The Collected Works. Josephine Tey
building at Golders Green. A strange end for the little lace-hand from Nottingham. Strange, too, for the world’s idol. “And they put him in an oven just as if he were—” Oh, no, he mustn’t think of that. Hateful. Why should it be hateful? He didn’t know. The suburbanity of it, he supposed. Sensible, and all that. And probably much less harrowing for everyone. But someone whose brilliance had flamed across the human firmament as Clay’s had should have a hundred-foot pyre. Something spectacular. A Viking’s funeral. Not ovens in the suburb. Oh, my God, he was growing morbid, if not sentimental. He pressed the starter, and swung into the traffic.
He had yesterday changed his mind about going to the Clay funeral. The Tisdall evidence progressing normally, he had seen no need to give himself a harrowing hour which he could avoid. But only now did he realize how very glad he was to have escaped it, and (being Grant) began instantly to wonder whether after all he should have gone. Whether his subconscious desire to get out of it had influenced his decision. He decided that it had not. There was no need for him now to study the psychology of unknown friends of Christine’s. He had had a good cross-section of them at Marta’s, and had learned very little, after all. The party had stubbornly refused to break up. Jammy had begun to talk again, hoping that they would dance to his piping. But Marta vetoed any more talk of Christine, and although they had come back to her several times, not even Jammy’s genius for evocation could keep them on the subject. Lydia, who could never stay off her own subject for long, had read their palms, cheiromancy being a side-line of hers when horoscopes were not available (she had given a shrewd enough reading of Grant’s character and had warned him about making a mistaken decision in the immediate future: “a nice safe thing to say to anyone,” he had reflected) and it was not until one o’clock that the hostess had managed to shepherd them all to the door. Grant had lingered, not, curiously enough, because he had questions to ask her (the conversation had provided answers for him), but because she was anxious to question him. Was Scotland Yard called in to investigate Christine’s death? What was wrong? What had they found? What did they suspect?
Grant had said that Yes, they had been called in (so much would by now be common property) but that so far there was only suspicion. She had wept a little, becomingly, with not too disastrous effect on the mascara, had treated him to a short appreciation of Christine as artist and woman. “A grand person. It must have taken tremendous character to overcome her initial disadvantages.” She enumerated the disadvantages.
And Grant had gone out into the warm night with a sigh for human nature—and a shrug for the sigh.
But there were bright spots even in human nature. Grant edged in towards the curb, and came to a halt, his brown face glad and welcoming.
“Good morning!” he called to the little grey figure.
“Oh, good morning, Mr. Grant,” Erica said, crossing the pavement to him. She gave him a brief little smile, but seemed pleased to see him; so much was apparent through her schoolboy matter-of-factness. She was dressed in her “town” clothes, he noticed; but they did not seem to be an improvement on her country ones. They were neat, certainly, but they had an unused look; and the grey suit she was wearing, although undoubtedly “good,” was dowdy. Her hat had been got to match, and matched also in dowdiness.
“I didn’t know you ever stayed in town.”
“I don’t. I came up to get a bridge.”
“A bridge?”
“But it seems you can’t get them by the yard. They have to be made to measure. So I’ve got to come up another day. All he did today was put a lot of clay in my mouth.”
“Oh, the dentist. I see. I thought only old ladies had bridges.”
“Well, you see, the silly thing he put in the last time doesn’t hold. I’m always picking it out of bits of toffee. I lost a lot of side teeth when Flight fell with me at a post-and-rails last winter. I had a face like a turnip. So it had to be a bridge, he says.”
“A mis-nomer, Flight.”
“In one way. Not in another. He was nearly at the other end of Kent before they caught him.”
“Where are you going now? Can I give you a lift anywhere?”
“I suppose you wouldn’t like to show me Scotland Yard?”
“I would. Very much. But in twenty minutes I have an appointment with a lawyer in the Temple.”
“Oh. In that case perhaps you would drop me in Cockspur Street. I have an errand to do for Nannie.”
Yes, he thought, as she inserted herself beside him, it would be a Nannie. No mother had chosen those clothes. They were ordered from the tailor just as her school clothes had been. “One grey flannel suit and hat to match.” In spite of her independence and her sureness of spirit, there was something forlorn about her, he felt.
“This is nice,” she said. “They’re not very high, but I hate walking in them.”
“What are?”
“My shoes.” She held up a foot and exhibited her very modest cuban heel. “Nannie thinks they are the right thing to wear in town, but I feel dreadful in them. Teetery.”
“I expect one gets used to them in time. One must conform to the tabus of the tribe.”
“Why must one?”
“Because an unquiet life is a greater misery than wearing the badge of conformity.”
“Oh, well. I don’t come to town often. I suppose you haven’t time to have an ice with me?”
“I’m afraid not. Let’s postpone it until I’m back in Westover, shall we?”
“Of course, you’ll be back. I had forgotten that. I saw your victim yesterday,” she added conversationally.
“My victim?”
“Yes, the man who fainted.”
“You saw him! Where?”
“Father took me over to luncheon at the Marine.”
“But I thought your father hated the Marine?”
“He does. He said he’d never seen such a set of poisonous bloaters in his life. I think ‘bloaters’ is a little strong. They weren’t so very bad. And the melon was very good.”
“Did your father tell you that Tisdall was waiting there?”
“No, the sergeant did. He doesn’t look very professional. Mr. Tisdall, not the sergeant. Too friendly and interested. No professional waiter looks interested. Not really. And he forgot the spoons for the ices. But I expect you upset him pretty thoroughly the day before.”
“I upset him!” Grant took a deep breath and expressed his hope that Erica was not going to let the plight of a good-looking young man play havoc with her heart.
“Oh no. Nothing like that. His nose is too long. Besides, I’m in love with Togare.”
“Who is Togare?”
“The lion-tamer, of course.” She turned to look at him doubtfully. “Do you really mean that you haven’t heard of Togare?”
Grant was afraid that that was so.
“Don’t you go to Olympia at Christmas? But you should! I’ll get Mr. Mills to send you seats.”
“Thank you. And how long have you been in love with this Togare?”
“Four years. I’m very faithful.”
Grant admitted that she must be.
“Drop me at the Orient office, will you?” she said, in the same tone as she had announced her faithfulness. And Grant set her down by the yellow-funneled liner.
“Going cruising?” he asked.
“Oh, no. I go round the offices collecting booklets for Nannie. She loves them. She’s never been out of England because