so for a long time.
The breakfast-table had been cleared and moved to one side and several more seats like Ricky’s had been set out. Troy took the one nearest to his. When she lifted her feet it swayed gently. Her head sank back into a heap of cushions. She had slept very little in the train.
It was quiet on the roof-garden. A few cicadas chittered far below and once, somewhere a long way away, a car hooted. The sky, as she looked into it, intensified itself in blueness and bemused her drowsy senses. Her eyes closed and she felt again the movement of the train. The sound of the cicadas became a dismal chattering from Miss Truebody and soared up into nothingness. Presently, she too, was fast asleep.
When she awoke, it was to see a strange lady perched, like some fantastic fowl, on the balustrade near Ricky’s seat. Her legs, clad in scarlet pedal-pushers, were drawn up to her chin which was sunk between her knees. Her hands, jewelled and claw-like, with vermilion talons, clasped her shins, and her toes protruded from her sandals like branched corals. A scarf was wound around her skull and her eyes were hidden by sun-glasses in an enormous frame below which a formidable nose jutted over a mouth whose natural shape could only be conjectured. When she saw Troy was awake and on her feet she unfolded herself, dropped to the floor and advanced with a hand extended. She was six feet tall and about forty-five to fifty years old.
‘How do you do?’ she whispered. ‘I’m Grizel Locke. I like to be called Sati, though. The Queen of Heaven, you will remember. Please call me Sati. Had a good nap, I hope? I’ve been looking at your son and wondering if I’d like to have one for myself.’
‘How do you do?’ Troy said without whispering and greatly taken aback. ‘Do you think you would?’
‘Won’t he wake? I’ve got such a voice as you can hear when I speak up.’ Her voice was indeed deep and uncertain like an adolescent boy’s. ‘It’s hard to say,’ she went on. ‘One might go all possessive and peculiar and, on the other hand, one might get bored and off-load him on repressed governesses. I was off-loaded as a child which, I am told, accounts for almost everything. Do lie down again. You must feel like a boiled owl. So do I. Would you like a drink?’
‘No, thank you,’ Troy said, running her fingers through her short hair.
‘Nor would I. What a poor way to begin your holiday. Do you know anyone here?’
‘Not really. I’ve got a distant relation somewhere in the offing but we’ve never met.’
‘Perhaps we know them. What name?’
‘Garbel. Something to do with a rather rarified kind of chemistry. I don’t suppose you, – ?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ she said quickly. ‘Has Baradi started on your friend?’
‘She’s not a friend or even an acquaintance. She’s a fellow-traveller.’
‘How sickening for you,’ said the lady earnestly.
‘I mean, literally,’ Troy explained. She was indeed feeling like a boiled owl and longed for nothing so much as a bath and solitude.
‘Lie down,’ the lady urged. ‘Put your boots up. Go to sleep again if you like. I was just going to push ahead with my tanning, only your son distracted my attention.’
Troy sat down and as her companion was so insistent she did put her feet up.
‘That’s right,’ the lady observed. ‘I’ll blow up my Li-lo. The servants, alas, have lost the puffer.’
She dragged forward a flat rubber mattress. Sitting on the floor she applied her painted mouth to the valve and began to blow. ‘Uphill work,’ she gasped a little later, ‘still, it’s an exercise in itself and I daresay will count as such.’
When the Li-lo was inflated she lay face down upon it and untied the painted scarf that was her sole upper garment. It fell away from a back so thin that it presented, Troy thought, an anatomical subject of considerable interest. The margins of the scapulae shone like ploughshares and the spinal vertebrae looked like those of a flayed snake.
‘I’ve given up oil,’ the submerged voice explained, ‘since I became a Child of the Sun. Is there any particular bit that seems underdone, do you consider?’
Troy, looking down upon a uniformly dun-coloured expanse, could make no suggestions and said so.
‘I’ll give it ten minutes for luck and then toss over the bod.,’ said the voice. ‘I must say I feel ghastly.’
