“Had you been born a bookmaker or a candlestick-maker, would you have spent your life with me?”
Jolly raised his hands a resigned inch or so.
“That is One of the imponderables.”
“Yes, I know. So is fate. Jolly,” went on Rollison, “do you believe in seers?”
“Those rare creatures supposedly gifted with second sight?”
“I don’t think so, sir. Intuition, perhaps.”
“No. Second sight.”
“If I have to give an opinion—no, sir, I don’t believe in them.” Jolly looked a little uneasy as he answered, frowning. “Is there some particular reason for these questions?”
“Yes.” Rollison moved across the large room, a combination of study and living-room, essentially a man’s with its massive leather chairs and its sporting prints, its lack of any sign of femininity. He picked up a newspaper, the
It was with a conscious effort that he at last wrenched his eyes from hers, and handed the newspaper to Jolly, who looked down at the photograph.
“And this is the reason, sir?”
Rollison nodded. “If you read the list of people this Madam Melinska is said to have swindled, you will see the august name of Lady Hurst. She—”
Jolly, appalled, cried out:
“Not Lady
“No less.”
“But
Rollison made no reply, and Jolly, after his first incredulous exclamation, studied the charges brought against the self-styled seer who called herself Madam Melinska. Convincing her clients of her ability to see into the future, she had, so the newspaper report read, persuaded them to give her certain sums of money for investment in a company known as Space Age Publishing, Limited. Of this money there was now no trace. The police had made the arrest; and Madam Melinska, it was said, would be in the West London Magistrates Court to face the charge this morning.
It was now ten minutes past nine.
“Are you going to the Court, sir?” inquired Jolly.
“Not unless I’m invited or instructed to,” said Rollison. “Have you read the small print?”
“Yes. That among the—ah—Melinska woman’s clients who have invested money has been Lady Hurst. Do you expect her to ask you to take an interest in the case?”
“Yes,” said Rollison. “I certainly—”
The telephone bell cut across his words. Rollison lifted his hand palm-outwards—an “after you” sign to Jolly, who took the receiver and answered in his quiet, modulated voice:
“This is Mr Rollison’s residence.” There was a momentary pause, then a look first of alarm, then of resignation, flitted across Jolly’s face. “Yes, my lady,” he said. “Mr Rollison is in.”
Rollison, surprised at the extent of his own satisfaction, took the telephone with one hand and with the other signalled to Jolly to stay where he was. Before speaking, he sat on the arm of a brown leather chair and stretched out his long legs.
“Good morning, Aunt,” he said, with mock deference.
“Richard.” This was Lady Hurst at her most autocratic. “I wish to see you.”
“Very well, Aunt,” said Rollison. “When?”
“In half an hour’s time.”
“I’m sorry—” began Rollison, but before he could go on, his protest was brushed aside in a torrent of command from his oldest surviving relative and the one member of his family for whom he had regard, affection and respect. This was a matter of great importance; he must drop everything else and give it priority. It was not often that his aunt requested a favour and on this occasion he
“. . . so be here in half an hour’s time, Richard,” she ended, as if it would never occur to Rollison to insist on “no.”
“But Aunt Gloria—”
“But Aunt Gloria!” cried Rollison, in convincing mock distress, “I can’t be both with you
There was a curious sound at the other end of the telephone as if Lady Hurst had suddenly caught her breath. Jolly gave a wan smile and moved towards the domestic quarters, while Rollison winked at the Trophy Wall and pictured his aunt’s stern, deeply-lined face in his mind’s eye. He waited in the long silence, until Lady Hurst said in a very positive tone:
“So she
