said:
“Because you’ve been a help to me, here is something which may help you. I do hope it will. I really do. But don’t read it till you’re back home.”
She thrust into my hands the buff-coloured envelope she had taken from her handbag, and left me, and her squat figure hurried on in the direction of the main station entrance.
I have described the incident at some length because I believe that despite the hold which certain people had on her, her sorrow and grief were sincere.
I believe she thought the small role she played to be innocuous, as indeed it was. Whether she had performed less innocuous acts in the past must be a matter for speculation. On this occasion I am certain she was not play-acting, because it would have been pointless to go to such lengths.
Actually, I thought the buff envelope probably contained some extract from the Bible or something, and I put it in my pocket, had a couple of drinks at the Devonshire Arms near my flat and forgot all about it till I was undressing.
When I opened it, it contained an ordinary quarto sheet of white paper, on which was typed the following:
Investigations into the background and death of Mrs. Dawson at Pompeii are a matter for the Italian police and nobody else. Investigation by other persons can only be regarded as unwarranted intrusions.
It is hoped and believed that you will appreciate this point, particularly since it is understood that you contemplate marriage in a month’s time.
There was no signature.
Feelings merge, and blend, and overlap, and it is hard to sort them afterwards, but I think I can truthfully say that the thing which first impressed me, as much as the cumbersome threat, was the appalling heaviness of the phraseology, the awful resemblance to the style used by lawyers and civil servants.
Then I read it through again, and noted how the capital letter “I” was defective, and reproduced itself with the lower part missing, and how the “e” and the “o” were blurred and clogged, and I glanced at my own typewriter on the desk by the window, and remembered that for some time it had required overhaul, and cleaning, and repairs to the letter “I”; and when I held the paper up to the light and saw the watermark, “64 MILL BOND EXTRA STRONG ,” I hardly needed to look at the watermark on my own paper on the desk, or at the buff envelopes I keep in the letter rack.
It is all very fine to see these things on the films or television, but when they happen to you personally you experience the feeling you get when you completely mislay something you have seen only a few minutes ago. You wonder if you are going mad, or are in a dream, or even dead.
I stood still with a singing sound in my head, and this was mingled with the thumping noise of my heart, and with vague distant sounds of people laughing and talking loudly, and the sound of cars starting, which showed that the tavern down the road had shut.
After about two minutes, I heard the faint creak of a floor board from the spare bedroom which Juliet and I were turning into a dining-room. The door was closed.
I went into the hall and fetched a knobkerrie given me by an uncle. For those who do not know, in these post-Imperial times, a knobkerrie is a wooden stick with a large heavy knob, formerly much used by African natives. It could be flung through the air, or used as a club in battle, or for polishing off wounded warriors after battle. Its modern uses are limited.
It gives a psychological reassurance when faced with a closed door, but that is about all. I opened the door a couple of inches, groped, switched on the light, flung the door wide, and felt a fool.
There was nobody in the flat. Nothing had been disturbed. More particularly, when I examined the front door, there were no scratches round the Yale-type lock or round the paintwork on the door or windows.
I went to bed, tense, worried, and listening.
The attempts in Italy and England to dissuade me from probing into
“Because you’ve been a help to me, here is something which may help you. I do hope it will. I really do. But don’t read it till you’re back home.”
She thrust into my hands the buff-coloured envelope she had taken from her handbag, and left me, and her squat figure hurried on in the direction of the main station entrance.
I have described the incident at some length because I believe that despite the hold which certain people had on her, her sorrow and grief were sincere.
I believe she thought the small role she played to be innocuous, as indeed it was. Whether she had performed less innocuous acts in the past must be a matter for speculation. On this occasion I am certain she was not play-acting, because it would have been pointless to go to such lengths.
Actually, I thought the buff envelope probably contained some extract from the Bible or something, and I put it in my pocket, had a couple of drinks at the Devonshire Arms near my flat and forgot all about it till I was undressing.
When I opened it, it contained an ordinary quarto sheet of white paper, on which was typed the following:
Investigations into the background and death of Mrs. Dawson at Pompeii are a matter for the Italian police and nobody else. Investigation by other persons can only be regarded as unwarranted intrusions.
It is hoped and believed that you will appreciate this point, particularly since it is understood that you contemplate marriage in a month’s time.
There was no signature.
Feelings merge, and blend, and overlap, and it is hard to sort them afterwards, but I think I can truthfully say that the thing which first impressed me, as much as the cumbersome threat, was the appalling heaviness of the phraseology, the awful resemblance to the style used by lawyers and civil servants.
Then I read it through again, and noted how the capital letter “I” was defective, and reproduced itself with the lower part missing, and how the “e” and the “o” were blurred and clogged, and I glanced at my own typewriter on the desk by the window, and remembered that for some time it had required overhaul, and cleaning, and repairs to the letter “I”; and when I held the paper up to the light and saw the watermark, “64 MILL BOND EXTRA STRONG ,” I hardly needed to look at the watermark on my own paper on the desk, or at the buff envelopes I keep in the letter rack.
It is all very fine to see these things on the films or television, but when they happen to you personally you experience the feeling you get when you completely mislay something you have seen only a few minutes ago. You wonder if you are going mad, or are in a dream, or even dead.
I stood still with a singing sound in my head, and this was mingled with the thumping noise of my heart, and with vague distant sounds of people laughing and talking loudly, and the sound of cars starting, which showed that the tavern down the road had shut.
After about two minutes, I heard the faint creak of a floor board from the spare bedroom which Juliet and I were turning into a dining-room. The door was closed.
I went into the hall and fetched a knobkerrie given me by an uncle. For those who do not know, in these post-Imperial times, a knobkerrie is a wooden stick with a large heavy knob, formerly much used by African natives. It could be flung through the air, or used as a club in battle, or for polishing off wounded warriors after battle. Its modern uses are limited.
It gives a psychological reassurance when faced with a closed door, but that is about all. I opened the door a couple of inches, groped, switched on the light, flung the door wide, and felt a fool.
There was nobody in the flat. Nothing had been disturbed. More particularly, when I examined the front door, there were no scratches round the Yale-type lock or round the paintwork on the door or windows.
I went to bed, tense, worried, and listening.
The attempts in Italy and England to dissuade me from probing into
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