‘You had a late night, Dr Baradi tells us,’ said Troy, who was making a desperate effort to pull herself together.
‘Did we?’ the voice became more indistinct and added something like: ‘I forget.’
‘Charades and everything, he said.’
‘Did he? Oh. Was I in them?’
‘He didn’t say particularly,’ Troy answered.
‘I passed,’ the voice muttered, ‘utterly and definitely out.’ Troy had just thought how unattractive such statements always were when she noticed with astonishment that the shoulder blades were quivering as if their owner was convulsed. ‘I suppose you might call it charades,’ the lady was heard to say.
Troy was conscious of a rising sense of uneasiness.
‘How do you mean?’ she asked.
Her companion rolled over. She had taken off her sunglasses. Her eyes were green with pale irises and small pupils. They were singularly blank in expression. Clad only in her scarlet pedal-pushers and head-scarf, she was an uncomfortable spectacle.
‘The whole thing is,’ she said rapidly, ‘I wasn’t at the party. I began one of my headaches after luncheon which was a party in itself and I passed, as I mentioned a moment ago, out. That must have been at about four o’clock, I should think, which is why I am up so early, you know.’ She yawned suddenly and with gross exaggeration as if her jaws would crack.
‘Oh, God,’ she said, ‘here I go again!’
Troy’s jaws quivered in imitation. ‘I hope your headache is better,’ she said.
‘Sweet of you. In point of fact it’s hideous.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘I’ll have to find Baradi if it goes on. And it will, of course. How long will he be over your fellow-traveller’s appendix? Have you seen Ra?’
‘I don’t think so. I’ve only seen Dr Baradi.’
‘Yes, yes,’ she said restlessly and added, ‘you wouldn’t know, of course. I mean Oberon, our Teacher, your know. That’s our name for him – Ra. Are you interested in The Truth?’
Troy was too addled with unseasonable sleep and a surfeit of anxiety to hear the capital letters. ‘I really don’t know,’ she stammered. ‘In the truth – ?’
‘Poor sweet, I’m muddling you.’ She sat up. Troy had a painter’s attitude towards the nude but the aspect of this lady, so wildly and so unpleasingly displayed, was distressing, and doubly so because Troy couldn’t escape the impression that the lady herself was far from unselfconscious. Indeed she kept making tentative clutches at her scarf and looking at Troy as if she felt she ought to apologize for herself. In her embarrassment Troy turned away and looked vaguely at the tower wall which rose above the roof-garden not far from where she sat. It was pierced at ascending intervals by narrow slits. Troy’s eyes, glazed with fatigue, stared in aimless fixation at the third slit from the floor level. She listened to a strange exposition on The Truth as understood and venerated by the guests of Mr Oberon.
‘… just a tiny group of Seekers … Children of the Sun in the Outer … Evil exists only in the minds of the earth-bound … goodness is oneness … the great Dark co-exists with the great Light …’ The phrases disjointed and eked out by ineloquent and uncoordinated gestures, tripped each other up by the heels. Clichés and aphorisms were tumbled together from the most unlikely sources. One must live dangerously, it appeared, in order to attain merit. Only by encompassing the gamut of earthly experience could one return to the oneness of universal good. One ascended through countless ages by something which the disciple, corkscrewing an unsteady finger in illustration, called the mystic navel spiral. It all sounded the most dreadful nonsense to poor Troy but she listened politely and, because her companion so clearly expected them, tried to ask one or two intelligent questions. This was a mistake. The lady, squinting earnestly up at her, said abruptly: ‘You’re fey, of course. But you know that, don’t you?’
‘Indeed, I don’t.’
‘Yes, yes,’ she persisted, nodding like a mandarin. ‘Unawakened perhaps, but it’s there, oh! so richly. Fey as fey can be.’
She yawned again with the same unnatural exaggeration and twisted round to look at the door into the tower.
‘He won’t be long appearing,’ she whispered. ‘It isn’t as if he ever touched anything and he’s always up for the rites of Ushas. What’s the time?’
