A Letter of Mary - Laurie R. King [65]
"If you say so."
"Thanks. And Billy? Smear a bit of paint on your hands and clothes tomorrow, would you? Just for effect."
He looked down accusingly at his betraying hands, then shook his head. "And here I keep thinkin' I'm getting better at this kind of thing. Only good for fetchin' beer, I am."
"And following a person. A real artful dodger, you are."
He grinned at the compliment and pushed his way through the crowd to the bar, shouting jovially to every third person. A less likely artist it was hard to imagine, but with a palette and the smell of turpentine about him, he would pass a cursory examination. As for any paintings he might produce, well, almost anything passed as art these days. He seemed to be enjoying himself, at any rate.
Half an hour later, I put down my empty glass.
"I must be off, Billy, I'm expecting a telephone call."
"I'll go with you."
"Stay and have another, Billy. The night's young."
"No, I'll go."
He called good nights and shepherded me to my door.
That night's telephone call was again closely guarded. He was ringing from a noisy pub, and though I didn't exactly shout, I'm sure Isabella's top floor could hear my every word. We greeted each other, and he asked about my day.
"Much the same. The son was there today, a very sharp young man, too sharp for his own good. He'll cut himself one of these days. Wanted to talk about Greek, of all things."
"Greek? Why did he think you knew Greek?"
"That shorthand I learnt in Oxford."
"Interesting."
"Yes. And the colonel was a wee bit unhappy with me today. Seems he doesn't like uppity women. Truly doesn't like them, I mean."
"But you disabused him of the notion that you might be one of them?"
"That I did. He said he liked young women with spirit, but he seemed to think I should marry and have babies."
"Did he now?" Laughter bubbled underneath his nonchalance. "And what did you say?"
"Not a thing. I just went back to my typing."
"A ladylike response."
"What else could I do? And you, did you finish the wallpaper?"
"Started hanging it. Luckily, it's a dark room. She's a funny old bat, talks your ear off once she gets started."
"That's good. The work goes faster if you can carry on a good conversation. Is she nice?" "Nice" meant a probability of innocence.
"She seems nice, yes. Don't know about her sons yet."
"No. We'll talk about it tomorrow night, shall we?"
"I do hope so. Take care, and Mary? Watch out for those suffragettes."
"Ugly sluts, overeducated and badly spoilt. Need to be given some honest work."
Little spurts of laughter leaked out of the receiver, and the connexion went dead. A satisfactory conversation, all things considered. I had told him the colonel was violently misogynist, unless the gyn were in the kitchen or nursery (or, presumably, bedroom), and he let me know that Mrs Rogers appeared uninvolved, though the sons were an open question. On top of it all, I had given him something to laugh about, to soften the hard floor of Mrs Rogers's shed.
FIFTEEN
omicron
There was no indication on Saturday morning that before the day ended I would be presented with three major additions to the case, all of them in the space of an hour: a rape attempt, a collection of esoteric publications, and a citation for speeding.
The morning was long and tedious, involving a systematic renovation of the business files and an equally systematic avoidance of young Mr Edwards's attentions. Lunch was heavy and alcoholic, and a cold drizzle prevented me from a temporary escape into the grounds. I went back to the study after an hour of male badinage, suffered with gritted teeth, anxious to get through the day so that I could hear what Holmes had found in Cambridgeshire.
Fortunately, the wine at lunch seemed to have slowed down the roving hands, for although Gerald followed me into his father's study and watched my every move, he