Thus Was Adonis Murdered by Sarah Caudwell

merry prank by which he had become the owner of a twelfth-century Greek icon, formerly the property of a monastery near Paphos. Fortunately, he was interrupted by Kenneth, who told him, in a Scots accent heavy with disapproval, that he shouldn’t have done it; and went on to deplore the damage done to the artistic inheritance of Cyprus by a succession of occupying armies. This did not silence the Major for long; but it diverted his attention. Kenneth became the audience for a series of further anecdotes, illustrating the hardships of military life not known to young men of Kenneth’s generation.
    Eleanor and Marylou were sitting next to each other. I settled myself on a footstool at their feet, and thought that I should try to eradicate the unfortunate impression I had earlier made on Eleanor. I remembered that I had seen the name of her firm quite recently, on a capital transfer tax valuation obtained by clients of mine. This gave me some straw for the bricks of flattery.
    “I shall not venture,” I said, “to open my mouth in Mrs. Frostfield’s presence on any subject connected with the arts. I expect you know, Marylou, that Mrs. Frostfield is a director of one of our leading firms of experts in antiques and the fine arts.”
    It worked like a charm. Insofar as a woman so closely resembling the late Queen Boadicea can be said to simper, Eleanor simpered. “Really,” she said, “Miss Larwood exaggerates. We’re not Christie’s or Sotheby’s, you know.” But she made being Christie’s or Sotheby’s sound rather over-flamboyant.
    She melted to such an extent as to ask my own profession. I answered that I was in practice at the Revenue Bar; but the name of her firm was naturally familiar to me, since clients of mine with important collections to be valued for tax purposes so frequently had recourse to the expertise of Frostfield’s. There is no bond like that of mutual clients: we were thereafter as Ruth and Naomi. Well yes, Selena, I do exaggerate—but at least we were “Julia” and “Eleanor.”
    I remarked on the coincidence of her being acquainted with the Major. It seems, however, that it is not really surprising. The travel agency which arranged our package has close connections in the world of art and antiques and long experience of making business travel arrangements for those concerned with it.
    “Business travel?” I asked. “You are not simply on holiday, then?”
    “My dear Julia,” said Eleanor, with a certain coyness, “for accounting purposes, of course, it has to be business travel. You will be the first to appreciate that with our penal system of taxation—”
    “Do you mean,” asked the enchanting Ned, taking part in the conversation for the first time, “that you put your holidays down as a business expense for tax purposes?”
    “My dear boy, of course,” said Eleanor benignly. “Everyone does.” It was not for me to strike a discordant note by suggesting that such a practice fell on the wrong side of the delicate line between legitimate avoidance and illegal evasion.
    It is ironic to reflect that I congratulated myself, as I sat there on the footstool, on the pleasantness of my situation. The soft night air was warm against my cheek; the stars were shining in a velvet sky; the canal was lapping gently against its banks; the Major was telling someone else about the troopship. What more could a woman ask for, to be perfectly contented?
    Except, of course, the favours of the lovely Ned. The time had come, I felt, to show an interest in his hopes, dreams and aspirations.
    “And you, Ned,” I asked, “are you professionally involved in the fine arts?” I prepared to give sympathetic encouragement to a boyish ambition to discover a lost Giorgione or something like that.
    “No,” said the lovely creature. “No, actually, I’m a lawyer, like you.” Less romantic, but easier—one could spend many happy hours discussing recent decisions of the Court of Appeal. “That is to