the rough little quay was such as to suggest that Phrynne’s idea was literally true.
*
The Coffee Room was so low that Gerald had to dip beneath a sequence of thick beams.
‘Why “Coffee Room”?’ asked Phrynne, looking at the words on the door. ‘I saw a notice that coffee will only be served in the lounge.’
‘It’s the
lucus a non lucendo
principle.’
‘That explains everything. I wonder where we sit.’ A single electric lantern, mass-produced in an antique pattern, had been turned on. The bulb was of that limited wattage which is peculiar to hotels. It did little to penetrate the shadows.
‘The
lucus a non lucendo
principle is the principle of calling white black.’
‘Not at all,’ said a voice from the darkness. ‘Onthe contrary. The word “black” comes from an ancient root which means “to bleach”.’
They had thought themselves alone, but now saw a small man seated by himself at an unlighted corner table. In the darkness he looked like a monkey.
‘I stand corrected,’ said Gerald.
They sat at the table under the lantern.
The man in the corner spoke again. ‘Why are you here at all?’
Phrynne looked frightened, but Gerald replied quietly. ‘We’re on holiday. We prefer it out of the season. I presume you are Commandant Shotcroft?’
‘No need to presume.’ Unexpectedly the Commandant switched on the antique lantern which was nearest to him. His table was littered with a finished meal. It struck Gerald that he must have switched off the light when he heard them approach the Coffee Room. ‘I’m going anyway.’
‘Are we late?’ asked Phrynne, always the assuager of situations.
‘No, you’re not late,’ called the Commandant in a deep moody voice. ‘My meals are prepared half an hour before the time the rest come in. I don’t like eating in company.’ He had risen to his feet. ‘So perhaps you’ll excuse me.’
Without troubling about an answer, he stepped quickly out of the Coffee Room. He had cropped white hair; tragic, heavy-lidded eyes; and a round face which was yellow and lined.
A second later his head reappeared round the door.
‘Ring,’ he said; and again withdrew.
‘Too many other people ringing,’ said Gerald. ‘But I don’t see what else we can do.’
The Coffee Room bell, however, made a noise like a fire alarm.
Mrs Pascoe appeared. She looked considerably the worse for drink.
‘Didn’t see you in the bar.’
‘Must have missed us in the crowd,’ said Gerald amiably.
‘Crowd?’ enquired Mrs Pascoe drunkenly. Then, after a difficult pause, she offered them a hand-written menu.
They ordered; and Mrs Pascoe served them throughout. Gerald was apprehensive lest her indisposition increase during the course of the meal; but her insobriety, like her affability, seemed to have an exact and definite limit.
‘All things considered, the food might be worse,’ remarked Gerald, towards the end. It was a relief that something was going reasonably well. ‘Not much of it, but at least the dishes are hot.’
When Phrynne translated this into a compliment to the cook, Mrs Pascoe said, ‘I cooked it all myself, although I shouldn’t be the one to say so.’
Gerald felt really surprised that she was in a condition to have accomplished this. Possibly, he reflected with alarm, she had had much practice under similar conditions.
‘Coffee is served in the lounge,’ said Mrs Pascoe.
They withdrew. In a corner of the lounge was a screen decorated with winning Elizabethan ladies in ruffs and hoops. From behind it projected a pair of small black boots. Phrynne nudged Gerald and pointed to them. Gerald nodded. They felt themselves constrained to talk about things which bored them.
The hotel was old and its walls thick. In the empty lounge the noise of the bells would not prevent conversation being overheard, but still came from all around, as if the hotel were a fortress beleaguered by surrounding artillery.
After their second cups of coffee,
*
The Coffee Room was so low that Gerald had to dip beneath a sequence of thick beams.
‘Why “Coffee Room”?’ asked Phrynne, looking at the words on the door. ‘I saw a notice that coffee will only be served in the lounge.’
‘It’s the
lucus a non lucendo
principle.’
‘That explains everything. I wonder where we sit.’ A single electric lantern, mass-produced in an antique pattern, had been turned on. The bulb was of that limited wattage which is peculiar to hotels. It did little to penetrate the shadows.
‘The
lucus a non lucendo
principle is the principle of calling white black.’
‘Not at all,’ said a voice from the darkness. ‘Onthe contrary. The word “black” comes from an ancient root which means “to bleach”.’
They had thought themselves alone, but now saw a small man seated by himself at an unlighted corner table. In the darkness he looked like a monkey.
‘I stand corrected,’ said Gerald.
They sat at the table under the lantern.
The man in the corner spoke again. ‘Why are you here at all?’
Phrynne looked frightened, but Gerald replied quietly. ‘We’re on holiday. We prefer it out of the season. I presume you are Commandant Shotcroft?’
‘No need to presume.’ Unexpectedly the Commandant switched on the antique lantern which was nearest to him. His table was littered with a finished meal. It struck Gerald that he must have switched off the light when he heard them approach the Coffee Room. ‘I’m going anyway.’
‘Are we late?’ asked Phrynne, always the assuager of situations.
‘No, you’re not late,’ called the Commandant in a deep moody voice. ‘My meals are prepared half an hour before the time the rest come in. I don’t like eating in company.’ He had risen to his feet. ‘So perhaps you’ll excuse me.’
Without troubling about an answer, he stepped quickly out of the Coffee Room. He had cropped white hair; tragic, heavy-lidded eyes; and a round face which was yellow and lined.
A second later his head reappeared round the door.
‘Ring,’ he said; and again withdrew.
‘Too many other people ringing,’ said Gerald. ‘But I don’t see what else we can do.’
The Coffee Room bell, however, made a noise like a fire alarm.
Mrs Pascoe appeared. She looked considerably the worse for drink.
‘Didn’t see you in the bar.’
‘Must have missed us in the crowd,’ said Gerald amiably.
‘Crowd?’ enquired Mrs Pascoe drunkenly. Then, after a difficult pause, she offered them a hand-written menu.
They ordered; and Mrs Pascoe served them throughout. Gerald was apprehensive lest her indisposition increase during the course of the meal; but her insobriety, like her affability, seemed to have an exact and definite limit.
‘All things considered, the food might be worse,’ remarked Gerald, towards the end. It was a relief that something was going reasonably well. ‘Not much of it, but at least the dishes are hot.’
When Phrynne translated this into a compliment to the cook, Mrs Pascoe said, ‘I cooked it all myself, although I shouldn’t be the one to say so.’
Gerald felt really surprised that she was in a condition to have accomplished this. Possibly, he reflected with alarm, she had had much practice under similar conditions.
‘Coffee is served in the lounge,’ said Mrs Pascoe.
They withdrew. In a corner of the lounge was a screen decorated with winning Elizabethan ladies in ruffs and hoops. From behind it projected a pair of small black boots. Phrynne nudged Gerald and pointed to them. Gerald nodded. They felt themselves constrained to talk about things which bored them.
The hotel was old and its walls thick. In the empty lounge the noise of the bells would not prevent conversation being overheard, but still came from all around, as if the hotel were a fortress beleaguered by surrounding artillery.
After their second cups of coffee,
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