“Even Basil Ptarmigan can’t claim that you’re solely responsible for engaging the builders.”
“Not in so many words. He just goes round reminiscing nostalgically about when he was first at the Bar and mentions, as if just in passing, that in those days there weren’t any women in Chambers. And then goes on to add, also as if just in passing, that he doesn’t remember there having been any builders in Chambers either. I’ve been wondering whether it counts as sexual harassment.”
“Selena,” said Julia, looking slightly puzzled, “what are you doing here? I don’t mean that it isn’t, as always, a pleasure to see you, but didn’t you say you had a conference with your merchant-banking client?”
“I did, but I don’t,” said Selena with a touch of despondency. “It was arranged three weeks ago and sounded quite important, but Sir Robert’s personal assistant rang up this morning and said that he had to cancel it. I’m afraid what it really means is that he’s lost confidence in my advice, I suppose because I couldn’t help him with the insider-dealer problem. I’m feeling rather put out about it, so I’ve decided to adjourn early to the Corkscrew. Can I persuade you both to join me?”
“Oh dear,” said Julia. “I really ought to finish this Opinion on the Finance Act.”
“Of course,” said Selena, “I wouldn’t want to be a bad influence on you.”
“On the other hand,” said Julia, “Madame Louisa did say in my horoscope this morning that it would be a bad day for dealing with legal matters. And who am I to struggle against what the stars have ordained?”
We were on the point of leaving when Selena remembered that the Restoration Committee was in need of professional guidance on the choice of carpets and curtains. This they were hoping to obtain from Julia’s aunt, when she next happened to be in London, in exchange for a reasonably generous lunch.
“Would you mind ringing her now to see if we can arrange a day? I’d like to feel that I’d made some progress with something.”
Again, however, it proved an unfortunate moment for Julia to telephone her aunt. Mrs. Sheldon had just returned from the hospital: Griselda had met with an accident — a serious accident, involving one of her cats.
9
SCHOLARLY CONSIDERATIONS must yield on occasion to humane. Though my usual practise is to proceed chronologically, setting out the material events in the order in which I became aware of them, to follow it at this juncture would prolong an anxiety which will be painful to my readers and may well, while it continues, distract their minds from other aspects of my narrative. I hasten to say, therefore, that the cat was completely unhurt and remains, I am told, to this very day in the best of health.
I myself was obliged to leave for New York without such reassurance, or any details of the nature and cause of the accident. It was not until my return, a month later, that I received an account of it.
At 62 New Square I had found a pitiful scene of chaos and devastation: scarred ceilings and battered walls; piles of rubble in unexpected places; wires protruding from plaster; sundry items of sanitary equipment obstructing the corridors, as if ripped from their proper place to provide a last barricade against invasion — a scene, in short, such as was to be expected after the bombardment previously described. On the other hand, everything was very quiet: I concluded that the builders had departed, either for a rest or for some more lucrative project.
These not being the surroundings in which to recover from the rigours of a trans-Atlantic journey, I had remained long enough only to assure myself of the continued well-being of my friends and to ascertain their arrangements for lunch. They intended, they said, to take that meal in the Corkscrew: if I cared to wait for them there, I could amuse myself in the meantime by reading the most recent correspondence from Parsons Haver.
24 High Street
Parsons Haver
West Sussex
Tuesday, 17th August
Dear Julia,
I really don’t know what’s happening to Parsons Haver — it seems to be turning into the crime capital of West Sussex. First Daphne’s burglary, and now this. Perhaps I didn’t explain properly, when you rang on Friday, that Griselda’s accident had anything to do with a crime — the whole thing had been such a shock that I wasn’t thinking clearly — but it quite certainly did.
And it all happened on such a lovely afternoon. Griselda and I were at the far end of her garden, which as you know is much larger than mine, so we were only a short distance from the back garden of the Rectory. We were just sitting there peacefully, admiring the clematis and enjoying the smell of honeysuckle, with Tabitha stretched out asleep in the sun on top of the potting shed, when all at once there was a tremendous crash, as if someone had dropped half a hundredweight of crockery. It sounded as if it came from the Rectory, or somewhere close by.
Tabitha is a very nervous cat, having come from a bad home, and always bolts from sudden noises — she leapt straight down from the potting shed, not into the garden but into the lane outside, and Griselda, of course, went running out after her.
There isn’t any traffic in the lane, it’s too narrow, but it leads into the High Street, which can be quite dangerous. It’s part of the main road from London to the coast, and some drivers simply forget that they aren’t on the motorway, especially on a Friday afternoon on their way to the seaside. By the time I reached the end of the lane, there was Griselda lying in a heap in the roadway, and the driver of the car that had hit her standing beside her looking very sick. Tabitha, of course, was quite unhurt.
The last thing that I had any time to worry about was what the noise had been that caused it all. I went with Griselda in the ambulance and rang Maurice as soon as I could from the hospital. That’s when I found out what it had been.
Daphne had been in her kitchen, which is at the side of the Rectory facing towards the lane, and someone had thrown a stone at her.
A big stone — I’ve seen it — quite heavy, and rough at the edges, you could almost call it a rock.
It had broken the kitchen window and brought the china cabinet crashing down — that’s what made such a noise — just missing Daphne herself on the way. “Missing” isn’t actually the word — it grazed the side of her head — but an inch or two away from being really dangerous.
As it was, there was a good deal of blood — you know what head wounds are like — and poor Daphne was absolutely terrified. She ran across to the Vicarage, crying and bleeding, and Maurice rang the police, still not knowing anything about Griselda’s accident.
You could say that she and Griselda were both quite lucky, though I wouldn’t advise you to say it to Griselda — she’s simply furious about being in plaster for the next six weeks. But she doesn’t have any permanent injuries and Daphne was more frightened than hurt, so the consequences of the stone throwing weren’t nearly as serious as they might have been.
Which is why, I suppose, the police clearly aren’t treating it as the crime of the century. They make sympathetic tut-tutting noises about vandalism and juvenile delinquency, but as no one saw who threw the stone they say they haven’t much chance of catching him, and I don’t see signs that they’re losing any sleep over it.
Well, that’s all very well if one assumes he only meant to break the window, and didn’t realise that Daphne was behind it. It looks to me, though, as if the stone was aimed at her deliberately.
You see, it can’t have been thrown by someone walking along the lane. Between the lane and the Rectory there’s quite a high brick wall, which one would need a ladder to climb. If one managed to throw a stone over it from ground level it would hit the side of the house well above the top of the window frame. Whoever did it must have climbed up on to the wall of the churchyard, which is made of rough stone and quite easy to climb — I know, I tried it — and from there you can see quite clearly whether there’s anyone in the kitchen. And it certainly wasn’t a child who did it — the stone was far too heavy for a child to throw that distance.
So personally, I don’t think it’s at all trivial. Daphne could have been killed — and whoever threw it must have known that she could.
The worst of it is that Daphne also thinks it was deliberate, and is now completely convinced that she’s the
