‘She explained that fully to me on the train. It appears that she’s dependent on a monthly allowance from her father in New York, and normally she gets by reasonably comfortably on this. But early this month she was unfortunate in her investments on the turf. Sunny Jim in the three o’clock at Kempton Park.’
I recalled the horse to which he referred. Only prudent second thoughts had kept me from having a bit on it myself.
‘The animal ran sixth in a field of seven and she lost her little all. She was then faced with the alternative of applying to her father for funds, which would have necessitated a full confession of her rash act, or of seeking some gainful occupation which would tide her over till, as she put it, the United States Marines arrived.’
‘She could have touched me or her sister Pauline.’
‘My good ass, a girl like that doesn’t borrow money. Much too proud. She decided to become a cook. She tells me she didn’t hesitate more than about thirty seconds before making her choice.’
I wasn’t surprised. To have come clean to the paternal parent would have been to invite hell of the worst description. Old Stoker was not the type of father who laughs indulgently when informed by a daughter that she has lost her chemise and foundation garments at the races. I don’t suppose he has ever laughed indulgently in his life. I’ve never seen him even smile. Apprised of his child’s goings-on, he would unquestionably have blown his top and reduced her to the level of a fifth-rate power. I have been present on occasions when the old gawd-help-us was going good, and I can testify that his boiling point is low. Quite rightly had she decided that silence was best.
It was quite a load off my mind to be able to file away the Emerald Stoker mystery in my case book as solved, for I dislike being baffled and the thing had been weighing on me, but there were one or two small points to be cleared up.
‘How did she happen to come to Totleigh?’
‘I must have been responsible for that. During our talk at that studio party I remember mentioning that Sir Watkyn was in the market for a cook, and I suppose I must have given her his address, for she applied for the post and got it. These American girls have such enterprise.’
‘Is she enjoying her job?’
‘Thoroughly, according to Jeeves. She’s teaching the butler Rummy.’
‘I hope she skins him to the bone.’
‘No doubt she will when he is sufficiently advanced to play for money. And she tells me she loves to cook. What’s her cooking like?’
I could answer that. She had once or twice given me dinner at her flat, and the browsing had been impeccable.
‘It melts in the mouth.’
‘It hasn’t melted in mine,’ said Gussie bitterly. ‘Ah well,’ he added, a softer light coming into his eyes, ‘there’s always that steak and kidney pie.’
And on this happier note he took his departure.
8
It was pretty late when I finished the perusal of my Erie Stanley Gardner and later when I woke from the light doze into which I had fallen on closing the volume. Totleigh Towers had long since called it a day, and all was still throughout the house except for a curious rumbling noise proceeding from my interior. After bending an ear to this for awhile I was able to see what was causing it. I had fed sparsely at the dinner table, with the result that I had become as hungry as dammit.
I don’t know if you have had the same experience, but a thing I’ve always found about myself is that it takes very little to put me off my feed. Let the atmosphere at lunch or dinner be what you might call difficult, and my appetite tends to dwindle. I’ve often had this happen when breaking bread with my Aunt Agatha, and it had happened again at tonight’s meal. What with the strain of constantly catching Pop Bassett’s eye and looking hastily away and catching Spode’s and looking hastily away and catching Pop’s again, I had done far less than justice to Emerald Stoker’s no doubt admirable offerings. You read stories sometimes where someone merely toys with his food or even pushes away his plate untasted, and that substantially was what I had done. So now this strange hollow feeling, as if some hidden hand had scooped out my insides with a tablespoon.