spoke of Locket’s “defection.”
No, he decided, no danger in that quarter. Then—who else? Clara wasn’t one of these old ladies who spend half the week in church and the other half having the parish to tea. She told him once she rarely went to church.
“Whenever I see the vicar going up into the pulpit,” she assured him, “I always think how much better I could do it myself.”
“It ‘ud be damned unfair if she did leave the money to anyone else. Family money ought to stay in the family,” he decided.
And he was the only member surviving. Abovit Isabel now—what had Locket thought? However, the case was closed now. The coroner had given his verdict, the funeral was past and the headstone erected. Already most people had forgotten about poor frustrated Isabel Bond.
6
I N THE May following the Colonel’s death, John Sherren published a book called One Fair May Morning, which was a detailed account of a hanging in the period between the wars, one of those subtle books that weave back and forth, starting with the condemned man’s march to the scaffold and leaving him standing there shivering for 280 pages while the author traces his life from conception to crime and discovery. He was rather pleased with the title. He thought it was likely to fox the public, who would probably think it was a virginal romance, and so might be persuaded to read something worthwhile against their will. For though, like most people, he knew less than he thought he did, he did know that at a wet weekend, particularly in the country, people will read a Blue Book sooner than nothing, and in the country you can’t go to Sunday cinemas or even Westminster Abbey.
When the book had been out a week, in pursuance of his usual routine, he began the rounds of the bookshops and so in due course he came to Garrods. It was at Garrods that he first set eyes on the Old Party. She was the sole occupant of the elevator into which he stepped to be carried up to the fourth floor, where the library was, and she fascinated him. In her he saw the perfect central character for the kind of book he liked to write. She was a tall, oldish woman, with a long yellow face that had never known rouge, a long severe mouth that had never known lipstick, a big nose diat was the rudder of the whole, brooding eyes that warned you not to try any of your nonsense with her; and her clothes matched her personality. She wore a basin-shaped black felt hat, beneath which her yellow forehead shone like marble, and her gray hair could be seen looped up sternly above the big ears and coiled in an old-fashioned manner on the back of her head; her blouse, what could be seen of it, was black, very sombrely lightened by what used to be called a collarette in stiff while linen; she wore a black silk bow at her throat, and beneath that could be discerned the topmost button of a black woollen cardigan. Her skirt was long and black, her shoes were black and severe with pointed toes. Over everything she wore a loose-fitting brown coat of utility serge, and her fawn gloves were made of wool. She carried a shopping-bag and a shabby black handbag nearly large enough for a portmanteau.
John stood staring and entranced, forgetting all the good manners his aunts thought they had instilled into him. He might use her in one of those serial novels that deal with one person passing from household to household, a governess, perhaps, or a nurse—or, better still, a companion. But, of course, no ordinary companion. She had a fierce appearance, for all the indifference of her dress, a grimness that bespoke a gaunt strength, totally at variance with most people’s conception of a companion. It might be possible to use her as a symbol of death. He distinctly liked that idea. Moving from household to household, death would follow in her wake and, since her motive in each case would be fanaticism rather than any personal gain or glorification—she might destroy the unwelcome element in each
No, he decided, no danger in that quarter. Then—who else? Clara wasn’t one of these old ladies who spend half the week in church and the other half having the parish to tea. She told him once she rarely went to church.
“Whenever I see the vicar going up into the pulpit,” she assured him, “I always think how much better I could do it myself.”
“It ‘ud be damned unfair if she did leave the money to anyone else. Family money ought to stay in the family,” he decided.
And he was the only member surviving. Abovit Isabel now—what had Locket thought? However, the case was closed now. The coroner had given his verdict, the funeral was past and the headstone erected. Already most people had forgotten about poor frustrated Isabel Bond.
6
I N THE May following the Colonel’s death, John Sherren published a book called One Fair May Morning, which was a detailed account of a hanging in the period between the wars, one of those subtle books that weave back and forth, starting with the condemned man’s march to the scaffold and leaving him standing there shivering for 280 pages while the author traces his life from conception to crime and discovery. He was rather pleased with the title. He thought it was likely to fox the public, who would probably think it was a virginal romance, and so might be persuaded to read something worthwhile against their will. For though, like most people, he knew less than he thought he did, he did know that at a wet weekend, particularly in the country, people will read a Blue Book sooner than nothing, and in the country you can’t go to Sunday cinemas or even Westminster Abbey.
When the book had been out a week, in pursuance of his usual routine, he began the rounds of the bookshops and so in due course he came to Garrods. It was at Garrods that he first set eyes on the Old Party. She was the sole occupant of the elevator into which he stepped to be carried up to the fourth floor, where the library was, and she fascinated him. In her he saw the perfect central character for the kind of book he liked to write. She was a tall, oldish woman, with a long yellow face that had never known rouge, a long severe mouth that had never known lipstick, a big nose diat was the rudder of the whole, brooding eyes that warned you not to try any of your nonsense with her; and her clothes matched her personality. She wore a basin-shaped black felt hat, beneath which her yellow forehead shone like marble, and her gray hair could be seen looped up sternly above the big ears and coiled in an old-fashioned manner on the back of her head; her blouse, what could be seen of it, was black, very sombrely lightened by what used to be called a collarette in stiff while linen; she wore a black silk bow at her throat, and beneath that could be discerned the topmost button of a black woollen cardigan. Her skirt was long and black, her shoes were black and severe with pointed toes. Over everything she wore a loose-fitting brown coat of utility serge, and her fawn gloves were made of wool. She carried a shopping-bag and a shabby black handbag nearly large enough for a portmanteau.
John stood staring and entranced, forgetting all the good manners his aunts thought they had instilled into him. He might use her in one of those serial novels that deal with one person passing from household to household, a governess, perhaps, or a nurse—or, better still, a companion. But, of course, no ordinary companion. She had a fierce appearance, for all the indifference of her dress, a grimness that bespoke a gaunt strength, totally at variance with most people’s conception of a companion. It might be possible to use her as a symbol of death. He distinctly liked that idea. Moving from household to household, death would follow in her wake and, since her motive in each case would be fanaticism rather than any personal gain or glorification—she might destroy the unwelcome element in each
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