‘Just after ten,’ said Troy, astonished that it was no later. Ricky, she thought, would sleep for at least another hour, perhaps for two hours. She tried to remember if she had ever heard how long an appendicectomy took to perform. She tried to console herself with the thought that there must be a limit to this vigil, that she would not have to listen forever to Grizel Locke’s esoteric small-talk, that somewhere down at the Hôtel Royal in Roqueville there was a tiled bathroom and a cool bed, that perhaps Miss Locke would go in search of whoever it was she seemed to await with such impatience and finally that she herself might, if left alone, sleep away the remainder of this muddled and distressing interlude.
It was at this juncture that something moved behind the slit in the tower wall. Something that tweaked at her attention. She had an impression of hair or fur and thought at first that it was an animal, perhaps a cat. It moved again and was gone but not before she recognized a human head. She came to the disagreeable conclusion that someone had stood at the slit and listened to their conversation. At that moment she heard steps inside the tower. The door moved.
‘Someone’s coming!’ she cried out in warning. Her companion gave an ejaculation of relief but made no attempt to resume her garment. ‘Miss Locke! Do look out!’
‘What? Oh! Oh, all right. Only, do call me Sati.’ She picked up the square of printed silk. Perhaps, Troy thought, there was something in her own face that awakened in Miss Locke a dormant regard for the conventions. She blushed and began clumsily to knot the scarf behind her.
But Troy’s gaze was upon the man who had come through the tower door on to the roof-garden and was walking towards them. The confusion of spirit that had irked her throughout the morning clarified into one recognizable emotion.
She was frightened.
II
Troy would have been unable to say at that moment why she was afraid of Mr Oberon. There was nothing in his appearance, one would have thought, to inspire fear. Rather, he had, at first sight, a look of mildness.
Beards, in general, are not rare nowadays though beards like his are perhaps unusual. It was blond, sparse and silky and divided at the chin, which was almost bare. The moustache was a mere shadow at the corners of his mouth which was fresh in colour. The nose was straight and delicate and the light eyes abnormally large. His hair was parted in the middle and so long that it overhung the collar of his gown. This, and a sort of fragility in the general structure of his head, gave him an air of effeminacy. What was startling and to Troy quite shocking, was the resemblance to Roman Catholic devotional prints such as the ‘Sacred Heart.’ She was to learn that this resemblance was deliberately cultivated. He wore a white dressing-gown to which his extraordinary appearance gave the air of a ceremonial robe.
It seemed incredible that such a being could make normal conversation. Troy would not have been surprised if he had acknowledged the introduction in Sanskrit. However, be gave her his hand, which was small and well-formed, and a conventional greeting. He had a singularly musical voice, and spoke without any marked accent though Troy fancied she heard a faint American inflection. She said something about his kindness in offering harbourage to Miss Truebody. He smiled gently, sank on to an Algerian leather seat, drew his feet up under his gown and placed them, apparently, against his thighs. His hands fell softly to his lap.
‘You have brought,’ he said, ‘a gift of great price. We are grateful.’
From the time they had confronted each other he had looked fully into Troy’s eyes and he continued to do so. It was not the half-unseeing attention of ordinary courtesy but an unswerving fixed regard. He seemed to blink less than most people.
His disciple said: ‘Dearest Ra, I’ve got the most monstrous headache.’
‘It will pass,’ he said, still looking at Troy. ‘You know what you should do, dear Sati.’
‘Yes, I do, don’t I! But it’s so hard sometimes to feel the light. One gropes and gropes.’
‘Patience, dear Sati. It will come.’
She sat up on her Li-lo, seized her ankles and with a grunt of discomfort adjusted the soles of her feet to the inside surface of her thighs. ‘Om,’ she said discontentedly.
Mr Oberon said to Troy: ‘We speak of things that are a little strange to you. Or perhaps they are not altogether strange.’
‘Just what I thought.’ The lady began eagerly. ‘Isn’t she fey?’
