what you know about Mr Andrews.’
He got as far as ‘Well,’ when his wife interrupted.
‘We didn’t know him. I’ve heard he’s a good builder, but we have our own people that we’ve used for twenty years.’
‘Kept himself to himself,’ Mr Bright said approvingly.
‘He’s done one or two jobs next door. I can’t say whether he did them well or not,’ Mrs Bright went on, finding another grievance, ‘but I wouldn’t use anyone who wasn’t more careful about leaving things clean and tidy. Only a few months ago I had to speak to him quite sharply about parking his lorry outside our house. Quite apart from spoiling the view, it leaked oil all over the road. There’s still a stain there.’
Swilley tried another pass over the subject. ‘So you have no idea how things stood between Mr Andrews and his wife?’
‘I don’t interest myself in other people’s private business,’ Mrs Bright said loftily. ‘It’s poor Cyril Dacre I’m sorry for. It’s a dreadful thing to have happen on one’s own premises.’
‘All those people tramping about,’ Mr Bright joined in, now the topic was safe again. ‘Journalists everywhere. And in his state of health—’
‘He’s very ill, you know.
Cancer.’
She lowered her voice and almost mouthed the word, as if it were indelicate. ‘It’s dreadful that he should be upset at a time like this.’
‘You know him well?’
‘Oh, of course. Margery Dacre was one of my
dearest
friends,’ Mrs Bright said eagerly. ‘She’s been dead – oh, ten years now?’
‘Ten, it must be,’ he confirmed.
‘Of course, Cyril Dacre is a
very distinguished
man. We’re proud to have him as a neighbour. His mother was a Spennimore before she married – very old Hampshire family.’
‘Wonderful brainy chap,’ Mr Bright said admiringly, and added with faint puzzlement, ‘Odd sense of humour sometimes, but I suppose that comes with being so clever. He writes books, you know.’
‘The parties they used to give, before Margery died! She was fond of music. They had a grand piano in the hall, and they had wonderful musical soirées. Quite famous musicians came to play, friends of Cyril’s. He had friends in every circle – artists, actors, scholars—’
‘That athletic chap, the one who broke the Olympic record, what’s his name? Became an MP—’ Mr Bright shorted out, frowning with the effort of remembering.
‘Dinner parties, garden parties,’ she went on, ignoring him, ‘intellectual conversation.’
‘It was like
The Brains Trust
in there some evenings.’
‘Of course, one had to make allowances for Cyril. He could be quite devastatingly rude, but he is a genius after all. And there was that terrible tragedy – his son dying so young. I think that made him a little strange.’ She nodded to Swilley as if she ought to know. ‘After Margery died Frances took over as hostess; and I must say,’ she added, with a hint of surprise at discovering it for herself, ‘that one never noticed the difference. Of course, Margery never did say much.’
‘Nice woman, but quiet,’ Mr Bright agreed. ‘Left all the talking to Cyril.’
‘And Frances hasn’t two words to say for herself,’ Mrs Bright concluded. ‘But, of course, since Cyril’s become so ill all that’s stopped. They haven’t entertained in – oh, two years. He keeps himself completely to himself now. I suppose,’ she added with a sigh, ‘that when he goes it will be the end of an era. One can’t see Frances keeping up the old traditions. She hasn’t many friends. That’s why she fell a prey to Mrs Andrews.’
‘There’s that chap who visits,’ Mr Bright said. ‘What’s his name? Married to the horsy woman – what’s her name?’
So far Norma had nothing down in her little book. ‘Mrs Bright, if I could just—’
‘Vanhurst
Bright,’ she corrected with sharp affront. ‘No hyphen.’
‘Mrs Vanhurst Bright,’ Norma said obediently, ‘if I could just come to the events of
He got as far as ‘Well,’ when his wife interrupted.
‘We didn’t know him. I’ve heard he’s a good builder, but we have our own people that we’ve used for twenty years.’
‘Kept himself to himself,’ Mr Bright said approvingly.
‘He’s done one or two jobs next door. I can’t say whether he did them well or not,’ Mrs Bright went on, finding another grievance, ‘but I wouldn’t use anyone who wasn’t more careful about leaving things clean and tidy. Only a few months ago I had to speak to him quite sharply about parking his lorry outside our house. Quite apart from spoiling the view, it leaked oil all over the road. There’s still a stain there.’
Swilley tried another pass over the subject. ‘So you have no idea how things stood between Mr Andrews and his wife?’
‘I don’t interest myself in other people’s private business,’ Mrs Bright said loftily. ‘It’s poor Cyril Dacre I’m sorry for. It’s a dreadful thing to have happen on one’s own premises.’
‘All those people tramping about,’ Mr Bright joined in, now the topic was safe again. ‘Journalists everywhere. And in his state of health—’
‘He’s very ill, you know.
Cancer.’
She lowered her voice and almost mouthed the word, as if it were indelicate. ‘It’s dreadful that he should be upset at a time like this.’
‘You know him well?’
‘Oh, of course. Margery Dacre was one of my
dearest
friends,’ Mrs Bright said eagerly. ‘She’s been dead – oh, ten years now?’
‘Ten, it must be,’ he confirmed.
‘Of course, Cyril Dacre is a
very distinguished
man. We’re proud to have him as a neighbour. His mother was a Spennimore before she married – very old Hampshire family.’
‘Wonderful brainy chap,’ Mr Bright said admiringly, and added with faint puzzlement, ‘Odd sense of humour sometimes, but I suppose that comes with being so clever. He writes books, you know.’
‘The parties they used to give, before Margery died! She was fond of music. They had a grand piano in the hall, and they had wonderful musical soirées. Quite famous musicians came to play, friends of Cyril’s. He had friends in every circle – artists, actors, scholars—’
‘That athletic chap, the one who broke the Olympic record, what’s his name? Became an MP—’ Mr Bright shorted out, frowning with the effort of remembering.
‘Dinner parties, garden parties,’ she went on, ignoring him, ‘intellectual conversation.’
‘It was like
The Brains Trust
in there some evenings.’
‘Of course, one had to make allowances for Cyril. He could be quite devastatingly rude, but he is a genius after all. And there was that terrible tragedy – his son dying so young. I think that made him a little strange.’ She nodded to Swilley as if she ought to know. ‘After Margery died Frances took over as hostess; and I must say,’ she added, with a hint of surprise at discovering it for herself, ‘that one never noticed the difference. Of course, Margery never did say much.’
‘Nice woman, but quiet,’ Mr Bright agreed. ‘Left all the talking to Cyril.’
‘And Frances hasn’t two words to say for herself,’ Mrs Bright concluded. ‘But, of course, since Cyril’s become so ill all that’s stopped. They haven’t entertained in – oh, two years. He keeps himself completely to himself now. I suppose,’ she added with a sigh, ‘that when he goes it will be the end of an era. One can’t see Frances keeping up the old traditions. She hasn’t many friends. That’s why she fell a prey to Mrs Andrews.’
‘There’s that chap who visits,’ Mr Bright said. ‘What’s his name? Married to the horsy woman – what’s her name?’
So far Norma had nothing down in her little book. ‘Mrs Bright, if I could just—’
‘Vanhurst
Bright,’ she corrected with sharp affront. ‘No hyphen.’
‘Mrs Vanhurst Bright,’ Norma said obediently, ‘if I could just come to the events of
Similar Books
