“A business opening exists...” Oh, no. Not that one.
“Gentleman who has written novel about exciting war experiences would appreciate advice as to having same published.” Better. But still only as a last resort. Alas, those gentlemen from the war...
Ah!
Right at the bottom of the column, it was. Something for which she had not dared to hope. Not in remote, prosperous, hard headed Flaxborough.
A matrimonial bureau.
Well, what else could be meant by “Handclasp House: Are you weary of the solitary path?”
Miss Teatime read the whole advertisement through carefully. Clients from all walks of life...introductions arranged...view to permanent association...countless instances of happiness...small initial fee...There was no doubt about it.
She took from her handbag a little lavender-coloured memorandum book. As she jotted down the address of Handclasp House, a smile spread over her face, illuminating charmingly its lineaments of good breeding.
Then she put the book away, folded the
Chapter Four
“Teashops, Sid,” Inspector Purgright had said. “I’ve a feeling that Miss Reckitt and Mrs Bannister would have chosen to be courted in teashops. Try taking their pictures round.”
There were eight establishments in Flaxborough that the sergeant felt he could reasonably include in his list, although two were in fact self service cafeterias and a third brashly advertised itself as a “Shake ’n’ Donut Bar”. These three he was able to eliminate within half an hour, but as he began to slog round the others he saw that he was in for a long and daunting quest.
In “Penny’s Pantry”, next to the Guildhall, he waited for what seemed hours, wedged amidst elbows and enormous shopping baskets, while the sole attendant—Penny herself, he presumed—served customers who constantly replaced themselves like Hydra’s heads. Each of these women appeared to have been forewarned of a long siege: she indicated cake after cake, which Penny loaded with gloomy fastidiousness into cardboard boxes.
When at last Love found himself within gesturing distance of the woman behind the counter and had managed to catch her eye, he raised his brows invitingly and jabbed a finger in the direction of a doorway through which he had noticed a number of unoccupied tables.
She frowned.
It was like a conversation between two acute laryngitis patients.
He saw the woman consider, nod brusquely, then disappear. He pushed his way to the side of the shop and went through into the tearoom. The woman was already there. She looked offended.
“We’re very busy, you know.”
“Yes, I’m sorry, but I’ll not keep you.” He took out his two photographs.
“I just want to know if you’ve seen either of these ladies here in the cafe at any time. In the last two or three months, anyway.”
She took a long, grave look.
“What have they done?”
“Nothing,” said Love, blandly. His blue eyes met her glance of disbelief and remained steady.
She held Mrs Bannister’s picture. “It might have been this one who was in the other week. I’m not sure, mind.”
“How long ago?”
“A fairish while. Two or three weeks. If it was her.” She started. “Look, I’ll have to get back to the shop.”
“All right. But can you remember who she was with?”
“Oh, but really...” She thrust the photograph back into his hand and turned.
“It’s important. Honestly.”
Relenting, she paused and stared at a table in the far corner. She seemed to seek there some left-behind impression. Love watched her face cloud with the effort of recollection, then saw a small smile.
“Dicky bow,” she said suddenly.
“I beg your pardon?”
“He was wearing one of those dicky bow ties. You don’t often see them nowadays. That’s all I remember, though.”
“Nothing else?”
