A Letter of Mary

I understood then, in a blinding flash of rage at his complacent, self-satisfied condescension, the deep revulsion a smiling slave feels for the master. It took every last iota of my control to smile wryly, take up my pen with my trembling hands, and move across to my place at the typewriter. At the same time, singing through me alongside the rage and the remnants of a fear I could not justify, was the triumphant sureness that here, at last, as clearly as if he had dictated it, was a motive for the murder of one Dorothy Elizabeth Ruskin.

* * *

I excused myself from dinner with a headache and insisted that the following evening I had an unbreakable engagement with a cousin. Yes, perhaps Sunday, we should talk about it tomorrow. No, the headache was sure to be gone by morning, and I should be happy to come in tomorrow. No, it was a pleasant evening, the rain had let up, and no doubt the fresh air would help my head. No need for Alex to turn out. I bid good night to Colonel and Mr Edwards.

I walked the two miles to the boardinghouse through crowded streets, and though my toes hurt, my not entirely fictitious headache had cleared by the time I let myself in the front door. Twice during the walk, I felt the disturbing prickle of someone watching, but when I casually turned to browse in the windows, there were too many people on the streets to enable me to pick out one trailer. Nerves, no doubt, the same nerves that made me overreact to the colonel's temper tantrum.

After Isabella's hearty tea, which was geared more towards the labourer's appetite than that of an office worker, Billy and I went around the corner for a pint. The pub, considerably more working-class than the Pig and Whistle, was owned by a cousin-in-law of one of Billy's maternal aunts, and the bitter was brewed on the premises. I poured the dark yeasty liquid down my throat and with one long draught washed away the cloying tastes of sweet sherry, the Edwards household, and Mary Small. I put the glass down with a sigh, realising belatedly that I had broken character. Oh well, even Mary Small was allowed her quirks.

'So, Billy, what have you been doing with yourself?'

He answered me quietly, though in the noisy pub, it was hardly necessary.

'I'm taking up art, miss. Painting.'

'Really?' I looked at his clean hands. 'What medium?'

'Medium?'

'Yes, what do you paint with?'

'Tubes of stuff, oily paint. Makes an 'orrible stink, it does.'

'What sorts of things are you painting?'

'Boards with cloth pulled over them, mostly.'

'Canvases.'

'That's right. Actually, we're neighbours during the day, as well, miss.'

'Are we?'

'Yes, I have a studio place upstairs over the bookshop, down the street from where you're working.'

'Ah. I see.'

'Yes, so you see, if you ever needs something during the day, I'm quite often looking out the window.'

'Of course. Do you have a patron?'

'A what?'

'Someone who supports you in your art?'

'Oh yes, I certainly does. Do. Another half?'

'Let me pay for this round. By the way, Billy, were you by any chance following me this evening, when you left your studio?'

'Not followin', exactly. It may have been I was walkin' the same way as you.' He stopped, looking sheepish. 'Didn't make a very good job of it, did I?'

'Oh, on the contrary, I didn't see you at all. I just felt someone watching me. Glad to know it was you. However, if you don't mind, I'd rather you didn't trail me about. It makes me jumpy.'

'If you say so.'

'Thanks. And Billy? Smear a bit of paint on your hands and clothes tomorrow, would you? Just for effect.'

He looked down accusingly at his betraying hands, then shook his head. 'And here I keep thinkin' I'm getting better at this kind of thing. Only good for fetchin' beer, I am.'

'And following a person. A real artful dodger, you are.'

He grinned at the compliment and pushed his way through the crowd to the bar, shouting jovially to every third person. A less likely artist it was hard to imagine, but with a palette and the smell of turpentine about him, he would pass a cursory examination. As for any paintings he might produce, well, almost anything passed as art these days. He seemed to be enjoying himself, at any rate.

Half an hour later, I put down my empty glass.

'I must be off, Billy, I'm expecting a telephone call.'

'I'll go with you.'

'Stay and have another, Billy. The night's young.'

'No, I'll go.'

He called good nights and shepherded me to my door.

That night's telephone call was again closely guarded. He was ringing from a noisy pub, and though I didn't exactly shout, I'm sure Isabella's top floor could hear my every word. We greeted each other, and he asked about my day.

'Much the same. The son was there today, a very sharp young man, too sharp for his own good. He'll cut himself one of these days. Wanted to talk about Greek, of all things.'

'Greek? Why did he think you knew Greek?'

'That shorthand I learnt in Oxford.'

'Interesting.'

'Yes. And the colonel was a wee bit unhappy with me today. Seems he doesn't like uppity women. Truly doesn't like them, I mean.'

'But you disabused him of the notion that you might be one of them?'

'That I did. He said he liked young women with spirit, but he seemed to think I should marry and have babies.'

'Did he now?' Laughter bubbled underneath his nonchalance. 'And what did you say?'

'Not a thing. I just went back to my typing.'

'A ladylike response.'

'What else could I do? And you, did you finish the wallpaper?'

'Started hanging it. Luckily, it's a dark room. She's a funny old bat, talks your ear off once she gets started.'

'That's good. The work goes faster if you can carry on a good conversation. Is she nice?' 'Nice' meant a probability of innocence.

'She seems nice, yes. Don't know about her sons yet.'

'No. We'll talk about it tomorrow night, shall we?'

'I do hope so. Take care, and Mary? Watch out for those suffragettes.'

'Ugly sluts, overeducated and badly spoilt. Need to be given some honest work.'

Little spurts of laughter leaked out of the receiver, and the connexion went dead. A satisfactory conversation, all things considered. I had told him the colonel was violently misogynist, unless the gyn were in the kitchen or nursery (or, presumably, bedroom), and he let me know that Mrs Rogers appeared uninvolved, though the sons were an open question. On top of it all, I had given him something to laugh about, to soften the hard floor of Mrs Rogers's shed.

FIFTEEN

omicron

There was no indication on Saturday morning that before the day ended I would be presented with three major additions to the case, all of them in the space of an hour: a rape attempt, a collection of esoteric publications, and a citation for speeding.

The morning was long and tedious, involving a systematic renovation of the business files and an equally