been having a last rummage, I suppose, among the personal effects of the late Miss Tiverton.
I shall have to stop soon for lack of light: the sun has just set and the only lamp on the terrace is designed more for romantic atmosphere than serious illumination.
Besides, it seems to be time for dinner: the pretty chambermaids have scattered — no doubt to turn down counterpanes and so forth — and those of the Art Lovers who went to Verona have returned and are on their way back to the annexe. I shall go to dinner and post this on the way — I am feeling, for some reason, extraordinarily hungry.
Yours, Selena, as always, Julia.
“Poor Julia,” said Selena. “I do hope she got something to eat before people started arresting her.”
CHAPTER 11
By approaching from the south-west rather than more directly from the north-east, going quickly down the steps into the basement area of 60 New Square, sidling past the dustbins with one’s back to the wall as far as the rear entrance of 61 and then running fast, but very quietly, up six flights of stairs, it is generally possible, if Henry has not set a typist on special sentry duty, to reach the second floor of 62 without observation from the Clerks’ Room. The time taken to read Julia’s letter was thought to make this the expedient route for our return to Chambers.
“And in a minute or two,” said Selena, settling herself in the large leather armchair bought second-hand for fifty pence by Ragwort and Cantrip to add a touch of luxury to the room which they jointly occupy, “when we have got our breath back, we shall ring through to the Clerks’ Room with some casual enquiry about our arrangements for the afternoon. And Henry, sounding reproachful, will say that he thought we were still at coffee, having not seen us return. And we will say good heavens, no, we’ve been back for ages.”
“Will he,” I asked, “believe you?”
“His state of mind,” said Selena, “may not be quite what a purist would refer to as belief. He will hardly venture, however, to suggest outright that we are lying. You’d better do it, Ragwort — you do it best.”
The choice of Ragwort was a happy one. Had it been Cantrip or Selena whose enquiry about their afternoon engagements had been interrupted by an indignant interrogation as to their whereabouts for the past half-hour, during which Henry had been looking for them everywhere, either, no doubt, would have managed to sound surprised; but they would not, I think, have been able to mingle with their surprise the delicate suggestion which Ragwort achieved of superhuman patience taxed to its limit by Henry’s folly in contriving to look for them at precisely those infrequent moments when they were absent from their rooms.
“Well, Henry,” said Ragwort at last, with a forgiving sigh, “I suppose you had some reason for looking for me?”
“Young lady to see you, Mr. Ragwort,” said Henry. “She said it was personal.” His voice, clearly audible at the other end of the internal telephone line, was lugubrious. There are, no doubt, many reasons for which a young woman might call on a young man in Chambers and say that the matter was personal: there is only one which occurs to a barristers”
Clerk. “And of course, sir, if you’d told me there might be a young lady turning up wanting to see you, I’d have known how to deal with her. But you hadn’t, sir, so I didn’t.” If Ragwort, in addition to wasting in idle dalliance time which could more profitably have been devoted to his paperwork, had compounded his error by failing to inform his Clerk of the progress, regress and termination of the liaison, he could not expect Henry to protect him, as Henry would otherwise have done, from the distressing and scandalous scene which must now ensue.
“I see,” said Ragwort. “So how did you deal with her, Henry?”
“I put her in the waiting-room, sir, and said I’d try to find you. I said I’d seen you go to coffee but you’d be bound to be back soon, sir, knowing how busy you were and with those papers promised for Tancred’s first thing tomorrow.”
“Quite so,” said Ragwort. “Did you happen to ask her name?”
“No, Mr. Ragwort. I didn’t like to do that, seeing she said it was personal. I wouldn’t want you to think that I was prying into your personal affairs, Mr. Ragwort.”
“Ah, how very discreet of you, Henry. Well, perhaps you could ask someone to show her up here.” Ragwort suggested that the rest of us might like to withdraw to Timothy’s room.
“Not likely,” said Cantrip. “If you’ve been trifling with this bird’s affections and now she’s coming home to roost, we jolly well want to know about it.”
“I’ve been doing nothing of the kind,” said Ragwort. “I haven’t the faintest idea—”
“Well, Henry thinks you have. And if she’s going to cut up rough about it, you’ll need us here to give you moral support.”
“I am obliged to you,” said Ragwort, “for your concern, but—”
“Lady to see you, Mr. Ragwort,” said the temporary typist, opening the door to admit the visitor and so preempting further argument. Ragwort rose and extended his hand.
“Mr. Ragwort?” asked the girl shyly, in accents which my memory identified as those of West Virginia. “How do you do? Of course, you won’t know who I am.”
She was, as it happened, quite wrong about that. Her pale blonde hair, her graceful figure, the elegance of her mode of dress, so muted as to suggest at first impression a curiously seductive dowdiness — all these were easily remembered; and it was only forty-eight hours since we had seen her at the airport. Not thinking it tactful to allude to that occasion, we allowed Marylou to introduce herself.
Ragwort no longer wished us to withdraw. He was inclined to think, as my readers may recall, that Marylou was a murderess; and her canvas-coloured leather shoulder-bag looked large enough to contain a quite workmanlike pair of dressmaking scissors. Much as he might admire her elegance, he did not wish to be left alone with her — he made haste to effect introductions.
Marylou, on the other hand, though she acknowledged these very prettily, showing a charming deference to my professorship, had clearly envisaged a private interview. Taking the chair offered her, she looked round at us diffidently, as if uncertain how to explain her presence.
“I’m sorry to intrude on you like this,” she said. “I know you must all be very busy. But I was rather hoping, Mr. Ragwort—”
“It may perhaps be of assistance,” said Ragwort, plainly anxious to forestall any express request for privacy, “if I mention that we are all very old friends of Julia Larwood. With whom, I believe, you are also acquainted.”
“Why yes,” she said, “how did you know?”
“Julia has written to us from Venice,” said Ragwort. “She mentioned meeting you.”
“Oh, I see,” said Marylou. “Well, if Julia’s told you about me, that makes it a whole lot easier. Because that’s why I came to see you, Mr. Ragwort — because of Julia. Something rather terrible has happened to her and I didn’t know who to come to. I don’t know if you’ve heard anything?” She looked round at us again, her eyes wide with anxious but discreet enquiry.
“We understand,” said Selena, “that a guest in the same hotel has been the victim of an act of violence, unfortunately fatal, and that the police have asked Julia to remain in Venice while the matter is resolved.” She spoke with a certain coldness, due, I fancy, to a feeling that Marylou had somehow accepted responsibility for Julia’s welfare while they were in Venice: there was in her manner towards the American girl something of the fond mother to the negligent nursemaid.
Having evidently imagined Julia friendless and forgotten, left indefinitely to languish without trial in a Venetian dungeon, Marylou seemed relieved to discover that anyone in England was aware of her difficulties. Lacking particulars of Julia’s next-of-kin, she had been uncertain who should be informed of them.
“But then I remembered her talking about you, Mr. Ragwort, and I somehow felt that you and Julia really had a very sincere and valid relationship, even if — well, that’s just what I felt.”
“We are all,” said Ragwort, “in our various ways, and for more or less comprehensible reasons, quite fond of Julia, really.”
“And I already had your address, because it was in the guide book to Verona. Julia lent me that on our last day in Venice. I hope you don’t mind about that, Mr. Ragwort — she told me it was yours and to take great care of
