Death of a Delft Blue

it? How is it you are sending chocolate-cream to that creep?’

‘He likes it, Grandmamma.’

‘So?’

‘Don’t you?’

‘This chocolate-cream,’ said Rebekah, turning confidentially to Dame Beatrice, ‘is with me to clog the intestine.’

‘Drink orange juice,’ advised Bernardo.

‘Have some of my good sherry,’ said his relative. Bernardo eyed Dame Beatrice, who waved a yellow hand. He helped himself, but was pursued by the lamentations of Rebekah.

‘So lavish!’ she moaned. ‘So is the glass so full! I pay one hundred fifty pounds for this sherry, and you drink it like water.’

‘I don’t drink water,’ said Bernardo. ‘Now, then, why did you come here?’

‘To save your neck, you ungrateful!’

‘I still don’t see the point.’

‘You are poisoning Florian, isn’t it?’

‘Willingly — if I could do it without being caught. I don’t like the beautiful boy. He’s a headache.’

‘And to you?’ screamed Rebekah.

‘To me? I knocked his ribs in once, and I can do it again.’

‘So?’

‘So I didn’t murder those silly girls. Why not write that in your memoirs?’

‘You paid too much for that suit!’

‘No, I did not. What will you give me for it?’

‘Twenty-five pounds.’

‘Nothing doing. I like this suit.’

‘You do?’

‘What’s more, what on earth do you think you’re doing here, ruining my reputation with Dame Beatrice?’

‘She is not believing,’ she said, assessing the reactions with accuracy.

‘Of course she isn’t. You’d better let me take you out for a nice ride in my car, with dinner to follow.’

‘Where we are going?’

‘Wherever you like. You say, and that’s where we go.’

‘Marlow?’

‘All right.’

‘No,’ said Rebekah, with decision. ‘I go to where you murdered those pretty girls down in Derbyshire.’

‘O.K., then. Perhaps you’ll tell me where you got the poison, because I didn’t kill them, you know.’

His relative laughed. It was relaxed, delightful laughter and she surrendered herself to it. Dame Beatrice looked sympathetic.

‘So what is it, this laughing?’ demanded Rebekah, coming to. ‘You…’ she pointed to Dame Beatrice, ‘you are psychiatrist, isn’t it? Why am I laughing at a broken heart?’

‘Dame Beatrice,’ said Bernardo, ‘is a specialist, and a world-famous one, my love. Specialists expect to be paid for their professional services. Don’t cadge!’

‘And in name of friendship?’

‘Neither a borrower nor a lender be, for loan oft loses both itself and friend,’ quoted Bernardo.

‘And friend you are not!’ shouted Rebekah. ‘What way should be your friendship, when you don’t let me ask one small little simple question about broken hearts?’

‘Broken hearts can cost quite big money, my love.’

‘Is a breach of promise case you are meaning?’

‘You are so right, but you’re getting away from the point. I suggest that you stop bothering Dame Beatrice and that we take ourselves off. I’m certain we’re wasting her time. Besides, hotels don’t keep their dinners on all night.’

‘You should get yourself out of here, yes, and before I can say sixty-seven pesetas,’ said Rebekah.

‘Well, can you?’ enquired her grandson. ‘Thixty-theven pethetath doesn’t sound exactly right to me.’

‘Oh, you are English public school,’ yelled his relative. ‘How comes this Florian with all that poison? That is what I ask.’

‘The answer isn’t a lemon, you know,’ said Bernardo, coolly. ‘Bend the brain, dear. You know as well as I do