He disregarded her.
‘Should I explain that we – my guests here and I – follow what we believe to be the true Way of Life? Perhaps, up here, in this ancient house, we have created an atmosphere that to a visitor is a little overwhelming. Do you feel it so?’
Troy said: ‘I’m afraid I’m just rather addled with a long journey, not much sleep and an anxious time with Miss Truebody.’
‘I have been helping her. And, I hope, our friend Baradi.’
‘Have you?’ Troy exclaimed in great surprise. ‘I thought … but how kind of you … is … is the operation going well?’
He smiled, showing perfect teeth. ‘Again, I do not make myself clear. I have been with them, not in the body but in the spirit.’
‘Oh,’ mumbled Troy. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Particularly with your friend. This was easy because when by the will, or, as with her, by the agency of an anaesthetic, the soul is set free of the body, it may be greatly helped. Hers is a pure soul. She should be called Miss Truesoul instead of Miss Truebody.’ He laughed, a light breathy sound, and showed the pink interior of his mouth. ‘But we must not despise the body,’ he said, apparently as an afterthought.
His disciple whispered: ‘Oh no! No, indeed! No,’ and started to breathe deeply, stopping one nostril with a finger and expelling her breath with a hissing sound. Troy began to wonder if she was, perhaps, a little mad.
Oberon had shifted his gaze from Troy. His eyes were still very wide open and quite without expression. He had seen the sleeping Ricky.
It was with the greatest difficulty that Troy gave her movement towards Ricky a semblance of casualness. Her instinct, she afterwards told Alleyn, was entirely that of a mother-cat. She leant over her small son and made a pretence of adjusting the cushion behind him. She heard Oberon say: ‘A beautiful child,’ and thought that no matter how odd it might look, she would stand between Ricky and his eyes until something else diverted their gaze. But Ricky himself stirred a little, flinging out his arm. She moved him over with his face away from Oberon. He murmured: ‘Mummy?’ and she answered: ‘Yes,’ and kept her hand on him until he had fallen back to sleep.
She turned and looked past the ridiculous back of the deep-breathing disciple to the figure in the glare of the sun, and, being a painter, she recognized, in the midst of her alarm a remarkable object. At the same time it seemed to her that Oberon and she acknowledged each other as enemies.
This engagement, if it was one, was broken off by the appearance of two more of Mr Oberon’s guests: a tall girl and a lame young man who were introduced as Ginny Taylor and Robin Herrington. Both their names were familiar to Troy, the girl’s as that of a regular sacrifice on the altars of the glossy weeklies and the man’s as that of the reputably wildish son of a famous brewer who was also an indefatigable patron of the fine arts. To Troy their comparative normality was as a freshening breeze and she was ready to overlook the shadows under their eyes and their air of unease. They greeted her politely, lowered their voices when they saw Ricky and sat together on one seat, screening him from Mr Oberon. Troy returned to her former place.
Mr Oberon was talking. It seemed that he had bought a book in Paris, a newly-discovered manuscript, one of those assembled by Roger de Gaignières. Troy knew that he must have paid a fabulous sum for it and, in spite of herself, listened eagerly to a description of the illuminations. He went on to speak of other works; of the calendar of Charles d’Angoulême, of Indian art, and finally of the moderns – Rouault, Picasso and André Derain. ‘But, of course, André is not a modern. He derives quite blatantly from Rubens. Ask Carbury, when he comes, if I am not right.’
Troy’s nerves jumped. Could he mean Carbury Glande, a painter whom she knew perfectly well who would certainly, if he appeared, greet her with feverish effusiveness? Mr Oberon no longer looked at her or at anyone in particular, yet she had the feeling that he talked at her and he was talking very well. Yes, here was a description of one of Glande’s works. ‘He painted it yesterday from the Saracens’ Watchtower: the favourite interplay of lemon and lacquer-red with a single note of magenta, and everything arranged about a central point. The esoteric significance was eloquent and the whole thing quite beautiful.’ It was undoubtedly Carbury Glande. Surely, surely, the operation must be over and if so, why didn’t Alleyn come and take them away? She tried to remember if Carbury Glande knew she was married to a policeman.
