A Prospect of Vengeance

your help — in strictest confidence, of course. And I will send you a confirmatory letter, naturally: I do appreciate that there must be company policies in these matters.' He allowed the ghost to materialize more visibly for an instant, and then exorcized it with a dead-serious-pleasing expression.

'I see.' She was holding the frown now only with considerable effort. 'And about whom, among our former employees, do you wish to inquire, Mr Robinson? How long ago?'

'About ten years ago — ' Even before he observed her expression harden again it occurred to him that if she had any sort of weakness for young men she probably had the reverse for the young women who preyed on them. And that decided him to add doubt and embarrassment to what was coming ' — my inquiry relates to a certain Miss Francis, Mrs dummy2

Simmonds. Miss — ah — Miss Marilyn Francis — ?' Would she remember the papers, from 1978?

The hardness became granite. 'But . . . Miss Francis is . . .

deceased, Mr Robinson.'

Deceased? Or, more likely, dead — and bloody good riddance! — this time instinct shouted at him. So she knew more than either he did, or what the papers had said. 'Yes. I do appreciate that also.' He tried to imply that he also knew a lot more than that, even as he prayed that she wouldn't ask him why, if he knew so much, he wanted to know more.

'Why do you want to know about her?'

He hadn't really expected his prayer to be answered. 'I was hoping you wouldn't ask that. Because, quite honestly, I'm not at liberty to say. But ... all I can say ... is that I would appreciate frankness — and I will respect it, so far as I am able.' All the old Rules of Engagement flooded back. 'What I do promise, is that nothing you say here will be attributed to you, Mrs Simmonds. I simply want to know about Miss Francis — that's all.'

She was on a knife-edge. So it was the moment to lie in what he must hope was a Good Cause. 'I have spoken to others before you.' Whatever he said, it mustn't sound like a threat.

'I'm sorry to sound so mysterious, but I have to respect confidences and I do respect confidences. It's just that I do need reliable confirmation of what I already suspect.' As he delivered this flattery he screwed up his face with youthful embarrassment.

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'Yes.' She pursed her lips. 'You do appreciate, Mr Robinson, that Marilyn — Miss Francis — was a temp. . . . That is to say, a temporary secretary, supplied by an agency. I did not appoint her.'

'Of course.' He decided not to congratulate himself on the return of his old skills: although she liked him, and believed him, she was more concerned to exculpate herself from the Marilyn Francis appointment. 'But you do remember her

— ?'

'I do indeed.' The purse shut tightly.

Marilyn Francis had been memorable. In fact, even assuming that Mrs Beryl Simmonds had a good personnel manager's memory . . . Marilyn Francis had been very memorable. 'She was incompetent, was she — ?'

Sniff. 'On the contrary. Miss Francis was highly competent, actually.'

Ouch! thought Ian. For a man who knew all about Marilyn Francis, that was a mistake — even allowing for the fact that Auntie Beryl would shy away from speaking ill of the dead, which he should have reckoned on. But the rule was to capitalize on one's mistakes. 'Well . . . you do rather surprise me, Mrs Simmonds. But I'm extremely grateful for being corrected — '

'As a secretary, she was competent.' She had done her duty.

But now she didn't want him to get her wrong. 'Her shorthand was excellent — she must have had over 140

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words per minute. Even with Dr Cavendish, who had no consideration for anyone. . . This was before we went over to full audio-typing, you understand — and when we still had old fashioned typewriters . . . But her typing was also excellent — quite impeccable.' Duty still wasn't done, the nod implied. 'And her filing. And her paperwork in general: she had been well-trained . . . and she was . . . an intelligent young woman — of that I'm sure. Appearances to the contrary.' Something approaching pain twisted her displeasure at the memory. 'I blame the schools: they have a lot to answer for — doing away with the grammar schools, and letting children run wild — especially the girls.

Especially girls like Miss Francis, in fact.' Nod. They can't even spell these days. But, of course, we have a spell-check now, so they don't have to.' Sniff. ' Rarefy, liquefy, desiccate, parallel, routing — and the Americanisms we have to cater for: focused, protesters, advisers . . . But Miss Francis could spell, I will say that for her. Except those dreadful Americanisms. And she only had to be told once, even with them, when Dr Cavendish was writing to America . . . No, as a secretary she was perfectly competent. It was her behaviour

— and her appearance . . . both absolutely disgraceful, they were.'

'Yes?' Ian's heart had been sinking all the while she had lectured him: poor little Marilyn's defects were personal and moral, and she had been an innocent bystander at Thornervaulx, by whatever unlikely chain of events. So this dummy2

really was a wild-goose-chase.

'It was so tragic — how she died. We all thought so.'

Curiously, she was on his own wavelength. 'But, the truth is ... and I'd be a hypocrite not to say as much . . . she was quite man-mad, was Marilyn.'

All he wanted to do now was to get away, back to London.'Yes

—?'

'Anything in trousers.' Nod: duty done, now the truth.