answer.
‘I am so sorry,’ Rosy murmured sincerely.
‘Yes, he got shot up in Normandy in a sabotage raid. Jaw partially paralysed – nothing too dreadful by many standards. But it left its mark; he was never the same afterwards. Couldn’t face Civvy Street, couldn’t face women – or anything really. He was given a medal but it didn’t domuch for him. He started to drink and went, as they say, to the dogs.’ She stared at Rosy, looking both at her and through her, before adding, ‘And then one day he died. Couldn’t cope. He was just thirty … about your age, I should say, Miss Gilchrist.’
What could one say? Poor woman. Poor young man. And yet even as she thought such things, Rosy was ruffled by the pointed age comparison. After all, damn it, she had been in the war herself and didn’t need lessons in personal empathy! However, she made the appropriate responses, but couldn’t help feeling a twinge of resentment at having been dragooned into B & H’s tea lounge to hear about Vera Collinger’s family misfortunes, or indeed to be catechised about her own relations with Marcia. Unfettered she could have been at home by now gloating over the new skirt and telephoning her friend Diana for a long overdue chat.
The waitress appeared offering more tea, but to her relief Miss Collinger shook her head and requested the bill. She scrutinised it closely and announced triumphantly, ‘Just as I thought, they have been forced to reduce the price of the seed cake; too many complaints, I shouldn’t wonder. It’s down to one-and-twopence again.’ She looked at Rosy’s plate. ‘Aren’t you going to finish yours?’
‘Uhm, well I—’
‘Good. In that case Raymond and I will have it.’ She appropriated the piece, thrust a morsel at the dog and scoffed the rest. And then with Raymond once more clamped under her arm, she turned and said, ‘Nice to have met you again, Miss Gilchrist. I don’t suppose it will be the last time … And as said, if anything does occur to you about Marcia and what it was that was on her mind I should be most grateful if you would contact me. I’m not in the book but here’smy card. Your aunt and I went back a long time – one is naturally concerned.’
‘Naturally,’ Rosy echoed taking the card, and added, ‘I do hope you found what you were looking for in her house.’
‘
What?
’
‘In the house – the books you were searching for.’
Miss Collinger hesitated, and then with an uncharacteristic smile said, ‘Ah … yes, indeed I did, thank you. They are all back safely on my bookshelves! Now, I really must rush, got to take Raymond to the vet.’ Dog and owner moved quickly towards the swing doors.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The decibel level was dire but the drink was good – a fact that doubtless accounted for the former. Lady Fawcett was one of those hostesses who throw parties like other people throw tantrums, i.e. with insatiable relish and single-minded abandon. And as with the tantrum throwers the occasions were frequent and finely orchestrated. For one not known for her tact or intellectual acuity, Lady Fawcett’s grip on the finer points of party dynamics was formidable. It was, Rosy concluded, something bred in the bone, some sort of biological gift to obscure from the possessor the tiresome claims of the sensible and humdrum. Yes, the Fawcetts were the sort who, clad warmly in a cloak of myopic self-absorption, sailed through life on a tide of blinkered cheerfulness. Vapid yet resolutely good-natured, entirely confident and largely frivolous, they were both enviable and maddening.
‘Well,’ said a voice at her elbow, ‘he’s doing all right, I must say. I doubt if anyone will bother to throw a party for
me
when I reach seventy!’ Clovis Thistlehyde gestured with the remains of a caviar canapé in the direction of a large man smoking a cigar and talking to Harold Gill at the far end of the room.
Rosy wondered whether she was supposed to disabuse him of the
‘I am so sorry,’ Rosy murmured sincerely.
‘Yes, he got shot up in Normandy in a sabotage raid. Jaw partially paralysed – nothing too dreadful by many standards. But it left its mark; he was never the same afterwards. Couldn’t face Civvy Street, couldn’t face women – or anything really. He was given a medal but it didn’t domuch for him. He started to drink and went, as they say, to the dogs.’ She stared at Rosy, looking both at her and through her, before adding, ‘And then one day he died. Couldn’t cope. He was just thirty … about your age, I should say, Miss Gilchrist.’
What could one say? Poor woman. Poor young man. And yet even as she thought such things, Rosy was ruffled by the pointed age comparison. After all, damn it, she had been in the war herself and didn’t need lessons in personal empathy! However, she made the appropriate responses, but couldn’t help feeling a twinge of resentment at having been dragooned into B & H’s tea lounge to hear about Vera Collinger’s family misfortunes, or indeed to be catechised about her own relations with Marcia. Unfettered she could have been at home by now gloating over the new skirt and telephoning her friend Diana for a long overdue chat.
The waitress appeared offering more tea, but to her relief Miss Collinger shook her head and requested the bill. She scrutinised it closely and announced triumphantly, ‘Just as I thought, they have been forced to reduce the price of the seed cake; too many complaints, I shouldn’t wonder. It’s down to one-and-twopence again.’ She looked at Rosy’s plate. ‘Aren’t you going to finish yours?’
‘Uhm, well I—’
‘Good. In that case Raymond and I will have it.’ She appropriated the piece, thrust a morsel at the dog and scoffed the rest. And then with Raymond once more clamped under her arm, she turned and said, ‘Nice to have met you again, Miss Gilchrist. I don’t suppose it will be the last time … And as said, if anything does occur to you about Marcia and what it was that was on her mind I should be most grateful if you would contact me. I’m not in the book but here’smy card. Your aunt and I went back a long time – one is naturally concerned.’
‘Naturally,’ Rosy echoed taking the card, and added, ‘I do hope you found what you were looking for in her house.’
‘
What?
’
‘In the house – the books you were searching for.’
Miss Collinger hesitated, and then with an uncharacteristic smile said, ‘Ah … yes, indeed I did, thank you. They are all back safely on my bookshelves! Now, I really must rush, got to take Raymond to the vet.’ Dog and owner moved quickly towards the swing doors.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The decibel level was dire but the drink was good – a fact that doubtless accounted for the former. Lady Fawcett was one of those hostesses who throw parties like other people throw tantrums, i.e. with insatiable relish and single-minded abandon. And as with the tantrum throwers the occasions were frequent and finely orchestrated. For one not known for her tact or intellectual acuity, Lady Fawcett’s grip on the finer points of party dynamics was formidable. It was, Rosy concluded, something bred in the bone, some sort of biological gift to obscure from the possessor the tiresome claims of the sensible and humdrum. Yes, the Fawcetts were the sort who, clad warmly in a cloak of myopic self-absorption, sailed through life on a tide of blinkered cheerfulness. Vapid yet resolutely good-natured, entirely confident and largely frivolous, they were both enviable and maddening.
‘Well,’ said a voice at her elbow, ‘he’s doing all right, I must say. I doubt if anyone will bother to throw a party for
me
when I reach seventy!’ Clovis Thistlehyde gestured with the remains of a caviar canapé in the direction of a large man smoking a cigar and talking to Harold Gill at the far end of the room.
Rosy wondered whether she was supposed to disabuse him of the
Similar Books
![The Dom with the Dragon Tattoo [Masters of Submission 5] (Siren Publishing Everlasting Classic)](https://fs.ageofbook.com/539183/thumbs/152x264/the-dom-with-the-dragon-tattoo-masters-of-submission-5-siren-publishing-everlasting-classic.png)
