Thus Was Adonis Murdered

designed for the cultivated taste. Some, however, may on rare occasions have been moved to seek further details of the supermarket corruption scandal or the political vice link probe promised by its towering headlines. They will then have discovered that housewives in East Dagenham have been offered more trading stamps with a purchase of McCavity’s strawberry preserve than with the equally wholesome and delicious confection produced by the factories of McGonegal: that, by the stringent ethical standards of the Scuttle, is a corruption scandal. They will have read that a back-bench Member of Parliament has had dinner in the company of a girl employed two doors away from a Soho nightclub: that is the political vice link. Such readers will sympathize with my own feelings on hearing that the monster of depravity prefigured in Julia’s letter was, after all, nothing worse than a poor, harmless, necessary Civil Servant. “Well, really,” I said.

“My dear Hilary,” said Selena. “You do not seem to appreciate the intensity of Julia’s feelings towards the Department of Inland Revenue. She is under the impression that it is a vast conspiracy having as its sole objective her physical, mental and financial ruin. Her feelings at finding them suddenly in her midst are expressed with remarkable moderation.”

“It’s disappointing,” said Ragwort, “that the young man has not turned out to be a homicidal maniac. But it can’t be helped.”

“I wonder what’s happened to Cantrip,” said Timothy. “They usually let him go by this time.”

It was growing late. The steady filling of Guido’s tables was a sign that in theatres in the neighbourhood final curtains had begun to fall. We asked for our second course.

Cantrip arrived simultaneously with the escalope de veau. His hair and eyes looked blacker than ever, his complexion paler; his fingertips too were slightly blackened from flicking through damp newsprint: he looked like an invitation card for a rather frivolous wake. He took out and placed on the table a strip of paper, evidently torn from the teleprinter.

VENICE 22.30 HOURS LOCAL TIME 9.9.77 VICTIM OF HOTEL STABBING NAMED BY POLICE AS EDWARD WATSON 24 OF LONDON INLAND REVENUE EMPLOYEE BRITISH WOMAN TOURIST STILL HELD FOR QUESTIONING

“Chap who got done in was a chap from the Revenue,” said Cantrip.

“Oh dear,” said Ragwort, looking sombrely at Cantrip.

“That’s what I thought,” said Cantrip, looking glumly at Ragwort.

“If Michael and Desmond are going to talk piffle—” said Selena. The use of their Christian names was a sign of her utmost displeasure.

“She was jolly miffed about that last assessment,” said Cantrip.

Selena began carefully cutting her escalope into very small pieces, looking like a Persian cat which had unexpectedly found itself in low company.

“Few people,” said Timothy, “are delighted by their tax assessments.”

“Precisely,” said Selena. “Properly regarded, the news is most encouraging. A man from the Revenue might be murdered by anyone.”

“Let us,” continued Timothy, “be sensible. None of us, surely, can seriously believe that Julia has stabbed anyone. It’s not simply a question of character, it’s a matter of competence. Even if she wanted to, which she wouldn’t, she wouldn’t have the faintest idea how to do it.”

“That’s true,” said Cantrip, looking more cheerful. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“So I don’t doubt that the whole thing is simply a mistake and in the long run we can sort it out. It would be rather nice, though, if we could get it cleared up before there’s been too much publicity.

It’s not the sort of thing that’s good for one’s practice.”

“That,” said Selena, “is certainly a point. Once solicitors start thinking of Julia as liable to intermittent fits of homicidal mania, they may begin, however irrationally, to question her soundness on the Taxes Acts. Will there be anything in tomorrow’s Scuttle?”

“Not a chance,” said Cantrip. “I told them it was all incredibly libellous and too sub judice for words. Which it may be, for all I know. Anyway, they’ve dropped it like a hot potato.”

“Oh, well done, Cantrip,” said Selena.

“And I rang a chap I know at the news agency and asked him if he’d noticed they’d got a story pouring out over the teleprinters which would land them with a fantastic claim for damages. And he hadn’t, so he was jolly grateful to me for telling him. That’s why they’re not mentioning Julia’s name any more.”

Mollified by these achievements, Selena summarized for Cantrip’s benefit the contents of the previous letter before proceeding to the next.

Terrace of the Cytherea.

Friday evening.

Dearest Selena,

I have found a convenient place in which to enjoy undisturbed the pleasures of writing to you and of drinking Campari before dinner. One corner of the terrace is divided from the rest by a little trellis, over which there grows some kind of vine or similar shrub. The vine or similar shrub is not, by the highest standards of horticulture, doing terribly well; but it is enough to screen one from observation by anyone coming on to the terrace whom one might wish to avoid. As it might be, the Major. There is also a clear view of the bridge to the annexe, so that one is aware of the approach from that direction of anyone whom one might wish, by apparent accident, to meet. As it might be, the lovely Ned.

The discovery of Ned’s appalling profession has made me, as you may imagine, implacable in my resolve. Have the Revenue, in their demands on my time, my energy and my meagre earnings, been deterred by any sentiments of pity or remorse? No. Shall I, if Ned’s virtue were the dearest jewel they own, show more forbearance in pursuit of it? No, I shall not. “Canals if necessary” is my watchword now.

It was in this frame of mind that I woke to greet the morning, personified by a waiter bringing coffee and rolls. (He is a rather pretty waiter, young and very thin, with shy dark eyes, like those of a gazelle; but my heart is set on the enchanting Ned and I took no notice of him.) On beginning to dress, however, I met with a setback.

Graziella had asked us, since the day’s excursion was to include places of divine worship, to refrain, if female, from wearing trousers, if male, from wearing shorts. I had been disposed to welcome any prohibition designed to protect the public from the sight of the Major’s legs. For myself, I foresaw no difficulty in complying, for I have with me two skirts of suitable length for the daylight hours. One has a few small cigarette burns and the other has lost the button which ought to secure the waistband; but these seemed minor defects, not calculated to offend the devout.

To make a final choice between them, I consulted the looking-glass, assisted in a critical examination of my appearance by the sunlight pouring in from the window behind me. It was thus that I discovered that neither, in these conditions, has the opacity required for perfect decorum. In the dim interior of the churches they would be unobjectionable; in the sunlit exterior, however — you will see the difficulty.

But I was not dismayed. I remembered that while I was packing you had advised me — foreseeing, it may be, with wonderful prescience, this very contingency — to take a petticoat. There was some difficulty, you may recall, in finding one which would not, if extracted from my suitcase and waved in the air by an over-zealous Customs officer, expose me, by its grubby and ragged condition, to the censure of my fellow passengers; but our searches were at last rewarded by finding a perfectly clean one, almost unworn.

I remembered, when I put it on, why it was almost unworn. It is the one I bought last January in a sale, and which turned out, when I got it home, to be four inches longer than any of my skirts.

“One can’t think of everything,” said Selena.

“No, of course not,” said Timothy.

Someone once explained to me that this sort of thing is all due to the Second Law of Thermodynamics, which requires that everything shall tend towards Chaos. One cannot struggle for ever against the laws of physics: I began to think it might be best, however compulsory the excursion, to return to bed and read the Finance Act, very quietly, until someone came and told me what to do. Someone, in the end, usually does.

Before I could give effect to my indecision, there was a knock on the door: Marylou had come to make sure I was ready for the excursion. I told her of my difficulty.

“Julia, honey,” she said, “couldn’t you just cut four inches off the hem of your slip?”

“That,” I said, “would be a most ingenious solution. But impracticable. One would need a pair of