business–no. I don’t know why I’ve got the
ridiculous idea that Percival did that–but I
have, somehow.”
“But it wouldn’t have done him any good?
It was paid into your account.”
“I know. So it doesn’t make sense, does it?”
Pat turned sharply towards him.
“You mean–he did it to get you chucked
out of the firm?”
“I wondered. Oh well–it’s a rotten thing to
say. Forget it. I wonder what old Percy will
say when he sees the Prodigal returned.
Those pale, boiled gooseberry eyes of his will
pop right out of his head!”
63
“Does he know you are coming?”
“I shouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t know
a damned thing! The old man’s got rather a
funny sense of humour, you know.”
“But what has your brother done to upset
your father so much?”
“That’s what Pd like to know. Something
must have made the old man livid. Writing
off to me the way he did.”
“When was it you got his first letter?”
“Must be four–no five months ago. A
cagey letter, but a distinct holding out of the
olive branch. ‘Your elder brother has proved
himself unsatisfactory in many ways.’ ‘You
seem to have sown your wild oats and settled
down.’ ‘I can promise you that it will be well
worth your while financially.’ ‘Shall welcome
you and your wife.’ You know, darling, I
think my marrying you had a lot to do with it.
The old boy was impressed that I’d married
into a class above me.”
Pat laughed.
“What? Into the aristocratic riffraff?”
He grinned. “That’s right. But riffraff
didn’t register and aristocracy did. You
should see Percival’s wife. She’s the kind who
says ‘Pass the preserves, please’ and talks
about a postage stamp.”
64
Pat did not laugh. She was considering the
women of the family into which she had married.
It was a point of view which Lance had
not taken into account.
“And your sister?” she asked.
“Elaine? Oh she’s all right. She was pretty
young when I left home. Sort of an earnest
girl–but probably she’s grown out of that.
Very intense over things.”
It did not sound very reassuring. Pat
said:
“She never wrote to you–after you went
away?”
“I didn’t leave an address. But she
wouldn’t have, anyway. We’re not a devoted
family.”
“No.”
He shot a quick look at her.
“Got the wind up? About my family? You
needn’t. We’re not going to live with them, or anything like that. We’ll have our own
little place somewhere. Horses, dogs, anything
you like.”
“But there will still be the 5.18.”
“For me, yes. To and fro to the city, all logged up. But don’t worry, sweet–there are
rural pockets, even round London. And lately
I’ve felt the sap of financial affairs rising in
65
me. After all, it’s in my blood—from both
sides of the family.”
“You hardly remember your mother, do
you?”
“She always seemed to me incredibly old.
She was old, of course. Nearly fifty when
Elaine was born. She wore lots of clinking
things and lay on a sofa and used to read me
stories about knights and ladies which bored
me stiff. Tennyson’s ‘Idylls of the King.’ I
suppose I was fond other.. . . She was verycolourless, you know. I realise that, looking
back.”
“You don’t seem to have been particularly
fond of anybody,” said Pat disapprovingly.
Lance grasped and squeezed her arm.
“I’m fond of you,” he said.
66
7
INSPECTOR NEELE was still holding
the telegraph message in his hand when he
heard a car drive up to the front door and
stop with a careless scrunching of brakes.
Mary Dove said, “That will be Mrs. For-
tescue now.”
Inspector Neele moved forwards to the
front door. Out of the tail of his eye, he saw
Mary Dove melt unobtrusively into the background
and disappear. Clearly she intended
to take no part in the forthcoming scene. A
remarkable display of tact and discretion–
and also a rather remarkable lack of curiosity.
Most women. Inspector Neele decided, would have remained. . . .
As he reached the front door he was aware
of the butler. Crump, coming forward from
the back of the hall. So he had heard the car.