unpacking. There were no pictures or ornaments or books. Or, rather, just one book — it looked like one of those old family Bibles, so big you can hardly lift them. Isabella seemed to regard it as an object of interest, or even veneration — she’d put it on its own in a display cabinet at the far end of the room from where we were sitting. I resisted the temptation to ask for a closer look at it — the rest of that end of the room was in deep shadow, which I suspected of harbouring still more of the beastly ravens.
She asked me what I thought of her colour scheme. I said that it was interesting.
“Ah,” she said, “I didn’t think it would be quite to your taste.” She said it with a smile which suggested that her taste was bold and adventurous, while mine was timidly conventional.
“Black’s such a difficult colour,” I said, “if one isn’t an experienced designer.”
“Ah, yes,” she said, “I know you’re the village expert on design.”
“That’s a far too flattering description,” I said. “I haven’t worked seriously as a designer since I lived in Paris.”
Our conversation might have been more memorable if my attention hadn’t been distracted all the time by the flappings and cawings of the birds. Not much more memorable, though, because Isabella is one of those tiresome people who enjoy being mysterious about themselves. Trying to show a polite degree of interest in her, I asked if she had any special reason for choosing Parsons Haver for her retirement — she seemed of the sort of age to have recently retired, though from what profession one wouldn’t have cared to speculate.
“Oh,” she said, “I haven’t exactly retired.” And she gave a wouldn’t-you-like-to-know little smile, as if knowing her occupation were my dearest wish and I would beg her to tell me.
In case you happen to be tormented by curiosity on the subject, I found out later that the profession from which she had “not exactly retired” was what I would call fortune-telling, but I gather is nowadays called psychic counselling. On this occasion, though, I didn’t ask her any more questions about herself but simply invited her to ask me anything she’d like to know about shops and buses and so forth. I did also mention that if she wanted anyone to clean for her, I could thoroughly recommend Mrs. Tyrrell — Mrs. Tyrrell is a single mother, and I thought she might be pleased to do a few extra hours.
“Oh no, thank you,” she said. “Women of that class are such gossips, aren’t they?” Women of that class indeed — some people are enough to turn anyone Socialist. “Anyway, I have my niece to do that sort of thing.”
“Oh really?” I said, rather surprised to hear that there was another member of the household, and wondering where she was. “How nice for you to have such a devoted niece. I’m afraid mine’s far too busy with her practice at the Bar to come and do my housework for me.”
“Oh yes, I’d heard you had a clever niece,” said Isabella. “Daphne’s not clever. She isn’t really my niece, she’s my cousin’s daughter. Still, her mother was more like a sister to me than my damn sister’s ever been, so when she died I had to take over Daphne.” She talked as if the girl were a servant — not that anyone has servants nowadays and even when they did no well-bred person would have talked about them like that — as if she were some kind of object which Isabella owned.
I said that, whatever the relationship, I looked forward to meeting her.
“Oh, you can see her now, if you like,” said Isabella, and shouted “Daphne, come here,” like a man calling a dog. A man one wouldn’t much like, to a dog he enjoyed ill-treating.
There was a noise of something breaking in the kitchen, and a girl came in — an awkward, skinny little thing, all knees and elbows, somewhere in her early twenties. Not, I have to say, at all a pretty girl — lank brown hair, a poor complexion, a rather receding chin and overprominent front teeth. She had quite large brown eyes, which should have been her best feature, but very listless and watery looking — do always remember, Julia, that the expression “bright with unshed tears” is a most misleading one. Still, I’ve seen women with fewer natural advantages persuade half London that they were irresistible — a little makeup and a little animation can do wonders.
“Daphne,” said Isabella, “this is Mrs. Sheldon, who’s kindly come to see how we’re getting on — say ‘How do you do’ to her.”
The poor girl obediently stammered the words out and then stood jiggling about from one foot to the other, pushing down her skirt with the palms of her hands as if she were hoping to make it cover her knees. It was certainly far too short — I mean, the sort of length one should only wear if one has very nice legs and is wearing pretty underwear — and looked like something she had had in her teens and grown out of. As her hands were moist and not very clean, all she achieved was to make the skirt even grubbier than it already was.
I was trying to think of something kind and encouraging to say to her when something moved in the shadows at the far end of the room. And screeched. And flapped its wings. Something much larger than a raven.
I do strongly advise you, Julia, to try to conquer your feelings about spiders — one really never knows what embarrassments these ridiculous phobias can get one into. As you’ll have gathered, I was already more disconcerted than I would have liked by finding myself in the same room as a dozen or so ravens. When I realised that I was also sharing it with a vulture, I came closer to screaming than I care to admit.
“Oh,” said Isabella, “this is my friend Roderigo. I do hope he didn’t startle you?”
It was all I could do to say “What a handsome creature” and remember an urgent appointment at the Vicarage. And I wouldn’t want you, Julia, to find yourself at a similar disadvantage in a situation involving a tarantula.
3
IT WAS CANTRIP, misguidedly in my view, who chose at this juncture to refer to the spider episode. I have always refrained, and I hope shall always refrain, from offending the sensibility of my readers with the details of that regrettable incident: I mention merely that it conclusively marked the end of what some would term the more intimate relationship formerly existing between Cantrip and Julia.
“I bet your aunt Reg’s thing about birds isn’t really as bad as your thing about spiders. I mean, if she’d ever woken up on April Fool’s Day and found some witty chap she was chums with had put a stuffed parrot—”
“Cantrip,” said Julia, “although the spider episode has left scars on my psyche for which a litigious woman could undoubtedly recover an enormous sum in damages, I have tried for friendship’s sake to erase it from my memory. Do you really want to remind me of it?”
“There you are, you see — it was simply ages ago, and you’re still miffed about it. So what I’m saying is, your aunt Reg can’t be anything like as bad about birds as you are about spiders. Because let’s face it, if someone took you into a room crawling with spiders, you wouldn’t hang about drinking sherry and making small talk, you’d be out in nought seconds flat, screaming like a banshee on bath night.”
“I cannot imagine,” said Ragwort, “that Mrs. Sheldon would in any circumstances allow herself to leave the drawing room of a new acquaintance in the unladylike and precipitate manner you describe.”
“No,” said Julia, “I’m sure she wouldn’t, but that’s simply a question of character. I think, as a matter of fact, that she’s just as frightened of birds as I am of spiders.”
Maurice, of course, also had to call on Isabella — apart from anything else, he’s her nearest neighbour. He came round afterwards to tell me about it, shaking like a leaf and needing a stiff gin.
This wasn’t because of the vulture, it was because she’d told him that he was a true priest and a man of great spiritual authority. Poor Maurice, he’d been terribly embarrassed — he kept saying “Oh, my God, what would the Bishop say?” and needing more gin every time he thought of it.
She’d also told him that he’d think her a very wicked person and perhaps denounce her as a heretic and blasphemer. He’d tried to explain that he didn’t go in for that sort of thing, but she didn’t take any notice. She seems to imagine herself as the high priestess of some kind of alternative religion — that’s how she claims to have the gift of prophecy. Maurice thought she’d probably got the idea from reading something about the Albigensians.
“And I’m not saying a word against the Albigensians,” said Maurice, “who I’m sure were very good people and extremely badly treated. And no one’s sorrier than I am about it, so I don’t see why I should be cast as some appalling character like St. Dominic. Who was a ghastly man, Reg, really perfectly ghastly, and with all my faults I don’t think anyone can say I’m like him.”
