‘There’s nothing to tell. We met and got married.’
‘You must have been very young.’
‘Too young.’
‘Then you weren’t happy with him? Go on, Phillipa.’
‘There’s nothing to go on about. We were married. We were as happy as most people are, I suppose. Harry was born. Ronald went overseas. He—he was killed in Italy.’
‘And now there’s Harry?’
‘And now there’s Harry.’
‘I like Harry. He’s a really nice kid. He likes me. We get on. What about it, Phillipa? Shall we get married? You can go on gardening and I can go on writing my book and in the holidays we’ll leave off working and enjoy ourselves. We can manage, with tact, not to have to live with Mother. She can fork out a bit to support her devoted son. I sponge, I write tripey books, I have defective eyesight and I talk too much. That’s the worst. Will you try it?’
Phillipa looked at him. She saw a tall rather solemn young man with an anxious face and large spectacles. His sandy head was rumpled and he was regarding her with a reassuring friendliness.
‘No,’ said Phillipa.
‘Definitely—no?’
‘Definitely no.’
‘Why?’
‘You don’t know anything about me.’
‘Is that all?’
‘No, you don’t know anything about anything.’
Edmund considered.
‘Perhaps not,’ he admitted. ‘But who does? Phillipa, my adored one—’ He broke off.
A shrill and prolonged yapping was rapidly approaching.
‘Pekes in the high hall garden, (said Edmund)
When twilight was falling (only it’s eleven a.m.)
Phil, Phil, Phil, Phil,
They were crying and calling
‘Your name doesn’t lend itself to the rhythm, does it? Sounds like an Ode to a Fountain Pen. Have you got another name?’
‘Joan. Please go away. That’s Mrs Lucas.’
‘Joan, Joan, Joan, Joan. Better, but still not good. When greasy Joan the pot doth keel—that’s not a nice picture of married life, either.’
‘Mrs Lucas is—’
‘Oh, hell!’ said Edmund. ‘Get me a blasted vegetable marrow.’
II
Sergeant Fletcher had the house at Little Paddocks to himself.
It was Mitzi’s day off. She always went by the eleven o’clock bus into Medenham Wells. By arrangement with Miss Blacklock, Sergeant Fletcher had the run of the house. She and Dora Bunner had gone down to the village.
Fletcher worked fast. Someone in the house had oiled and prepared that door, and whoever had done it, had done it in order to be able to leave the drawing-room unnoticed as soon as the lights went out. That ruled out Mitzi who wouldn’t have needed to use the door.
Who was left? The neighbours, Fletcher thought, might also be ruled out. He didn’t see how they could have found an opportunity to oil and prepare the door. That left Patrick and Julia Simmons, Phillipa Haymes, and possibly Dora Bunner. The young Simmonses were in Milchester. Phillipa Haymes was at work. Sergeant Fletcher was free to search out any secrets he could. But the house was disappointingly innocent. Fletcher, who was an expert on electricity, could find nothing suggestive in the wiring or appurtenances of the electric fixtures to show how the lights had been fused. Making a rapid survey of the household bedrooms he found an irritating normality. In Phillipa Haymes’ room were photographs of a small boy with serious eyes, an earlier photo of the same child, a pile of schoolboy letters, a theatre programme or two. In Julia’s room there was a drawer full of snapshots of the South of France. Bathing photos, a villa set amidst mimosa. Patrick’s held some souvenirs of Naval days. Dora Bunner’s held few personal possessions and they seemed innocent enough.
And yet, thought Fletcher, someone in the house must have oiled that door.
His thoughts broke off at a sound below stairs. He went quickly to the top of the staircase and looked down.
Mrs Swettenham was crossing the hall. She had a basket on her arm. She looked into the drawing-room, crossed the hall and went into the dining-room. She came out again without the basket.
Some faint sound that Fletcher made, a board that creaked unexpectedly under his feet, made her turn her head. She called up:
‘Is that you, Miss Blacklock?’
‘No, Mrs Swettenham, it’s me,’ said Fletcher.