mockery.
‘We’ll go into the dining-room, Sari?’ suggested Etho.
Rufie looked miserably at Sari. ‘Can’t I stay with her? I don’t like her being on her own. I mean, you don’t know how horrible—’
Sari, however, had emerged from her original condition of total shock into something almost frighteningly like euphoria. ‘I’m all right, darling, ap-solutely. You look after poor Nan, she’s the one that needs it, she’s not used to this kind of thing.’
‘Well, it’s hardly an everyday affair for us either,’ said Rufie, rather tartly. Damn it, Nan had not had to see it—that pink and blue spider with its horribly bent arms and legs. And the great splodge of blood that had turned out to be... Turned out to be... Something stirred in his mind, an uneasy feeling of something that had happened—that he had done something, moved something, changed something which now in all the shock and terror had clean gone out of his mind. Perhaps Sari would remember. He’d have to ask her afterwards, secretly—you got into trouble if you interfered with things ‘at the scene of the crime’.
Sari, left alone with the law, sat curled at one end of the long studio couch, chain-smoking as usual. She had changed her clothes—the bare thought of that dead claw brushing against her trouser leg!—and was now in deep blue linen jeans, whose fit played havoc with Mr Charlesworth’s efforts to remain unmoved; and another of her vast sweaters, this time in emerald green. ‘Now if I might have some details? You call yourself Miss Sari Morne but you are really—?’
‘La Carissima—Principessa di San Juan el Pirata,’ said Sari crisply.
‘ Principessa— ? ’
‘Sacarissima, Carissima, Altessissima; and Perla del Isla to boot. I never know whether Sacarissima means the holiest or the most sugary.’
‘Sacred or profane?’ suggested Sergeant Ellis, almost entirely to himself. Sari bent upon him an appreciative eye.
‘You have the title of Princess, Miss Morne?’
‘I was married to Aldo Lorenzo, the heir to the dukedom of San Juan. I don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of it, but like Liechtenstein and Andorra and for that matter Monaco—it’s there.’
‘Where exactly is there?’ said Mr Charlesworth.
‘In the Mediterranean, off the coast of Italy. Somewhere round Elba and those islands. I wouldn’t know exactly, I’ve never been there. But it’s a great mix-up of Spanish and Italian and they speak Juanese which nobody but themselves would even want to understand. Except for the aristocracy who speak practically everything but. In fact Aldo’s mother isn’t Juanese at all—I believe she’s French.’
‘You don’t seem very closely familiar with your in-laws?’
‘No, no, I married their precious Principe somewhat under the rose, appropriately enough as the rose is the emblem of San Juan. And where is the said Principe now? you may well ask. Well, frankly, I don’t know. He may be in San Juan itself, where in every sense, I must say, he belongs, but on the other hand, he may well be over here, hunting me down with the aid of his own dear private and personal Mafia. The Red Mafia they call it, to distinguish it from the ordinary Italian Mafia, Mafia Rossa—as I said, the rose is the national emblem of the island.’
‘And the Prince is over here?’ said Charlesworth, his head lightly spinning.
‘Well, more likely in Italy in fact. He’s in the process of becoming engaged—betrothed we call it in our more exalted circles—to an Italian young lady of lineage reputed more ancient than his own, give or take a thousand years or so.’
‘More give than take,’ suggested Sergeant Ellis, tempering the intrusion by making a little offering of information to his superior, like a cat laying a dead mouse at the feet of its master. He recited like a schoolboy: ‘The island of San Juan was appropriated as a stronghold in 1762, so only a couple of hundred years—by Juan Lorenzo, a Spanish
‘We’ll go into the dining-room, Sari?’ suggested Etho.
Rufie looked miserably at Sari. ‘Can’t I stay with her? I don’t like her being on her own. I mean, you don’t know how horrible—’
Sari, however, had emerged from her original condition of total shock into something almost frighteningly like euphoria. ‘I’m all right, darling, ap-solutely. You look after poor Nan, she’s the one that needs it, she’s not used to this kind of thing.’
‘Well, it’s hardly an everyday affair for us either,’ said Rufie, rather tartly. Damn it, Nan had not had to see it—that pink and blue spider with its horribly bent arms and legs. And the great splodge of blood that had turned out to be... Turned out to be... Something stirred in his mind, an uneasy feeling of something that had happened—that he had done something, moved something, changed something which now in all the shock and terror had clean gone out of his mind. Perhaps Sari would remember. He’d have to ask her afterwards, secretly—you got into trouble if you interfered with things ‘at the scene of the crime’.
Sari, left alone with the law, sat curled at one end of the long studio couch, chain-smoking as usual. She had changed her clothes—the bare thought of that dead claw brushing against her trouser leg!—and was now in deep blue linen jeans, whose fit played havoc with Mr Charlesworth’s efforts to remain unmoved; and another of her vast sweaters, this time in emerald green. ‘Now if I might have some details? You call yourself Miss Sari Morne but you are really—?’
‘La Carissima—Principessa di San Juan el Pirata,’ said Sari crisply.
‘ Principessa— ? ’
‘Sacarissima, Carissima, Altessissima; and Perla del Isla to boot. I never know whether Sacarissima means the holiest or the most sugary.’
‘Sacred or profane?’ suggested Sergeant Ellis, almost entirely to himself. Sari bent upon him an appreciative eye.
‘You have the title of Princess, Miss Morne?’
‘I was married to Aldo Lorenzo, the heir to the dukedom of San Juan. I don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of it, but like Liechtenstein and Andorra and for that matter Monaco—it’s there.’
‘Where exactly is there?’ said Mr Charlesworth.
‘In the Mediterranean, off the coast of Italy. Somewhere round Elba and those islands. I wouldn’t know exactly, I’ve never been there. But it’s a great mix-up of Spanish and Italian and they speak Juanese which nobody but themselves would even want to understand. Except for the aristocracy who speak practically everything but. In fact Aldo’s mother isn’t Juanese at all—I believe she’s French.’
‘You don’t seem very closely familiar with your in-laws?’
‘No, no, I married their precious Principe somewhat under the rose, appropriately enough as the rose is the emblem of San Juan. And where is the said Principe now? you may well ask. Well, frankly, I don’t know. He may be in San Juan itself, where in every sense, I must say, he belongs, but on the other hand, he may well be over here, hunting me down with the aid of his own dear private and personal Mafia. The Red Mafia they call it, to distinguish it from the ordinary Italian Mafia, Mafia Rossa—as I said, the rose is the national emblem of the island.’
‘And the Prince is over here?’ said Charlesworth, his head lightly spinning.
‘Well, more likely in Italy in fact. He’s in the process of becoming engaged—betrothed we call it in our more exalted circles—to an Italian young lady of lineage reputed more ancient than his own, give or take a thousand years or so.’
‘More give than take,’ suggested Sergeant Ellis, tempering the intrusion by making a little offering of information to his superior, like a cat laying a dead mouse at the feet of its master. He recited like a schoolboy: ‘The island of San Juan was appropriated as a stronghold in 1762, so only a couple of hundred years—by Juan Lorenzo, a Spanish
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