The Sibyl in Her Grave

there anyone at home?” and was answered by a sort of bellow — whether of pain or anger it was difficult to tell. Knocking on the door from behind which it came, I was answered by a further bellow. Construing this as an invitation to enter, I went in.

I found myself in a room not obviously set aside for the practice of medicine. It seemed quite simply to be a bedroom, opulently furnished in a style reminiscent of the 1920s. Instead of the narrow treatment couch which one might have expected, there was a double bed of luxurious proportions; nor could I see any form of medical equipment, apart possibly from something hanging from one of the bedposts, which looked, however, remarkably like a riding whip.

Lying on the bed was Edgar Albany.

“Lying” is perhaps not quite the mot juste, since it suggests some measure of comfortable repose: this was precluded in the present case by the fact that his wrists and ankles had been handcuffed together and secured to the bedhead. This arrangement looked to me to be a good deal more painful than anything I have ever known to be insisted on by even the most enthusiastic practitioners of osteopathy. I feel obliged to mention also that he was wearing nothing save a small frilly undergarment.

It occurred to me, I confess not quite for the first time, that the form of treatment offered by Natasha might not be exactly the sort of thing which one hopes to receive under our own dear National Health Service; and that when she spoke of specialising in pains of the lower back she had in mind their infliction rather than their alleviation.

Since he had presumably not merely agreed but paid to be put in this position, I thought it right to enquire whether he wished me to release him or to leave him undisturbed. His answer, however, left me in no doubt as to the sincerity of his desire for rescue. The key to the handcuffs was on the dressing table; I unlocked them as expeditiously as I could.

I would be, as you know, the last person to expect any effusive expressions of gratitude for so trifling an act of charity towards a fellow creature in distress. I was nonetheless a little surprised, having performed it, to be assailed with a torrent of abuse. Albany seemed to be under the impression that I was some sort of business associate of Natasha’s, who was the primary object of his invective. He expressed himself in terms which I should not dream of repeating; but the substance of his complaint was that he had made it quite clear to her how far he wished her to go and she, with deliberate malice, had gone a great deal further.

Having been instrumental in his release, I could hardly leave him to wander freely about Natasha’s flat. Deciding that the proper attitude was one of dignified indifference, I stood and admired the view from the bedroom window while he, rather painfully, resumed his clothing. By the time he was fully dressed, however, his remarks had begun to have a threatening quality which I felt could not simply be ignored.

“You can tell our precious girlfriend,” he said as he fastened his tie, “that she isn’t going to get away with this. She’s going to be sorrier for it than she’s ever been for anything in her life.”

Hitherto, thinking to spare him embarrassment, I had refrained from addressing him by name. I now felt it prudent, however, to indicate that I was aware of his identity and that if he did not wish the morning’s events to become known to his colleagues at Renfrews’ he would be unwise to attempt any form of reprisal.

His response was to turn purple and accuse me of blackmail, making vague but disagreeable threats about what would happen if I said a word to anyone about the incident. He had friends, he said, who carried a good deal of weight with the local police authority; if I knew what was good for me I would forget all about it.

“Mr. Albany,” I said, “let me assure you that there is nothing I should like better than to erase from my memory all recollection of our meeting. Provided that you do not attempt to cause any unpleasantness for Mlle. Natasha, you may rely on my discretion absolutely.”

Still with no word of thanks, he finally left the flat. I watched from Natasha’s balcony as he walked, rather slowly and stiffly, across the place in the direction of the villa. When I was sure I could do so without a further meeting with him, I also left the flat and went and sat in the cafe next door to wait, with some apprehension, for the return of Natasha.

Forgive me for describing this sordid episode in such distasteful detail. I have done so, of course, with the utmost reluctance and only because it seemed to me to have some possible bearing on the insider-dealing question. Selena once mentioned, I think, that Sir Robert Renfrew is thought to be something of a Puritan — if he is, then isn’t the sort of thing that Edgar Albany appears to have a taste for exactly the sort of thing Sir Robert would be likely to disapprove of? And isn’t it also exactly the sort of thing that someone like Isabella del Comino would have been likely to know about?

Natasha, I am relieved to say, took my intervention in good part, evidently regarding it as a matter for amusement rather than reproach. Indeed, though she made a good deal of fun of me for my soft-heartedness, she was perhaps quite pleased that I had saved her the possible unpleasantness of releasing Albany herself. He had spoken to her, I gathered, in a manner which she found lacking in respect; she had lost her temper and taken her revenge, without much thought for the consequences. When I enquired cautiously as to the nature of the insult offered her, it turned out that he had addressed her as tu rather than vous, not having, in her opinion, any right to do so. It just shows how careful one has to be — the French can be very touchy about these things.

My encounter with Albany was not quite the last I saw of the Renfrews’ directors. Later that day, when I was sitting with Terry and Natasha in one of the cafes in the place, Natasha insisted on relating, for Terry’s entertainment, a much-embellished account of the events of the morning: halfway through her narrative, I heard someone laugh. Looking round, I realised that a man sitting a few tables away, whose face had been hidden behind the Financial Times, was none other than Geoffrey Bolton. For a moment I felt profoundly embarrassed — apart from anything else, I had more or less promised Albany that he could rely on my discretion; but since she was talking quite rapidly in French, of which Bolton is notoriously ignorant, he cannot in fact have understood a word she said. I can only conclude that there was an unusually amusing editorial in the Financial Times.

All the guests at the villa left on Wednesday morning, not only Albany and Bolton but also Miss Tavistock — even an indispensable personal assistant, I suppose, is entitled to a Christmas holiday. They all drove off together in the Bentley, with a man at the wheel whom I assume to be Sir Robert’s chauffeur, and have not been seen since. Since then I have several times seen Sir Robert sitting on the terrace, still looking in the pink of health — my misgivings on his behalf were obviously unfounded.

I must now return to my goose, which is beginning to smell delicious — almost as delicious, I hope, as the lunch you will shortly be enjoying with your aunt. With, again, my regards to her and warmest wishes to yourself,

Yours,

Desmond

14

24 High Street

Parsons Haver

West Sussex

Christmas Day

Dear Ragwort,

I write in some despondency, more for my own consolation than your entertainment. Maurice is quite ill, seriously enough to be in hospital, though not so close to death’s door, according to my aunt and the doctors, as Daphne seems determined to believe.

The first sign we had of anything seriously wrong was yesterday morning. I had returned from posting my