The Courtesy of Death by Geoffrey Household Page A

has it in for you. Didn’t you tell me that when you were struggling through that hedge he got
hold of your foot?’
    ‘For a moment. But I was kicking.’
    ‘Did he apologise?’
    ‘No. I am sure he only meant to put me back in con­finement until he got what he wanted from me. How do you know about the Apology?’
    ‘Poor little pussy-cat, for one thing,’ I replied obscurely.
    ‘You should show respect for earnestly held beliefs until you know enough to confute them, Yarrow. That is your only fault,’ he said, getting up. ‘But I see you are
tired.’
    ‘What hotel are you staying at?’
    ‘The Pavilion in Bayswater. But propriety demands that I should spend the night elsewhere. I shall return to Petunia Avenue and make it, in military parlance, my headquarters. Love
unconquerable in battle! Doubtless you remember your Sophocles?’
    I replied rather sourly—for I felt extremely sore—that I doubted if Roman generals would approve of his tac­tics. He found it necessary to inform me that Sophocles was Greek, and
mercifully let it go at that.
    Perhaps I should have accompanied him, but by this time I felt unable to move anywhere but bed. I warned him that he really ought to assume that he might be followed, and recommended a few quick
changes of the Underground, entering or leaving trains just as the doors were closing. That should do the trick. If he was being tailed, it was, after all, by one or two complete amateurs, not by
experienced detectives.
    Next morning I felt much better and was able to hobble about more easily. At breakfast I was called up by a woman. She had a pleasant but rather too decided voice.
    ‘My name is Filk,’ she said. ‘Miss Filk. Dr Dunton advised me to call on you to discuss a very personal matter.’
    I replied that I was unfortunately laid up with a touch of sciatica which prevented me from inviting her to lunch, and that I should be delighted if she would come round and have a drink about
midday.
    There was nothing else I could do—short of saying that I refused to be interviewed except in the presence of police. It was just possible that she did come from Dun­ton, though I
doubted it. She might be the patient he had mentioned who had given him half her confidence and was inclined to see little foxes in blots.
    Whoever she was, I suspected that she was coming to negotiate on behalf of Aviston-Tresco, with a foot somehow in both camps. In that case I had a chance to convince her that I did not know and
was not particu­larly anxious to know why my pub-keeping or supposed prospecting or any other activity was alarming them, and that the Quantocks would suit me just as well as the Mendips for my
future hotel.
    I then telephoned 34 Petunia Avenue and asked for Mr Smith—partly to satisfy myself that he was all right, partly to see what he knew of Miss Filk. The landlady told me that he had gone
away over a week ago, leaving no address. But hadn’t he, I asked, returned last night? No, he hadn’t.
    I did not like that at all. I could only hope that Undine had told him not to be a fool and that he had remained at the Pavilion Hotel after all. I called them up. Mr Fosworthy had come in late,
paid his bill and left. Was Miss Cynthia Carlis there? Yes, she was. At the mention of her, the male voice from the reception desk at once took on a tone of cordiality, even of enthusiasm. I
guessed that there was still another would-be collector of blue willow pattern.
    Telephoning for a taxi, I directed the driver to Notting Hill underground station which was not far from the Pavilion. I kept an eye on the back window and made sure that no car was following. I
also waited in the station and watched out for loiterers. As soon as I was certain that no one was taking any interest in my movements, I limped to the hotel.
    The porter was helpful. Mr Fosworthy had left on foot, carrying the small bag which was his only luggage. He had, I gathered, tipped generously, asking the porter