chin.
Her body was enormous, but not without a coarse attraction, the fat distributed hugely in the right places. The bosom of a Mother Earth goddess, sixty inches round yet discernibly cloven, matched in girth immense hips. Like Katje, Mrs Lovell lacked inhibition and when she sat down her already low-cut blouse strained a further two inches down, corresponding to the ascent above her knees of a tight black skirt. Feeling that where feminine flesh was concerned, enough was enough for one afternoon—besides, in this case, the flesh could have done with a bath—Wexford looked away.
‘We’re just making routine enquiries, Mrs Lovell,’ he said. ‘Would you mind telling me how your son spent last evening?’
‘Had his tea,’ she said. ‘Then he sat about watching the TV. His lordship’s keen on the TV, and why not, being as he pays the licence?’
‘Why not indeed? But he didn’t watch it after nine-thirty, did he?’
Mrs Lovell looked from Wexford to Burden. It was transparent she was deciding whether to lie or tell the truth, perhaps only because telling the truth is always easier. Everything about her appearance and that of the cottage testified to a gross laziness, a deadly sloth. At last she said economically, ‘He went out.’
‘Where did he go?’
‘I never asked him. I don’t interfere with his ways …’ She picked at a ragged thumbnail. ‘… and he don’t with mine. Never have. Maybe he went down the shed. Spends a lot of time down the shed, he does.’
‘Doing what, Mrs Lovell?’
‘His lordship’s got his records down there.’
‘Surely he can play his records in the house?’ said Burden.
‘Can if he wants.’ Mrs Lovell chewed a hangnail. ‘Don’t matter to me one way or another. I don’t interfere with him and he don’t with me.’
‘What time did he come in?’
‘I never heard him. My gentleman friend come in about seven. Sean and him, they don’t hit it off all that grand. I reckon that was why his lordship took himself off down the shed. He hadn’t come in when my friend went, half ten that’d have been—but there, like I say, I don’t interfere with him and he don’t …’
‘Yes, yes, I see. Sean was very fond of Mrs Nightingale, I believe?’
‘You can believe what you like.’ Mrs Lovell gave a huge yawn, revealing fine sharp teeth. ‘Live and let live, that’s my motto. Her up at the Manor, she believed in interfering with folks, making them better themselves. Gave his lordship some funny ideas.’ She stetched her arms above her head, yawned again and swung her legs up on to the sofa. Wexford thought of a fat cushiony cat, purring and preening itself, unconscious of the squalor in which it lived.
‘What sort of ideas?’ he asked.
‘ ’Bout getting into show business, singing, all that. I never took no notice. Maybe she fancied him. I never asked.’
‘Would you have any objection if we searched this house?’
For the first time she smiled, showing an unsuspected ironic humour. ‘Search all you like,’ she said.
‘Rather you than me.’
* * *
‘A depressing experience,’ said Wexford as they returned to the car. Burden, ratter pale, followed at a distance.
‘Never in all my years of C.I.D. work have I come across anything like it,’ Burden exploded. ‘I itch all over.’ He wriggled inside his clothes, scratching his head.
‘Well, your young lady friend did warn you.’
Burden ignored this. ‘Those beds!’ he said. ‘That kitchen!’
‘More than I bargained for, I admit,’ Wexford agreed. ‘The only clean place was that shed. Odd that, Mike. A rug on the floor, couple of decent chairs, a record-player. Could be a love nest.’
Burden shuddered. ‘No one’s ever going to make me believe a lady like Mrs Nightingale would have assignations there.’
‘Perhaps not,’ Wexford said reluctantly ‘On the practical side, we didn’t unearth much, did we? One brass candlestick and a metal hot-water bottle. They
Her body was enormous, but not without a coarse attraction, the fat distributed hugely in the right places. The bosom of a Mother Earth goddess, sixty inches round yet discernibly cloven, matched in girth immense hips. Like Katje, Mrs Lovell lacked inhibition and when she sat down her already low-cut blouse strained a further two inches down, corresponding to the ascent above her knees of a tight black skirt. Feeling that where feminine flesh was concerned, enough was enough for one afternoon—besides, in this case, the flesh could have done with a bath—Wexford looked away.
‘We’re just making routine enquiries, Mrs Lovell,’ he said. ‘Would you mind telling me how your son spent last evening?’
‘Had his tea,’ she said. ‘Then he sat about watching the TV. His lordship’s keen on the TV, and why not, being as he pays the licence?’
‘Why not indeed? But he didn’t watch it after nine-thirty, did he?’
Mrs Lovell looked from Wexford to Burden. It was transparent she was deciding whether to lie or tell the truth, perhaps only because telling the truth is always easier. Everything about her appearance and that of the cottage testified to a gross laziness, a deadly sloth. At last she said economically, ‘He went out.’
‘Where did he go?’
‘I never asked him. I don’t interfere with his ways …’ She picked at a ragged thumbnail. ‘… and he don’t with mine. Never have. Maybe he went down the shed. Spends a lot of time down the shed, he does.’
‘Doing what, Mrs Lovell?’
‘His lordship’s got his records down there.’
‘Surely he can play his records in the house?’ said Burden.
‘Can if he wants.’ Mrs Lovell chewed a hangnail. ‘Don’t matter to me one way or another. I don’t interfere with him and he don’t with me.’
‘What time did he come in?’
‘I never heard him. My gentleman friend come in about seven. Sean and him, they don’t hit it off all that grand. I reckon that was why his lordship took himself off down the shed. He hadn’t come in when my friend went, half ten that’d have been—but there, like I say, I don’t interfere with him and he don’t …’
‘Yes, yes, I see. Sean was very fond of Mrs Nightingale, I believe?’
‘You can believe what you like.’ Mrs Lovell gave a huge yawn, revealing fine sharp teeth. ‘Live and let live, that’s my motto. Her up at the Manor, she believed in interfering with folks, making them better themselves. Gave his lordship some funny ideas.’ She stetched her arms above her head, yawned again and swung her legs up on to the sofa. Wexford thought of a fat cushiony cat, purring and preening itself, unconscious of the squalor in which it lived.
‘What sort of ideas?’ he asked.
‘ ’Bout getting into show business, singing, all that. I never took no notice. Maybe she fancied him. I never asked.’
‘Would you have any objection if we searched this house?’
For the first time she smiled, showing an unsuspected ironic humour. ‘Search all you like,’ she said.
‘Rather you than me.’
* * *
‘A depressing experience,’ said Wexford as they returned to the car. Burden, ratter pale, followed at a distance.
‘Never in all my years of C.I.D. work have I come across anything like it,’ Burden exploded. ‘I itch all over.’ He wriggled inside his clothes, scratching his head.
‘Well, your young lady friend did warn you.’
Burden ignored this. ‘Those beds!’ he said. ‘That kitchen!’
‘More than I bargained for, I admit,’ Wexford agreed. ‘The only clean place was that shed. Odd that, Mike. A rug on the floor, couple of decent chairs, a record-player. Could be a love nest.’
Burden shuddered. ‘No one’s ever going to make me believe a lady like Mrs Nightingale would have assignations there.’
‘Perhaps not,’ Wexford said reluctantly ‘On the practical side, we didn’t unearth much, did we? One brass candlestick and a metal hot-water bottle. They
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