steps was not a happy one. I still couldn’t really make out what she hoped to do up there. She had said something about ‘breathing in the atmosphere’. Some atmosphere! Woodwormed joists, bat and bird droppings, cobwebs the size of small sheets, and above all freezing cold. Too many breaths and she would surely choke or catch pneumonia. No bad thing perhaps, at least it would keep her at bay for a while!
There was one benefit, I supposed: at least her fascination with the belfry would stop her snooping in Foxford Wood. It had been bad enough having to return there on my own on that abortive mission to retrieve the cigarette lighter, but to be accompanied by Maud Tubbly Pole playing Sherlock Holmes would have been intolerable. Tiresome though it might be, introducing her to the dubious delights of the belfry was a less unsettling prospect than showing her the place of Elizabeth’s end.
However, there was still the problem of the pictures. With her novelist’s obsession for ‘authentic detail’ she was bound to spot them, and I doubted whether draping them in dustsheets would deter either her probing eye or her curiosity. The only other place for them was the crypt, but that meant yet more exertions – and in any case, ten-to-one she would demand to explore down there next! They had to be got rid of – not just because of her visit but for my peace of mind generally. Now that I had concrete proof of the things being undoubtedly ‘hot’ their continuing presence was unsettling in the extreme.
The problem was how to dispose of them without provoking Ingaza. To renege on our tacit compact – me to store the paintings in payment for his help during the previous year’s police enquiry – could well be dangerous. At theological college he had always treated me with a careless geniality. But we had never been close, and on occasions I had observed the steely and inventive way in which he had handled those whom he had found ‘tiresome’. Fortunately I had not seemed to belong to that category, but were I to upset his current project I might just become one of its number. It was a risk I could not take. At the time of my unfortunate incident Nicholas had colluded in a tale I had spun to the police, and though distinctly curious, had asked no questions. To lose his indulgence now might prove disastrous. I lit a cigarette and brooded.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Bouncer watching me with that half vacant, half intent expression that he often has, and not being in a mood for his quizzical attentions I told him to buzz off p.d.q. He loped away to the kitchen from where I could hear the faint rattle of his bowl and the querulous miaowings of the cat. They are a peculiar pair, but in a masochistic way I find them oddly companionable and do not regret taking them in.
With the dog out of the way, I settled seriously to the problem of what to do with Nicholas’s ill-gotten goods. My sister Primrose had telephoned earlier in the day, and although we had chatted only briefly I suppose she must still have been in my mind. Anyway, in mind or not, I suddenly saw what might be done: I would get her to store the wretched things!
Inhabiting a sizeable house and being an artist herself, albeit of a very different kind from Herr Spendler (and, at least in my estimation, of better quality), she had plenty of space in her studio or a spare room where they could lie safe and undetected until such time as Nicholas was ready to reclaim them. That would surely solve everything: not only get me off the hook but, more immediately, save them from the prying eyes of Mrs T.P. It was the obvious solution and I couldn’t think why it had not occurred to me before. And then of course I realized: Primrose.
On the whole I am fond of my sister, and compared perhaps with some siblings we have quite a good relationship – good in that we lead entirely separate lives and have only sporadic contact. This suits us both, for on the few occasions
There was one benefit, I supposed: at least her fascination with the belfry would stop her snooping in Foxford Wood. It had been bad enough having to return there on my own on that abortive mission to retrieve the cigarette lighter, but to be accompanied by Maud Tubbly Pole playing Sherlock Holmes would have been intolerable. Tiresome though it might be, introducing her to the dubious delights of the belfry was a less unsettling prospect than showing her the place of Elizabeth’s end.
However, there was still the problem of the pictures. With her novelist’s obsession for ‘authentic detail’ she was bound to spot them, and I doubted whether draping them in dustsheets would deter either her probing eye or her curiosity. The only other place for them was the crypt, but that meant yet more exertions – and in any case, ten-to-one she would demand to explore down there next! They had to be got rid of – not just because of her visit but for my peace of mind generally. Now that I had concrete proof of the things being undoubtedly ‘hot’ their continuing presence was unsettling in the extreme.
The problem was how to dispose of them without provoking Ingaza. To renege on our tacit compact – me to store the paintings in payment for his help during the previous year’s police enquiry – could well be dangerous. At theological college he had always treated me with a careless geniality. But we had never been close, and on occasions I had observed the steely and inventive way in which he had handled those whom he had found ‘tiresome’. Fortunately I had not seemed to belong to that category, but were I to upset his current project I might just become one of its number. It was a risk I could not take. At the time of my unfortunate incident Nicholas had colluded in a tale I had spun to the police, and though distinctly curious, had asked no questions. To lose his indulgence now might prove disastrous. I lit a cigarette and brooded.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Bouncer watching me with that half vacant, half intent expression that he often has, and not being in a mood for his quizzical attentions I told him to buzz off p.d.q. He loped away to the kitchen from where I could hear the faint rattle of his bowl and the querulous miaowings of the cat. They are a peculiar pair, but in a masochistic way I find them oddly companionable and do not regret taking them in.
With the dog out of the way, I settled seriously to the problem of what to do with Nicholas’s ill-gotten goods. My sister Primrose had telephoned earlier in the day, and although we had chatted only briefly I suppose she must still have been in my mind. Anyway, in mind or not, I suddenly saw what might be done: I would get her to store the wretched things!
Inhabiting a sizeable house and being an artist herself, albeit of a very different kind from Herr Spendler (and, at least in my estimation, of better quality), she had plenty of space in her studio or a spare room where they could lie safe and undetected until such time as Nicholas was ready to reclaim them. That would surely solve everything: not only get me off the hook but, more immediately, save them from the prying eyes of Mrs T.P. It was the obvious solution and I couldn’t think why it had not occurred to me before. And then of course I realized: Primrose.
On the whole I am fond of my sister, and compared perhaps with some siblings we have quite a good relationship – good in that we lead entirely separate lives and have only sporadic contact. This suits us both, for on the few occasions
Similar Books
