The Judas Pair

'I'll be careful in future.' That was better. She raised her cup to toast me.

I asked about her upbringing. As she talked I absorbed security and ease all around. No chance of being spied on here, with the two loyal gardeners busy interrupting plants and keeping an eye on the mistress. Inside the house stalwart ancient ladies —infinitely more formidable than any gardeners—creaked and bustled vigilantly. So many things came down to money. Wealth is safety. Muriel chatted on about her father, her many aunts, her mother's concern with spiritualism ('But, then, it was all the fashion in her day, wasn't it?'), and her inherited wealth. Husband Eric had been as wealthy as she, it appeared, when they met.

'Will you stay on here, Muriel?' I asked.

She glanced away. 'It depends.'

'On …?'

'Oh, just things.' Her vagueness was deliberate, yet there was a hint of a reflective smile in her expression. Oh-ho. I began to ask about Eric.

Society's cynicism clouds our minds sometimes. When a younger woman marries or cohabits with a much older man, it's supposed to be only for money. Conversely, when an old woman takes up with a much younger man, she's blamed for wanting physical gratification and is condemned on those grounds. This is one of the few occasions women come off worst. Society says they're cheap chiselers or sex-crazed. On the other hand the old chap's regarded as a sly old dog, and the young chap's seen simply as having just struck lucky getting sex and a steady income together in one parcel, as it were. So as Muriel chatted happily on about her elderly husband, I found my treacherous mind wondering what possible motive she'd dreamed up for marrying Eric Field in the first place. Naturally under the influence of Muriel's undoubted attractiveness and charm I was stern with myself and forced these unbecoming suspicions out as best I could.

'He had a real sense of fun,' she was saying, smiling.

'I suppose it's a lot quieter now,' I put in.

'Oh…' For some reason she was hesitant.

'I mean, fewer visitors,' I hurried to explain. She seemed to become upset at the slightest thing. 'You won't have dealers and collectors bothering you quite so much, seeing we only go for antiques.'

'No.' She saw my cup was empty and rose a little too quickly. 'You haven't really seen the house, have you?'

'Er… no, but—' I was taken a little by surprise.

'Come on. I'll show you.' Mystified by these sudden changes of course, I followed her in from the terrace.

The house wasn't quite the age I'd expected. Despite that, it was only just beginning to feel lived-in. Muriel had taste. Flowers matched the house colors and weren't too obtrusive the way some people have them, though you couldn't help thinking what a terrible fate it was to be scythed off in your prime and stuck in a pot to decay.

'Could I please… ?'

'Yes?' We were on the stairs, apparently about to tour upstairs.

'Would you mind very much if I asked to see where Eric was found?' To my surprise she was unperturbed.

'Not at all.' We descended together. 'I thought you might.'

The room led off the marble-floored hall and was beautifully oak-paneled, done about 1860 or so at a quick guess. Muriel's unfaltering taste had enabled it to be exposed to more daylight than others could have allowed. She'd used long heavy velvet curtains drawn well back from the tall windows to draw attention to their height.

'I like it.'

'Eric used it for a collecting room and his study. I never came in much when he was alive.' She wandered about touching things rather absently, a book, the desk, adjusting a reading lamp. The carpet was Afghan but pleasing for all that. A small Wilson oil, the right size for that missing Italian waterfall painting he did, hung facing the desk, setting my chest clanging. However, care was needed, so I filed the facts and said nothing.

'I warned you about interlopers,' I said.

'I know what you collectors are like. All Eric's things have gone, as I said, so I've no reason to fear.'

'Do you see any of Eric's acquaintances still?'

'No,' she said firmly.

'No collectors?' She paused at that, then again told me no. I shrugged mentally. It was none of my business. 'If one does turn up,' I said, chancing my arm, 'tell him I'd rather like to see him.'

We gazed at the lawns and admired the sweeping landscaped gardens. Muriel was eager to explain her plans for the coming flower show. I let her prattle on and, adopting an idiot smile, stared toward the flower beds.

In the window was the reflection of a small occasional table, mahogany drop-leaf with a single stem leg, quite good but Victorian. I couldn't see the top surface because it was covered with a neat new tablecloth. On it were mats and the essentials for starting the inevitable tea ceremony. I never came in it much when Eric was alive were her words. Therefore she did use it now, and fairly frequently from the way she had spoken. And whoever the visitor was must be a fairly regular customer. He rated the cozy intimacy of a sophisticated room from which all sour memories had been happily erased. I only rated the terrace. Hey-ho.

That would account for her reflective smile when I'd asked if she would keep the house on. It depended on just things, she'd said. Maybe it would also explain her displeasure when my miscued remark had suggested that collectors were hardly interested in people. Was he therefore a collector? I wondered about her holy friend. Older, but age doesn't really matter. Never mind what people say.

Still, where was the harm? It was quite some time ago since her husband had died. Sooner or later she was going to meet somebody new, as the song says. You couldn't blame her—or him, come to that. I honestly felt a twinge of jealousy. I couldn't help starting to work out how much I could buy with Muriel's wealth. I'd start with a