it was the kind of thing that had been done before – in a book or in real life, she couldn’t say at the moment, but somehow it made perfect sense –
No, it didn’t. It was all impossible – fantastic – idiotic – completely insane, in fact.
Having outlined his plan, Charles Eresby had been violently sick all over her lovely cushions, after which he had passed out.
Fenella went on sitting at her desk, deep in thought. She jumped up when the door opened.
‘Mr Bedaux,’ her secretary announced.
‘Who? Oh yes. Mr Eresby’s manservant. Do show him in.’
A minute later Fenella was addressing the tall dark man with the carefully brushed hair who stood impassively before her. ‘I am sorry, Mr Bedaux, but Mr Eresby was taken ill and we thought it prudent to call an ambulance. Mr Eresby passed out.’
‘Most regrettable but I can’t say I am surprised. Mr Eresby has rather a weak head for drink, I fear.’
She took this as criticism for she bristled a bit. ‘It was only sherry. Anyhow. Mr Eresby was taken to –’ She gave her visitor the name of the hospital. ‘I wanted to phone you, but couldn’t get a number. I looked under “Eresby”.’
‘We are ex-directory.’
‘The paramedics didn’t think it was anything very serious. They said Mr Eresby was dehydrated and his blood pressure seemed to be a little low. They are confident he will make a full recovery.’
Bedaux’s face remained expressionless. ‘That is most gratifying.’
‘He will be properly examined by a doctor and may have to spend some time at the hospital.’
Bedaux gave a little bow. ‘I must thank you but also apologise for all the trouble we have caused you.’
‘No trouble at all! Happy to have been of assistance. Oh wait a mo –’ she called out as he started retreating towards the door. She opened a drawer. ‘Must give you something. This is Mr Eresby’s wallet. I found it on the sofa upstairs. It is his wallet, isn’t it?’
‘This is his wallet, yes.’
‘It must have slipped out of his pocket.’ She handed the wallet to Bedaux and watched him put it into his pocket.
The next minute he was gone. Her secretary appeared at the door.
‘A cup of tea, Fenella?’
‘Yes, thank you, Isobel.’
‘What a day, eh?’
‘You can say that again. It’s been a very … strange day … A dream-like feel about it … Is my poor snuggery fit for human habitation again?’
‘I believe it is. Mrs Mason has cleaned up and we have kept all the windows open. Mrs Mason’s removed the sofa cover and the cushions and taken them away to be washed.’
‘Good show. Please, convey my thanks. I’ll thank her personally when I see her.’
Fenella remained sitting at her desk. It felt like a dream, yes. Nightmare, rather. She remembered the way the biscuit heir had nodded and said, ‘Don’t you see? We are in the same boat. So how about it? I do yours, you do mine.’
No, none of it had happened. It couldn’t have. People didn’t go about exchanging – exchanging – she couldn’t even bring herself to say the word!
Fenella shook her head.
The next moment she frowned. There was something she had to do, only what was it? She glanced round. Oh yes. Her scribblings! What she had written on a piece of paper earlier on, before Charles Eresby had been brought, before the arrival of Antonia Darcy and little Eddy Rushton. She had been feeling quite low, desperate, actually. It was a bloody stupid thing to have done – mad!
She had been willing her aunt to die …
Where was the blasted thing? Fenella Frayle’s hand shook a little as she opened the top drawer of the desk and started rummaging inside. There it was! Thank God. How absurd to feel so relieved about it. ‘Aunt Clo-Clo must die. Aunt Clo-Clo must die.’
Incriminating evidence, she murmured. It had been lying on her desk earlier on, then she’d pushed it into the drawer. Shecrumpled up the paper and thrust it into her pocket. She was going to burn it and she
No, it didn’t. It was all impossible – fantastic – idiotic – completely insane, in fact.
Having outlined his plan, Charles Eresby had been violently sick all over her lovely cushions, after which he had passed out.
Fenella went on sitting at her desk, deep in thought. She jumped up when the door opened.
‘Mr Bedaux,’ her secretary announced.
‘Who? Oh yes. Mr Eresby’s manservant. Do show him in.’
A minute later Fenella was addressing the tall dark man with the carefully brushed hair who stood impassively before her. ‘I am sorry, Mr Bedaux, but Mr Eresby was taken ill and we thought it prudent to call an ambulance. Mr Eresby passed out.’
‘Most regrettable but I can’t say I am surprised. Mr Eresby has rather a weak head for drink, I fear.’
She took this as criticism for she bristled a bit. ‘It was only sherry. Anyhow. Mr Eresby was taken to –’ She gave her visitor the name of the hospital. ‘I wanted to phone you, but couldn’t get a number. I looked under “Eresby”.’
‘We are ex-directory.’
‘The paramedics didn’t think it was anything very serious. They said Mr Eresby was dehydrated and his blood pressure seemed to be a little low. They are confident he will make a full recovery.’
Bedaux’s face remained expressionless. ‘That is most gratifying.’
‘He will be properly examined by a doctor and may have to spend some time at the hospital.’
Bedaux gave a little bow. ‘I must thank you but also apologise for all the trouble we have caused you.’
‘No trouble at all! Happy to have been of assistance. Oh wait a mo –’ she called out as he started retreating towards the door. She opened a drawer. ‘Must give you something. This is Mr Eresby’s wallet. I found it on the sofa upstairs. It is his wallet, isn’t it?’
‘This is his wallet, yes.’
‘It must have slipped out of his pocket.’ She handed the wallet to Bedaux and watched him put it into his pocket.
The next minute he was gone. Her secretary appeared at the door.
‘A cup of tea, Fenella?’
‘Yes, thank you, Isobel.’
‘What a day, eh?’
‘You can say that again. It’s been a very … strange day … A dream-like feel about it … Is my poor snuggery fit for human habitation again?’
‘I believe it is. Mrs Mason has cleaned up and we have kept all the windows open. Mrs Mason’s removed the sofa cover and the cushions and taken them away to be washed.’
‘Good show. Please, convey my thanks. I’ll thank her personally when I see her.’
Fenella remained sitting at her desk. It felt like a dream, yes. Nightmare, rather. She remembered the way the biscuit heir had nodded and said, ‘Don’t you see? We are in the same boat. So how about it? I do yours, you do mine.’
No, none of it had happened. It couldn’t have. People didn’t go about exchanging – exchanging – she couldn’t even bring herself to say the word!
Fenella shook her head.
The next moment she frowned. There was something she had to do, only what was it? She glanced round. Oh yes. Her scribblings! What she had written on a piece of paper earlier on, before Charles Eresby had been brought, before the arrival of Antonia Darcy and little Eddy Rushton. She had been feeling quite low, desperate, actually. It was a bloody stupid thing to have done – mad!
She had been willing her aunt to die …
Where was the blasted thing? Fenella Frayle’s hand shook a little as she opened the top drawer of the desk and started rummaging inside. There it was! Thank God. How absurd to feel so relieved about it. ‘Aunt Clo-Clo must die. Aunt Clo-Clo must die.’
Incriminating evidence, she murmured. It had been lying on her desk earlier on, then she’d pushed it into the drawer. Shecrumpled up the paper and thrust it into her pocket. She was going to burn it and she
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