who am I to quibble?’
‘Hmm,’ I murmured. ‘Authenticity being in the eye of the beholder, presumably?’
‘Exactly, Francis, I knew you would grasp it in the end.’
I let it rest. We had gone down that path too many times. And besides, as she would occasionally point out, who was I to raise a moral eyebrow in such matters? That’s one of the problems with murder, it leaves one in such an awkward position.
I steered her back to Lavinia’s visit. ‘Listen, Primrose, for goodness’ sake be careful. If she really did connive at the disposal of Boris it could be highly dangerous if she thinks for one moment that you suspect. She’s bound to tell Turnbull. Personally I think you’re crazy to go near either of them. It only takes one thoughtless word or false move and things could turn very nasty indeed. No point in giving them a hostage to fortune, much better to play safe.’
‘Like you did in Foxford Wood?’
I sighed angrily. ‘It is precisely because of Foxford Wood that I know what I am talking about! You must stay clear!’
‘My dear, you really are getting things completely out of proportion. Now calm down or you’ll give yourself a hernia. When Lavinia told me at the hotel that she would be down here for this gallery event, one’s social grace stepped in (something you wouldn’t know about) and naturally I offered her a bed for the night. I think you can trust me to manage things discreetly. I shall be the perfect hostess, the essence of tact about matters in France and a most enlivening companion at the private view. You’ll see – she’ll think me wonderful, drop her defences and let slip all manner of things about the battering of Boris, without having a clue that I’ve twigged. It will be quite a challenge!’
‘Oh well,’ I said gloomily, ‘if you want to play Miss Marple … but just watch it, that’s all.’
‘Of course I will,’ she replied nonchalantly. ‘But I don’t care for the comparison – Christie’s old trout is years older than me!’
That afternoon I was due to give a pep talk to Saint Botolph’s Lay Ladies (a somewhat unfortunate title I had always felt) whose C-in-C, Miss Dalrymple, had been grumbling about falling numbers and a dearth of fresh volunteers. ‘People are so lazy,’ she had grumbled, ‘and when they’re not being lazy they are absurdly timid. They need galvanizing, that’s what! We need a recruitment campaign, a sort of holy putsch to get them off their beam-ends. Don’t you agree, Canon? You might compose an hortatory address, that should do it!’
I had hesitated, assailed by lurid pictures of Edith Hop-garden & Co. strutting down the side aisles in helmets and jackboots. But my silence was also caused by perplexity – for, to tell the truth, I had never been entirely clear as to what it was that the Lay Ladies actually did: anything and everything, I suspected, and doubtless in a most worthy manner. But I had always been reluctant to enquire too closely, having quite enough on my plate dealing with the frets and furies of the Vestry Circle. The Lay Ladies were, I gathered, a sort of all-female offshoot of that body, subordinate but vital: ecclesiastical scene shifters sine qua non .
Thus, armed with only a hazy concept of their function, I settled down to compose some sort of rallying call – a task not helped by the fact that my mind kept returning to the plight of Clinker and Ingaza. Who on earth had got hold of that Oxford business – some erstwhile crony of Ingaza’s turned sour and vindictive? One of the bishop’s rivals to the pending York appointment – the hand of Creep Percival perhaps? Surely not. Who in those circles would stoop so low? Then I recalled the bitter professional tensions between the wretched Castris and Boris Birtle-Figgins. * (Evidently, when the chips are down gentility is no guarantee of fair play …) Or was it some professional operator with no personal connection at all but who knew a good thing
‘Hmm,’ I murmured. ‘Authenticity being in the eye of the beholder, presumably?’
‘Exactly, Francis, I knew you would grasp it in the end.’
I let it rest. We had gone down that path too many times. And besides, as she would occasionally point out, who was I to raise a moral eyebrow in such matters? That’s one of the problems with murder, it leaves one in such an awkward position.
I steered her back to Lavinia’s visit. ‘Listen, Primrose, for goodness’ sake be careful. If she really did connive at the disposal of Boris it could be highly dangerous if she thinks for one moment that you suspect. She’s bound to tell Turnbull. Personally I think you’re crazy to go near either of them. It only takes one thoughtless word or false move and things could turn very nasty indeed. No point in giving them a hostage to fortune, much better to play safe.’
‘Like you did in Foxford Wood?’
I sighed angrily. ‘It is precisely because of Foxford Wood that I know what I am talking about! You must stay clear!’
‘My dear, you really are getting things completely out of proportion. Now calm down or you’ll give yourself a hernia. When Lavinia told me at the hotel that she would be down here for this gallery event, one’s social grace stepped in (something you wouldn’t know about) and naturally I offered her a bed for the night. I think you can trust me to manage things discreetly. I shall be the perfect hostess, the essence of tact about matters in France and a most enlivening companion at the private view. You’ll see – she’ll think me wonderful, drop her defences and let slip all manner of things about the battering of Boris, without having a clue that I’ve twigged. It will be quite a challenge!’
‘Oh well,’ I said gloomily, ‘if you want to play Miss Marple … but just watch it, that’s all.’
‘Of course I will,’ she replied nonchalantly. ‘But I don’t care for the comparison – Christie’s old trout is years older than me!’
That afternoon I was due to give a pep talk to Saint Botolph’s Lay Ladies (a somewhat unfortunate title I had always felt) whose C-in-C, Miss Dalrymple, had been grumbling about falling numbers and a dearth of fresh volunteers. ‘People are so lazy,’ she had grumbled, ‘and when they’re not being lazy they are absurdly timid. They need galvanizing, that’s what! We need a recruitment campaign, a sort of holy putsch to get them off their beam-ends. Don’t you agree, Canon? You might compose an hortatory address, that should do it!’
I had hesitated, assailed by lurid pictures of Edith Hop-garden & Co. strutting down the side aisles in helmets and jackboots. But my silence was also caused by perplexity – for, to tell the truth, I had never been entirely clear as to what it was that the Lay Ladies actually did: anything and everything, I suspected, and doubtless in a most worthy manner. But I had always been reluctant to enquire too closely, having quite enough on my plate dealing with the frets and furies of the Vestry Circle. The Lay Ladies were, I gathered, a sort of all-female offshoot of that body, subordinate but vital: ecclesiastical scene shifters sine qua non .
Thus, armed with only a hazy concept of their function, I settled down to compose some sort of rallying call – a task not helped by the fact that my mind kept returning to the plight of Clinker and Ingaza. Who on earth had got hold of that Oxford business – some erstwhile crony of Ingaza’s turned sour and vindictive? One of the bishop’s rivals to the pending York appointment – the hand of Creep Percival perhaps? Surely not. Who in those circles would stoop so low? Then I recalled the bitter professional tensions between the wretched Castris and Boris Birtle-Figgins. * (Evidently, when the chips are down gentility is no guarantee of fair play …) Or was it some professional operator with no personal connection at all but who knew a good thing
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