eyes
narrowed. ‘I remember you. You stayed here three or four years ago.’
‘That’s right, you’ve
got some memory.’
‘I remember you specially because you asked for the Brown Betty. That
was always my late husband’s favourite, and that was why I kept it on the menu.
Maybe two people asked for Brown Betty in seven years, and you were one of
them. Well, well. If I’d known you were an inspector, I would have done you
better, I’m sure.’
Charlie smiled.
‘That’s why I never tell anybody. I want to get the ordinary treatment
everybody else gets.’ He stepped back a little and looked up at the house.
‘Pity you’ve closed up, I liked it here. You ran a good cosy place.’
‘Do you want to
come inside for some coffee and cake?’ asked Mrs Kemp. ‘I mean, if you’re
really pushed for a place to stay, I could air a couple of beds for you. I
wouldn’t charge, it’d be company.’
Charlie glanced
at Martin. It was quite plain from the expression on his face that he didn’t
relish the idea of spending the night here at all; and the truth was that
Charlie didn’t exactly fancy it either. But his curiosity about Le Reposoir had been aroused too
strongly for him to leave Alien’s Corners until he found out more about it. And
maybe it would do Martin good to find out who was boss.
‘We’d
appreciate that,’ he said.
Mrs Kemp slid
back the safety-chain. ‘You’ll have to pardon the way I’m dressed. I wasn’t
expecting company.’
They followed
her into the hallway. It was chilly and stale in there, and although the tables
had once been highly polished, they were now covered by a fine film of dust.
Old hand-coloured engravings of colonial Connecticut hung on the cream-painted
walls.
Mrs Kemp
brought them coffee in the best parlour, a gloomy room crowded with massive
sawed-oak furniture of the Teddy Roosevelt era, when bellies and walrus
moustaches had been in fashion. She had changed into a plain grey day-dress
with a white lace collar, and sprayed herself with floral perfume. The coffee
was hot and fresh; the Jubilees stale and chewy. Martin sat in a dark spoonback
chair silent and bored.
‘I guess you
could say that one bad season begets another,’ said Mrs Kemp. She kept
dry-washing her hands, over and over, and then fiddling with her wedding ring,
as if it needed adjusting for size. ‘Business was good until late last year; I
used to have all of my regulars, Mr King from American Paints, Mr Goldberg the
Matzoh Man – well, that’s what I always used to call him, the Matzoh Man. And
there was good steady family trade through the summer and fall, right past
Thanksgiving.’
‘What
happened?’ asked Charlie, setting down his coffee cup. ‘They didn’t build any
new detours.’
Mrs Kemp looked
down at her lap for a moment. When she spoke her voice sounded muffled and
different. ‘I don’t suppose you remember, it was three or four years since you
came here last, but there was a girl who used to help me in the kitchen.’
‘I think I
remember,’ said Charlie.
‘Her name was
Caroline. She was my niece. My brother and his wife were killed in an auto
accident in Ohio when she was seven. I’d been looking after her ever since.
When my husband passed over she was all I had left.’
Mrs Kemp
paused, and then she said, ‘You can imagine, we were very close.’
Charlie said
nothing, but waited for Mrs Kemp to continue.
‘Last November
18, Caroline disappeared,’ said Mrs Kemp. ‘She went to New Milford to see a
friend of hers, but she never arrived. Of course if was hours before I found
out that she was missing. I called the police, and the police searched every
place they could think of, but no trace of her was ever found. Nothing. It was just as if she had never existed, except for
her clothes of course, and her personal belongings. The police said that it
happens all the time, young people walking out on their parents or their
guardians. They usually end up in California or
narrowed. ‘I remember you. You stayed here three or four years ago.’
‘That’s right, you’ve
got some memory.’
‘I remember you specially because you asked for the Brown Betty. That
was always my late husband’s favourite, and that was why I kept it on the menu.
Maybe two people asked for Brown Betty in seven years, and you were one of
them. Well, well. If I’d known you were an inspector, I would have done you
better, I’m sure.’
Charlie smiled.
‘That’s why I never tell anybody. I want to get the ordinary treatment
everybody else gets.’ He stepped back a little and looked up at the house.
‘Pity you’ve closed up, I liked it here. You ran a good cosy place.’
‘Do you want to
come inside for some coffee and cake?’ asked Mrs Kemp. ‘I mean, if you’re
really pushed for a place to stay, I could air a couple of beds for you. I
wouldn’t charge, it’d be company.’
Charlie glanced
at Martin. It was quite plain from the expression on his face that he didn’t
relish the idea of spending the night here at all; and the truth was that
Charlie didn’t exactly fancy it either. But his curiosity about Le Reposoir had been aroused too
strongly for him to leave Alien’s Corners until he found out more about it. And
maybe it would do Martin good to find out who was boss.
‘We’d
appreciate that,’ he said.
Mrs Kemp slid
back the safety-chain. ‘You’ll have to pardon the way I’m dressed. I wasn’t
expecting company.’
They followed
her into the hallway. It was chilly and stale in there, and although the tables
had once been highly polished, they were now covered by a fine film of dust.
Old hand-coloured engravings of colonial Connecticut hung on the cream-painted
walls.
Mrs Kemp
brought them coffee in the best parlour, a gloomy room crowded with massive
sawed-oak furniture of the Teddy Roosevelt era, when bellies and walrus
moustaches had been in fashion. She had changed into a plain grey day-dress
with a white lace collar, and sprayed herself with floral perfume. The coffee
was hot and fresh; the Jubilees stale and chewy. Martin sat in a dark spoonback
chair silent and bored.
‘I guess you
could say that one bad season begets another,’ said Mrs Kemp. She kept
dry-washing her hands, over and over, and then fiddling with her wedding ring,
as if it needed adjusting for size. ‘Business was good until late last year; I
used to have all of my regulars, Mr King from American Paints, Mr Goldberg the
Matzoh Man – well, that’s what I always used to call him, the Matzoh Man. And
there was good steady family trade through the summer and fall, right past
Thanksgiving.’
‘What
happened?’ asked Charlie, setting down his coffee cup. ‘They didn’t build any
new detours.’
Mrs Kemp looked
down at her lap for a moment. When she spoke her voice sounded muffled and
different. ‘I don’t suppose you remember, it was three or four years since you
came here last, but there was a girl who used to help me in the kitchen.’
‘I think I
remember,’ said Charlie.
‘Her name was
Caroline. She was my niece. My brother and his wife were killed in an auto
accident in Ohio when she was seven. I’d been looking after her ever since.
When my husband passed over she was all I had left.’
Mrs Kemp
paused, and then she said, ‘You can imagine, we were very close.’
Charlie said
nothing, but waited for Mrs Kemp to continue.
‘Last November
18, Caroline disappeared,’ said Mrs Kemp. ‘She went to New Milford to see a
friend of hers, but she never arrived. Of course if was hours before I found
out that she was missing. I called the police, and the police searched every
place they could think of, but no trace of her was ever found. Nothing. It was just as if she had never existed, except for
her clothes of course, and her personal belongings. The police said that it
happens all the time, young people walking out on their parents or their
guardians. They usually end up in California or
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