“The landlord’s not been round again, has he?”
“Not while I’ve been here. I suppose he must have keys.”
“Who else has been in?”
“Only Yasmin. Oh, and Sarsaparilla. She brought a plate of something, I gave her something back.”
“Was she in here on her own?”
“Only for a minute.”
“It’s just what they always say. Servants let thieves in. They take up with shady people on their day off, and there you are, they tell them your movements, they tell them the layout, and the next thing is you’ve been cleaned out.”
“But Sarsaparilla doesn’t go anywhere. They don’t let her out. She’s too frightened to go out.”
“Okay then,” Andrew said, indifferently. “If it wasn’t her, it must have been Yasmin. One idea is considerably less ridiculous than the other, but take your pick.”
On the desk, papers had been scattered, letters had been ripped open. Andrew moved them around gingerly, with a fingertip. “I reckon laborers must have done it, Yemenis or somebody. They think you stuff your letters home with banknotes for your old mother. Didn’t take the video, did they?”
“They’ve taken the Thamaga candlesticks. Some food has gone, out of the fridge. Just eggs and things.”
“There you are then. Not a professional job, is it?”
She shook her head. “It seems not. Unless it is in fact very professional. Professionals masquerading as blundering amateurs.”
“Still reading the detective books?” Andrew crossed the room, put his arms around her and pulled her gently toward him. He cradled her against his shoulder. She felt light and frail under his confident hands, just an assemblage of bones: and barely consoled. “It’s all right now, Fran. I don’t think they’ve got anything that’s worth much.” He held her tight, rocking her, solid and undisturbed; one of the sex war’s elite corps, one of the shock troops home on a family visit. “Listen, don’t panic, Frances, it could have been much worse.” He was comforting her, for her own carelessness in having let the thieves in; the theory about the maid, which he had worked up so carefully, had been to allow her to save face.
“I wish you could believe me,” she said. “But if you can’t you can’t. I’m just a woman after all, and unlikely to be able to keep track of my actions.”
She struggled free of him; went from room to room. She heard him pick up the phone, heard him speaking, calm and bluff and male; heard him give a little laugh. She went into the bedroom and sat down on the bed, fingering her mauled and despoiled summer frocks. They had rummaged through the drawer where she kept her makeup, looking for jewelry perhaps. Her soapstone tortoise had gone from the bedside table. What a stupid thing to take! How do burglars know, what sixth sense informs them, about the small, valueless things that you cannot bear to lose?
Andrew stood in the doorway. He had not taken offense, he understood her outburst; what’s one little squawk, when the nest has been invaded? “I’ve just talked to Eric,” he said. “He says that unless we’ve lost something important, we shouldn’t bother with the police. For a start we’d have to get all the booze out of the house. Then he says they sprinkle black fingerprint powder everywhere, and you can’t get it off the carpets. I’d have to go down to the police station, and he says I might be there all night, we’d have to get Hasan over to interpret, there are endless forms to fill in, and they never catch anybody at the end of it all.”
“And if they did …”
“Yes, that’s a thought. I wouldn’t want that on my conscience. What about your clothes? Have they taken much?”
“Most things seem to be here. I can’t be sure.”
“Shall we clean up then?”
She rose, tiredly. “We may as well. Just let’s get the stuff off the floor and back in the cupboards, and I’ll do the rest tomorrow.” She thought, I wonder if they have taken my diary?
Andrew looked at her searchingly. A serious, responsible expression took over his face; he frowned. “You look pale,” he said.
“It was a shock.”
“You must put your feet up. I’ll do the clearing up. I’ll make you some tea.”
“What about that Scotch Rickie gave us?”
“Good idea. Where is it?”
“It’s under the kitchen sink. With the cockroach spray and the bottles of bleach.”
Andrew grinned. “That’s a good place for it. Not even our thieves are interested in bottles of bleach. I’ll pour you a large one, Watson.”
“Okay, Holmes,” she said.
She remained where she was, limp, dispirited, as if the strength had run out of her limbs. Andrew, she thought, his powers of recovery … he’s a wonder. She should not resent it, should she? Then she heard his voice from the kitchen. “Oh, you bastard,” he said.
She scrambled up, hurried after him. Andrew glowered over the remains of the bottle of Scotch; smashed, it lay on the drain board.
“Oh well,” she said. “At least somebody’s had a good time tonight. If he drank it, of course. He might just have poured it away.”
She was not sure why the thought had occurred to her. They exchanged a glance; then Andrew turned quickly
