?’
‘Yes—‘
‘ It’ s about a murder that’ s gone wrong, is what it’ s about— ‘
So maybe Jenny was right. For certainly Jenny was clever, and she was very often as lucky as she was clever, which was an unbeatable alliance.
But that still left them with the Unnamed Play expert, who had been unlucky, as well as indiscreet, beside the curtain at the embassy party; he sounded clever too, and maliciously so perhaps. But just how clever had he been with that throwaway Macbeth reference?
Just generally clever, with Macbeth’s hired murderer reporting back on the bodged killing—
—Is he dispacht?
—My lord, his throat is cut; that I did for him.
Or exactly clever, with Philip Masson as well as Audley in mind, after Banquo’s grisly ghost had broken up a pleasant dinner—
—the time has been,
That, when the brains were out, the man would die,
And there an end; but now they rise again,
With twenty mortal murders on their crowns,
And push us from our stools
Was that it?
Had Banquo/Masson risen again, in order that Jenny Fielding and Ian Robinson should push David Audley from his stool—?
Well … Jenny Fielding’s castle was now just across the wet road, and he could hear no footsteps behind him, only his old tutor’s warning against preconceived ideas which fitted so well that one bought them too easily, without feeling the quality of the shoddy material.
The road was safe, anyway—as safe as suburban East Berlin on a wet Sunday, never mind Hampstead; and he was probably as unfollowed here and now as he had been there and then—and Jenny could have simply heard two malicious Civil Service tongues chatting imaginative gossip—
He skipped the last few yards, from the road and across the glistening pavement, to the refuge of the flat’s entrance, and stabbed the bell with a sense of anti-climax, feeling foolish because he was simultaneously relieved and disappointed. Because, if Jenny and Buller were right , it might well be that they didn’t even consider him worth following—
‘Yes?’ The cool, disembodied voice was haughtiest Jenny.
‘It’s me. Who did you think it was?’ He heard his own voice too late, as squeakiest Ian.
‘Are you alone? Or already in durance vile, with the cuffs on and a gun at your back?’ Now she was stage-Jenny, making fun of all the painted devils of his imagination.
‘For heaven’s sake, Jen—let me in!’ He couldn’t stop himself protesting. ‘My feet are soaking, damn it!’ He managed to lower the squeak to a growl.
Click!
‘Darling—I’m sorry—I am sorry … But John Tully and dear old Reg insisted—remember?’ She patted him like a child after relieving him of his raincoat and umbrella. ‘Of course, John wanted my taxi. And he said we’d got nothing to lose, anyway … And Reg wanted you to lead the opposition away, so he could do his own thing.’ She brushed ineffectually at the huge bird’s-nest tangle of hair which she’d pinned up, but which was falling down on all sides. ‘I do love Reg—don’t you, Ian?’
‘No.’ He could smell an unfamiliar smell. And it was as far removed from the usual smell of her flat as what he felt for Reg Buller was separated from love. ‘Reg Buller is not lovable.’ He sniffed again. ‘Have you been cooking?’
‘He is so. Come and have a drink. And he’s also one very smart operator. Did you read his report? You did bring it with you?’
‘Yes.’ He had to sniff again. ‘Is that what I think it is?’
‘Eh? Well, I don’t know what you think it is. But the man in the butcher’s shop said it was his very best Scotch beef. And he gave me all sorts of advice about what I should do with it—he seemed quite worried that I might not treat it with proper respect. I almost asked him to come and roast it for me … only I was afraid he might take me up on the offer.’ She smiled her Scarlett O’Hara smile at him. ‘But then he said it needed a good Burgundy with it. Only, I know you
‘Yes—‘
‘ It’ s about a murder that’ s gone wrong, is what it’ s about— ‘
So maybe Jenny was right. For certainly Jenny was clever, and she was very often as lucky as she was clever, which was an unbeatable alliance.
But that still left them with the Unnamed Play expert, who had been unlucky, as well as indiscreet, beside the curtain at the embassy party; he sounded clever too, and maliciously so perhaps. But just how clever had he been with that throwaway Macbeth reference?
Just generally clever, with Macbeth’s hired murderer reporting back on the bodged killing—
—Is he dispacht?
—My lord, his throat is cut; that I did for him.
Or exactly clever, with Philip Masson as well as Audley in mind, after Banquo’s grisly ghost had broken up a pleasant dinner—
—the time has been,
That, when the brains were out, the man would die,
And there an end; but now they rise again,
With twenty mortal murders on their crowns,
And push us from our stools
Was that it?
Had Banquo/Masson risen again, in order that Jenny Fielding and Ian Robinson should push David Audley from his stool—?
Well … Jenny Fielding’s castle was now just across the wet road, and he could hear no footsteps behind him, only his old tutor’s warning against preconceived ideas which fitted so well that one bought them too easily, without feeling the quality of the shoddy material.
The road was safe, anyway—as safe as suburban East Berlin on a wet Sunday, never mind Hampstead; and he was probably as unfollowed here and now as he had been there and then—and Jenny could have simply heard two malicious Civil Service tongues chatting imaginative gossip—
He skipped the last few yards, from the road and across the glistening pavement, to the refuge of the flat’s entrance, and stabbed the bell with a sense of anti-climax, feeling foolish because he was simultaneously relieved and disappointed. Because, if Jenny and Buller were right , it might well be that they didn’t even consider him worth following—
‘Yes?’ The cool, disembodied voice was haughtiest Jenny.
‘It’s me. Who did you think it was?’ He heard his own voice too late, as squeakiest Ian.
‘Are you alone? Or already in durance vile, with the cuffs on and a gun at your back?’ Now she was stage-Jenny, making fun of all the painted devils of his imagination.
‘For heaven’s sake, Jen—let me in!’ He couldn’t stop himself protesting. ‘My feet are soaking, damn it!’ He managed to lower the squeak to a growl.
Click!
‘Darling—I’m sorry—I am sorry … But John Tully and dear old Reg insisted—remember?’ She patted him like a child after relieving him of his raincoat and umbrella. ‘Of course, John wanted my taxi. And he said we’d got nothing to lose, anyway … And Reg wanted you to lead the opposition away, so he could do his own thing.’ She brushed ineffectually at the huge bird’s-nest tangle of hair which she’d pinned up, but which was falling down on all sides. ‘I do love Reg—don’t you, Ian?’
‘No.’ He could smell an unfamiliar smell. And it was as far removed from the usual smell of her flat as what he felt for Reg Buller was separated from love. ‘Reg Buller is not lovable.’ He sniffed again. ‘Have you been cooking?’
‘He is so. Come and have a drink. And he’s also one very smart operator. Did you read his report? You did bring it with you?’
‘Yes.’ He had to sniff again. ‘Is that what I think it is?’
‘Eh? Well, I don’t know what you think it is. But the man in the butcher’s shop said it was his very best Scotch beef. And he gave me all sorts of advice about what I should do with it—he seemed quite worried that I might not treat it with proper respect. I almost asked him to come and roast it for me … only I was afraid he might take me up on the offer.’ She smiled her Scarlett O’Hara smile at him. ‘But then he said it needed a good Burgundy with it. Only, I know you
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