A Nice Derangement of Epitaphs

were almost absurdly alike, oval, fair-complexioned, with freckled noses and large, bright hazel eyes. The two thick thatches of chestnut hair—She turned, nostrils quivering to the faint, damp scent, and put up a hand to feel at his forelock.

“Hmm! I see there was at least one someone there in the water. I didn’t know you even took your trunks with you.”

“I didn’t, love! Look, I’ll tell you!” But he’d do it his own way. He tightened his arm round her waist. The brightness was beginning to burst through. “Mummy, do you know who’s staying in Maymouth?”

“Yes, darling, the distinguished Midshire C.I.D. man, Detective-Inspector George Felse, with his beautiful wife, and handsome and brilliant son.” And the said George was already down in the bar, waiting for his family to join him for dinner; and the only concession he had made to the evening was to add a silk scarf to his open-necked shirt. Whereas it looked as if Dominic had everything lined up for a very special impression. She wondered if there’d be time to get George into a suit, and whether she owed it to Dominic to demand such a sacrifice of his father.

“Mummy, you said it! You look gorgeous. How about those black crystals? They’d go beautifully with this dress.”

He had his fingers in among the few bits of finery she’d brought with her, fishing for the necklace he approved. “Keep still. No, but really, Mummy, do you know who’s here? Not in the hotel, staying with some friends of his at the farm over at Pentarno. Simon Towne!”

She opened her eyes wide at the gleaming, triumphant face in the mirror. “No! Is he, really?” Now who on earth, she wondered for a moment, could Simon Towne be? This was a difficult game to play unless you had at least an inkling. Or, of course, there was always the deflationary play. The dead-pan face, the sudden flat, honest voice: “Who’s Simon Towne?”

“Mummy, you shameless humbug! You were keener even than I was on those articles he did on Harappa and Mohenjo-daro. And that book on ancient and modern Peru—remember? Simon Towne is just about the most celebrated roving freelance journalist and broadcaster in the world, that’s who Simon Towne is. As you very well know! And he’s staying with the Rossalls at Pentarno until he sets off on another round-the-world commission in October. And I met him this afternoon!”

And I’m going to meet him to-night, thought Bunty with certainty; that’s what all the fancy-work is for.

She took her exalted son by the arm and sat him firmly down beside her again. “You tell me every word about it, quickly.”

He told her, and she paid him generously in reflected joy, and had no difficulty in appearing duly impressed; even was a little impressed. Yes, George would have to suffer; they couldn’t let Dominic down. Meantime, she had to get downstairs ahead of him. It wasn’t difficult; he’d given her enough clues.

“Sorry, Dom, I’ve mussed your hair a little. It’s a bit fluffy from being wet so recently. Use George’s cream. He left it in the bathroom, I think.”

He went like a lamb. She called after him: “I’m going down, I’ll be in the bar.” And fled. He’d be five minutes re-settling his crest to his satisfaction.

George was on a stool at the bar, leaning on his elbow; long and easy and thin, and physically rather elegant in his heedless fashion, but not dressed for a momentous meeting. Actually Bunty preferred him as he was, but a gesture was called for.

She dug a hard little finger into his ribs from behind, and said softly and rapidly into his ear: “Collar and tie and suit, my boy, and hurry. Dom’s captured a lion, and I think he’s bringing the whole pride in to coffee, or something.”

George turned a face not yet shocked out of its comfortable languor. “Don’t be funny, girl, it’s nearly eight o’clock. There isn’t time. Even if I could be bribed to do it. I’m on holiday, remember?”

“So’s Dom, and I tell you he’s just aching to be proud of us. Just once won’t hurt you. Look at me!”

George did, and smiled. “You look good enough to eat.” He swivelled reluctantly on the stool. “Oh, all right, I’ll do it. But I won’t perform.”

“You won’t get the chance, Dom will be straight man to the lion, and the rest of us will be the audience. Go on, quickly! He’s coming!”

George unfolded his long legs, looked at his watch, and shot away in time to meet Dominic in the doorway. “Lord, I’ve left it late to change. Got talking to Sam, and never noticed the time. Go keep your mother company, I’ll be down in ten minutes.”

Dominic, with a face of extreme maturity and dignity, wound his way between the tables to the bar, and perched himself without a word on the stool next to Bunty’s. She gave him a sweet, wide look which never wavered before his severe stare. Behind the bar Sam Shubrough lifted an interrogatory eyebrow.

“Manzanilla, please,” said Dominic austerely, and slid an uneasy hazel glance sideways at his mother. She hadn’t giggled; she hadn’t made a sound or turned a hair, but the effect was the same. He had been eighteen for such a short time that he hadn’t mastered his face yet on these occasions.

“It’s all right, lamb,” she said in his ear wickedly, “you’re doing fine. You don’t blush any more. But you haven’t quite got over that tendency to a brazen stare yet.”

“Thanks for the tip, I’ll practise in front of a mirror. All right, Mum-Machiavelli,” he said darkly. “You needn’t think I don’t know what a clever minx you are, because I do. Which tie did you tell him to put on?”

“Anything you want to know about Maymouth and environs,” said Tim Rossall, over coffee in the lounge,“just ask that well-known authority, Simon here. He’s never been down here for more than three days at a time, not until this visit, but what he doesn’t know about the place and its history by now isn’t worth knowing. No, I mean it! He made a big hit with my Aunt Rachel, and she’s given him the run of her library up there at the Place.”

“The Place? That’s Treverra Place? That big pile with the towers, at the top end of Maymouth?”

“That’s it. Phoney towers, actually, they built ’em on late in the nineteenth century. The old girl rattles round in that huge dump like a pea in a drum, but she’s still got the money to keep it up, and nobody else has. When she goes the National Trust will have to take it, or else it’ll simply have to fall down.”

“The National Trust wouldn’t touch the place,” said Phil cheerfully. “Tim’s mother was Miss Rachel’s younger sister. He’s the last nephew, and he’s horribly afraid she’ll leave the house to him. There’s a fine kitchen garden,