Ginny Taylor said: ‘I wish I knew about Carbury. I can’t get anything from his works. I can only say awful philistinish things such as they look as if they were too easy to do.’ She glanced in a friendly manner at Troy. ‘Do you know about modern art?’ she asked.
‘I’m always ready to learn,’ Troy hedged with a dexterity born of fright.
‘I shall never learn however much I try,’ sighed Ginny Taylor and suddenly yawned.
The jaws of everyone except Mr Oberon quivered responsively.
‘Lord, I’m sorry,’ said Ginny and for some unaccountable reason looked frightened. Robin Herrington touched her hand with the tip of his fingers. ‘I wonder why they’re so infectious,’ he said. ‘Sneezes, coughs and yawns. Yawns worst of all. To read about them’s enough to set one going.’
‘Perhaps,’ Mr Oberon suggested, ‘it’s another piece of evidence, if a homely one, that separateness is an illusion. Our bodies as well as our souls have reflex actions.’ And while Troy was still wondering what on earth this might mean his Sati gave a little yelp of agreement.
‘True! True!’ she cried. She dived, stretched out with her right arm and grasped her toes. At the same time she wound her left arm behind her head and seized her right ear. Having achieved this unlikely posture, she gazed devotedly upon Mr Oberon. ‘Is it all right, dearest Ra,’ she asked, ‘for me to press quietly on with my Prana and Pranayama?’
‘It is well at all times, dear Sati, if the spirit also is attuned.’
Troy couldn’t resist stealing a glance at Ginny Taylor and Robin Herrington. Was it possible that they found nothing to marvel at in these antics? Ginny was looking doubtfully at Sati and young Herrington was looking at Ginny as if, Troy thought with relief, he invited her to be amused with him.
‘Ginny?’ Mr Oberon said quietly.
The beginning of a smile died on Ginny’s lips. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said quickly. ‘Yes, Ra?’
‘Have you formed a design for today?’
‘No. At least … this afternoon …’
‘I thought, if it suited general arrangements,’ Robin Herrington said, ‘that I might ask Ginny to come into Douceville this afternoon. I want her to tell me what colour I should have for new awnings on the afterdeck.’
But Ginny had got up and walked past Troy to Mr Oberon. She stood before him white-faced with the dark marks showing under her eyes.
‘Are you going, then, to Douceville?’ he asked. ‘You look a little pale, my child. We were so late with our gaities last night. Should you rest this afternoon?’
He was looking at her as he had looked at Troy.
‘I think perhaps I should,’ she said in a flat voice.
‘I, too. The colour of the awnings can wait until the colour of the cheeks is restored. Perhaps Annabella would enjoy a drive to Douceville. Annabella Wells,’ he explained to Troy, ‘is with us. Her latest picture is completed and she is to make a film for Durant Frères in the spring.’
Troy was not much interested in the presence of a notoriously erratic, if brilliant actress. She had been watching young Herrington, whose brows were drawn together in a scowl. He got up and stood behind Ginny looking at Oberon over the top of her head. His hands closed and he thrust them into his pockets.
‘I thought a drive might be a good idea for Ginny,’ he said.
But Ginny had sunk down on the end of the Li-lo at Mr Oberon’s feet. She settled herself there quietly, with an air of obedience. Mr Oberon said to Troy: ‘Robin has a most wonderful yacht. You must ask him to show it to you.’ He put his hand on Ginny’s head.
‘I should be delighted,’ said Robin and sounded furious. He had turned aside and now added in a loud voice: ‘Why not this afternoon? I still think Ginny should come to Douceville.’
Troy knew that something had happened that was unusual between Mr Oberon and his guests and that Robin Herrington was frightened as well as angry. She wanted to give him courage. Her heart thumped against her ribs.
