‘Lisa’s money will make his short time pleasanter. I take it this information is not particularly confidential?’
‘No,’ said Olive, ‘only what I told you of Mrs Pettigrew’s hold on Godfrey — that’s confidential.’
Alec Warner went home and wrote a letter to Guy Leet:
Dear Guy — I do not know if I am the first to inform you that neither Ronald Sidebottome nor Mrs Pettigrew are now proceeding with their suit in contest of Lisa’s will.
I offer you my congratulations, and trust you will long enjoy your good fortune.
Forgive me for thus attempting to anticipate an official notification. If I have been successful in being the first to convey this news to you, will you kindly oblige me by taking your pulse and your temperature immediately upon reading this letter, and again one hour afterwards, and again the following morning, and inform me of the same, together with your normal pulse-rate and temperature if you know it?
This will be invaluable for my records. I shall be so much obliged.
Yours, Alec Warner.
P.S. Any additional observations as to your reaction to the good news will of course be much appreciated.
Alec Warner went to post the letter and returned to write up his records. Twice, the telephone rang. The first call was from Godfrey Colston, whose record-card, as it happened, Alec held in his hand.
‘Oh,’ said Godfrey, ‘you’re in.’
‘Yes. Have you been trying to get me?’
‘No,’ said Godfrey. ‘Look here, I want to speak to you. Do you know anyone in the police?’
‘Not well,’ said Alec, ‘since Mortimer retired.’
‘Mortimer’s no good,’ said Godfrey. ‘It’s about these anonymous calls. Mortimer has been looking into them for months. Now the chap has started on me.’
‘I have an hour to spare between nine and ten. Can you come round to the club?’
Alec returned to his notes. The second telephone call came a quarter of an hour later. It was from a man who said, ‘Remember you must die.’
‘Would you mind repeating that?’ said Alec.
The speaker repeated it.
‘Thank you,’ said Alec, and replaced the receiver a fraction before the other had done so.
He got out his own card and made an entry. Then he made a cross-reference to another card which he duly annotated. Finally he wrote a passage in his diary, ending it with the words, ‘Query: mass-hysteria.’
ELEVEN
In the fine new sunshine of April which fell upon her through the window, Emmeline Mortimer adjusted her glasses and smoothed her blouse. She was grateful to be free of her winter jumpers and to wear a blouse and cardigan again.
She decided to sow parsley that morning and perhaps set out the young carnations and the sweet peas. Perhaps Henry would prune the roses. Henry was over the worst, but she must not let him hoe or weed or in any way strain or stoop. She must keep an eye on him without appearing to do so. This evening, when the people had gone he could spray the gooseberries with lime-sulphur in case of mildew and the pears with Bordeaux mixture in case of scab. And the black-currants in case of big bud again. There was so much to be done, and Henry must not overdo it. No, he must not spray the pears for he might overreach and strain himself. The people would certainly exhaust him.
Her hearing was sharp that morning. Henry was moving about briskly upstairs. He was humming. The scent of her hyacinths on the window ledge came in brief irregular waves which she received with a sharp and pleasant pang. She sipped her warm and splendid tea and adjusted the cosy round the pot, keeping it hot for Henry. She touched her glasses into focus and turned to the morning paper.
Henry Mortimer came down in a few moments. His wife turned her head very slightly when he came in and returned to her paper.
He opened the french windows and stood there for a while satisfying his body with the new sun and air and his eyes with his garden. Then he closed the windows and took his place at the table. ‘A bit of hoeing today,’ he said.
She made no immediate objection, for she must bide her time. Not that Henry was touchy or difficult about his angina. It was more a matter of principle and habit; she had always waited her time before opposing any statement of Henry’s.
He gestured with the back of his hand towards the sunny weather. ‘What d’you think of it?’ he said.
She looked up, smiled, and nodded once. Her face was a network of fine wrinkles except where the skin was stretched across her small sharp bones. Her back was straight, her figure neat, and her movements easy. One half of her mind was busy calculating the number of places she would have to set for the people this afternoon. She was four years older than Henry, who had turned seventy at the beginning of February. His first heart attack had followed soon after, and Henry, half-inclined to envisage his doctor as a personification of his illness, had declared himself much improved since the doctor had ceased to pay regular daily visits. He had been allowed up for afternoons, then for whole days. The doctor had bade him not to worry, always to carry his box of tablets, to stick to his diet, and to avoid any exertion. The doctor had told Emmeline to ring him any time if necessary. And then, to Henry’s relief, the doctor had disappeared from the house.
Henry Mortimer, the former Chief Inspector, was long, lean, bald and spritely. At the sides and back of his head his hair grew thick and grey. His eyebrows were thick and black. It would be accurate to say that his nose and lips were thick, his eyes small and his chin receding into his neck. And yet it would be inaccurate to say he was not a handsome man, such being the power of unity when it exists in a face.
He scraped butter sparingly on his toast in deference to the departed doctor, and remarked to his wife, ‘I’ve got these people coming this afternoon.’
She said, ‘There’s another bit about them in the paper today.’ And she held her peace for the meantime about his having to take care not to wear himself out with them; for what was the point of his being retired from the Force if he continued to lay himself out on criminal cases?
