Thus Was Adonis Murdered

selected for capital growth, her top rate of tax is 90 %.

“May I infer,” I asked, “that Mrs. Frostfield is in comfortable circumstances?”

“You may infer,” said Timothy, “that her income is somewhere between ?20,000 and ?25,000 a year.”

“And if,” said Selena, “a substantial proportion of that is derived from growth investments—”

“You may conclude,” said Ragwort, “that she could, without undue personal sacrifice, have paid for her own coffee. Even in Florian’s.”

I did my best to be helpful; but Eleanor seems already to be excellently advised — every suggestion I put forward is reflected in her existing arrangements. I had almost despaired of assisting her when it struck me that she was quite perfect for the penniless husband scheme. Or rather, vice versa.

“Eleanor,” I said, so excited that I spilt my Campari soda, “am I right in assuming that you are free to marry?”

“My dear Julia,” she said, emitting a noise like a baby xylophone, intended, I gather, to express amusement, “if you are advising me to find myself a rich husband—”

“No, no,” I cried. “Certainly not. You must find yourself a husband with no money at all.”

I went on to explain to her the consequences of marriage, which are, of course, that the earned income of the female spouse may be treated as hers for tax purposes, just as if she were a separate person, but her investment income is treated as the income of her husband. It follows, as we all know, that if the parties to a marriage have both earned and unearned income they should arrange for the earnings to be those of the wife. It also follows that a single lady with income from both sources should take immediate steps to acquire a penniless husband.

Presented, free of charge, with this elegant and efficient tax-saving scheme, requiring no expensive documentation and not attracting stamp duty, you will imagine that Eleanor wept tears of gratitude and offered to buy me another Campari soda. You will be wrong.

“Really, Julia,” she said, repeating the xylophone effect, “you seem to take a very cynical view of marriage.”

I am, as you know, Selena, by no means cynical, being on the contrary sentimental to a fault; but if people are going to let sentiment interfere with their tax planning, there is no helping them.

“Julia’s scheme,” said Ragwort, “makes no allowance for the cost of keeping the husband.”

“It is clearly envisaged,” said Selena, “that the husband would undertake those functions — as of gardener, chauffeur and general handyman — for which a woman in Eleanor’s position would otherwise expect to pay on a commercial basis.”

There followed a digression, while my companions discussed the merits of the penniless husband scheme. Knowing nothing of such matters, I am unable to report it in detail: should any of my readers be able to put it to personal advantage, they will perhaps think it proper, when next in the Corkscrew, to offer Julia a glass of wine.

I asked Eleanor if she did not find it a little unnerving to have among our travelling companions a member of the Department of Inland Revenue.

“Ned? Oh, my dear Julia,” said Eleanor, “of course not. He’s a friend of Kenneth’s.” I looked, I suppose, baffled. “You do know who Kenneth is?”

I mumbled an embarrassed negative — not to know who Kenneth was seemed to be a solecism, but one I could not remedy.

“Oh, my dear Julia,” said Eleanor, with a further xylophone imitation, “Kenneth Dunfermline. One of our most promising young sculptors.”

“Oh, really? How very interesting — I didn’t realize,” I said, trying to disguise the fact that the name was unfamiliar to me. “Even so, Eleanor, I am by no means persuaded that friendship with a sculptor, however distinguished, will prevent a man from the Revenue from behaving like a man from the Revenue. I don’t think that I myself would be inclined, in such company, to mention, for example, that I was putting down my holidays as a business expense.”

On this point, however, it appears that Eleanor’s strength is as the strength of ten, because her heart is pure: she really is here for business purposes. An English lady of substantial means and excellent taste, a life-long collector of antiques and objets d’art, and a resident of Venice for the past thirty years, has recently made the transition to Paradise: her collection is expected to be of considerable importance. The object of Eleanor’s journey is to take an early view of it, in the hope, I gather, of arranging a private purchase of those items which interest her: once they go to auction, she says, the prices will become ridiculous. She has asked the Major if he is here for the same purpose and it appears that he is. Neither of them, therefore, is in Venice for pure pleasure: their designs are on the furniture and effects of the late Miss Priscilla Tiverton.

“Well, I’m damned,” said Timothy. “They’re pillaging the estate of my client’s great-aunt.”

CHAPTER 6

It was not, after all, such a very remarkable coincidence. The funeral rites of the rich are a signal for vultures to gather: among whom one may class, with all respect, antique dealers and the Chancery Bar.

This observation was not well received. Timothy suggested, a little waspishly, that if I thought so ill of his source of income I might not wish him to buy me a brandy. I reassured him on this point.

Some of my readers, it occurs to me, may divert their idler moments by reading detective fiction: a pastime sometimes conducive to over-fanciful speculation. For their benefit, I should at once make it clear that the late Miss Tiverton had died, so far as is known, of entirely natural causes; that the designs of Mrs. Frostfield and the Major on her collection of objets d’art did not cause or contribute to the crime of which Julia was suspected; and that the choice of Timothy to advise in connection with her brother’s trust fund was — save to the extent that there may be seen in his presence at the right place at the right time for the purpose of our investigation the hand of a benevolent and all-seeing Providence — was save to that extent the purest coincidence.

It was getting quite late. Those theatre-going patrons of Guido’s who had lingered to see in the flesh the originals of the autographed portraits on the walls were beginning to be rewarded. Our brandies arrived. Selena continued her reading of Julia’s letter.

My room at the Cytherea.

Sunday evening.

I hope there is not going to be any unpleasantness — I mean I think there is. At any rate, no one can say it is my fault — I mean they will certainly say so. Well, I will describe to you in full the events of the weekend: I leave it to you to judge whether I have at any stage or in any particular done more than politeness and good nature required of me.

On Saturday morning, sitting on the terrace in the corner previously described, I was reflecting on my proposed pursuit of Ned and wondering, rather anxiously, whether it might cause distress to his friend Kenneth. I would be reluctant — for I am well-disposed towards artists — to do anything which might give pain to one. That there is an attachment one can hardly doubt, but whether it is a deep and sincere attachment, of the kind which makes people upset, or of a merely frivolous nature, I cannot at present be certain. I reasoned, however, as follows:

(1) either Kenneth is deeply and sincerely attached to Ned or he is not;

(2) if he is not so attached, then my pursuit of Ned will cause him no distress;

(3) if he is so attached, then either the attachment is reciprocal or it is not;

(4) if it is reciprocal, Ned will reject my advances and my pursuit of him will accordingly cause Kenneth no distress;

(5) if it is not reciprocal, Kenneth will suffer distress whether or not I pursue Ned;

(6) if Kenneth will suffer distress whether I pursue Ned or not, my pursuit of Ned cannot be the cause of Kenneth’s distress;

(7) it is therefore logically impossible for my pursuit of Ned to cause Kenneth distress.