In the dead silence they all heard someone come quickly up the stone stairway. When Alleyn opened the door their heads were already turned towards him.
III
He waited for a moment to accustom his eyes to the glare and during that moment he and the five people whose faces were turned towards him were motionless.
One grows scarcely to see one’s lifelong companions and it is more difficult to call up the face of one’s beloved than that of a mere acquaintance. Troy had never been able to make a memory-drawing of her husband. Yet, at that moment, it was as if a veil of familiarity was withdrawn and she looked at him with fresh perception.
She thought: ‘I’ve never been gladder to see him.’
‘This is my husband,’ she said.
Mr Oberon had risen and came forward. He was five inches shorter than Alleyn. For the first time Troy thought him ridiculous as well as disgusting.
He held out his hand. ‘We’re so glad to meet you at last. The news is good?’
‘Dr Baradi will be able to tell you better than I,’ Alleyn said. ‘Her condition was pretty bad. He says she will be very ill.’
‘We shall all help her,’ Mr Oberon said, indicating the antic Sati, the bemused Ginny Taylor and the angry-looking Robin Herrington. ‘We can do so much.’
He put his hand on Alleyn’s arm and led him forward. The reek of ether accompanied them. Alleyn was introduced to the guests and offered a seat but he said: ‘If we may, I think perhaps I should see my wife and Ricky on their way back to Roqueville. Our driver is free now and can take them. He will come back for me. We’re expecting a rather urgent telephone call at our hotel.’
Troy, who dreaded the appearance of Carbury Glande, knew Alleyn had said ‘my wife,’ because he didn’t want Oberon to learn her name. He had an air of authority that was in itself, she thought, almost a betrayal. She got up quickly and went to Ricky.
‘Perhaps,’ Alleyn said, ‘I should stay a little longer in case there’s any change in her condition. Baradi is going to telephone to St Christophe for a nurse and, in the meantime, two of your maids will take turns sitting in the room. I’m sure, sir, that if she were able, Miss Truebody would tell you how grateful she is for your hospitality.’
‘There is no need. She is with us in a very special sense. She is in safe hands. We must send a car for the nurse. There is no train until the evening.’
‘I’ll go,’ Robin Herrington said. ‘I’ll be there in an hour.’
‘Robin,’ Oberon explained lightly, ‘has driven in the Monte Carlo rally. We must hope that the nurse has iron nerves.’
Alleyn said to Robin: ‘It sounds an admirable idea. Will you suggest it to Dr Baradi?’
He went to Ricky and lifted him in his arms. Troy gave her hand to Mr Oberon. His own wrapped itself round hers, tightened, and was suddenly withdrawn. ‘You must visit us again,’ he said. ‘If you are a voyager of the spirit, and I think you are, it might interest you to come to one of our meditations.’
‘Yes, do come,’ urged his Sati, who had abandoned her exercises on Alleyn’s entrance. ‘It’s madly wonderful. You must. Where are you staying?’
‘At the Royal.’
‘Couldn’t be easier. No need to hire a car. The Douceville bus leaves from the corner. Every half-hour. You’ll find it perfectly convenient.’
Troy was reminded vividly of Mr Garbel’s letters. She murmured something non-committal, said goodbye and went to the door.
‘I’ll see you out,’ Robin Herrington offered and took up his heavy walking-stick.
As she groped down the darkened stairway she heard their voices rumbling above her. They came slowly; Alleyn because of Ricky and Herrington because of his stiff leg. The sensation of nightmare that threatened without declaring itself, mounted in intensity. The stairs seemed endless yet when she reached the door into the hall she was half-scared of opening it because Carbury Glande might be on the other side. But the hall was untenanted. She hurried through it and out to the courtyard. The iron gates had an elaborate fastening. Troy fumbled with it, dazzled by the glare of sunlight beyond. She pulled at the heavy latch, bruising her fingers. A voice behind her and at her feet said: ‘Do let me help you.’
Carbury Glande must have come up the stairs from beneath the courtyard. His face, on a level with her knees, peered through the interstices of the wrought-iron banister. Recognition dawned on it.
‘Can it be Troy?’ he ejaculated hoarsely. ‘But it is!’ Dear heart, how magical and how peculiar. Where have you sprung from? And why are you scrabbling away at doors? Has Oberon alarmed you? I may say he petrifies me. What are you up to?’
He had arrived at her level, a short gnarled man whose hair and beard were red and whose face, at the moment, was a dreadful grey. He blinked up at Troy as if he couldn’t get her into focus. He was wearing a pair of floral shorts and a magenta shirt.
‘I’m not up to anything,’ said Troy. ‘In fact, I’m scarcely here at all. We’ve brought your host a middle-aged spinster with a perforated appendix and now we’re on our way.’
‘Ah, yes. I heard about the spinster. Ali Baradi woke me at cockcrow, full of professional zeal, and asked me if I’d like to thread needles and count sponges. How he dared! Are you going?’
‘I must,’ Troy said. ‘Do open this damned door for me.’
She could hear Alleyn’s and Herrington’s voices in the hall and the thump of Herrington’s stick.
Glande reached for the latch. His hand, stained round the nails with paint, was tremulous. ‘I am, as you can see, a wreck,’ he said. ‘A Homeric party and only four hours’ sottish insensitivity in which to recover. Imagine it! There you are.’
He opened the doors and winced at the glare outside. ‘Oberon will be thrilled you’re here,’ he said. ‘Did you know he bought a thing of yours at the Rond-Point show? It’s in the library. ‘Boy with a Kite.’ He adores it.’
‘Look here,’ Troy said hurriedly, ‘be a good chap and don’t tell him I’m me. I’ve come here for a holiday and I’d so much rather …’
‘Well, if you like. Yes, of course. Yes, I understand. And on mature consideration I fancy this ménage is not entirely your cup of tea. You’re almost pathologically normal, aren’t you? Forgive me if I bolt back to my burrow, the glare is really more than I can endure. God, somebody’s coming!’
He stumbled away from the door. Alleyn with Ricky in his arms, came out of the hall followed by Robin Herrington. Glande ejaculated: ‘Oh, sorry!’ and bolted down the stairs. Herrington scowled after him and said: ‘That’s our tame genius. I’ll come to the car, if I may.’
As they walked in single file down the steps and past the maker of figurines, Troy had the feeling that Robin wanted to say something to them and didn’t know how to begin. They had reached the open platform where Raoul waited by the car before he blurted out:
‘I do hope you will let me drive you down, to see the yacht. Both of you, I mean. I mean …’ he stopped short.
Alleyn said: ‘That’s very nice of you. I hadn’t heard about a yacht.’
‘She’s quite fun.’ He stood there, still with an air of hesitancy. Alleyn shifted Ricky and looked at Troy, who held out her hand to Robin.
‘Don’t come any farther,’ she said. ‘Goodbye and thank you.’
‘Goodbye. If we may, Ginny and I will call at the hotel. It’s the Royal, I suppose. I mean, it might amuse you to come for a drive. I mean, if you don’t know anybody here …’
‘It’d be lovely,’ Troy temporized, wondering if Alleyn wanted her to accept.
‘As a matter of fact,’ Alleyn said, ‘we have got someone we ought to look up in Roqueville. Do you know anybody about here with the unlikely name of Garbel?’
Robin’s jaw dropped. He stared at them with an expression of extraordinary consternation. ‘I … no. No. We haven’t really met any of the local people. No. Well I mustn’t keep you standing in the sun. Goodbye.’
And with a precipitancy as marked as his former hesitation, he turned and limped off down the passageway.
‘Now what,’ Troy asked her husband, ‘in a crazy world, is the significance of that particular bit of lunacy?’
‘I’ve not the beginning of a notion,’ he said. ‘But I suggest that when we’ve got time to think, we call on Mr Garbel.’
