Tweeds and brogues?—Reassuring? Maybe not. Mutton dressed as lamb?—Apt to arouse suspicion. Careless- artistic? —Always of doubtful value with either sex. Trousers?— Depended on the man. Some could put up with them on a large and handsome Amazon; some could not. Laura settled for a well-cut suit with matching accessories.
‘You look very nice,’ said Dame Beatrice. ‘One visualises the card-case and detects the slight, unmistakable odour of Debrett.’
‘Oh, Lord! All I aimed at was to appear neat but not gaudy.’ Laura ostentatiously consulted a small and extremely elegant gold wristwatch, her husband’s birthday gift. ‘Well, see you soon, and with lots of gen, or so I anticipate. By the way, if I’m to impersonate a reporter, what’s my pseudonym?’
‘I leave that to you, child. Your imagination, resourcefulness, choice of language, personality, courage, and sense of responsibility, coupled with your total inability to write shorthand, far surpass my own. Be you who you will. Perhaps, for the proper recording of your feats of derring-do, I had better be told, though.’
‘You know,’ said Laura suddenly. ‘I don’t believe I think much of this reporter business, after all. He may shy away if he thinks I represent a newspaper, especially if he’s got a guilty conscience. Couldn’t I be an old friend of the deceased? Ah, I’ll tell you what! Couldn’t I have been her Sunday-school teacher? How old is she supposed to have been?’
‘Mrs Coles was twenty-two, I believe, although the body was so strangely mature that it is difficult to see how it could be hers, although medical science is not infallible.’
‘So I could easily have been her Sunday-school teacher! You can become one at about fourteen, I believe.’
‘You don’t look like a Sunday-school teacher.’
‘Oh, they come in all sizes,’ said Laura, easily. ‘The hunt is up! Suspect, here I come!’
‘Which of you is the suspect?’ asked Carey, who was visiting his aunt. Laura looked through him. ‘I mean, if you go attempting to pass yourself off as a doer of good works, looking like that, you’ve a nasty surprise coming to you, my girl.’
Laura glanced down at her suit.
‘Nonsense,’ she said firmly. ‘You don’t have to look like Frau Frump to teach in a Sunday School. Besides, I shan’t pretend I
‘How are you supposed to know that she was married? Don’t forget it was a deep, dark secret.’
‘Oh,’ said Laura airily, ‘she will have told her old Sunday-school teacher, if nobody else. What are old Sunday- school teachers for?’
‘I’ve never enquired. Oh, well, go ahead and do it your way, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
‘You go and feed the pigs,’ retorted Laura. ‘You’re neglecting your duties.’
‘My duty is to escort you to wherever it is you’re bound for, and make sure you don’t run into trouble.’
‘Who says so?’ demanded Laura, looking haughty.
‘Aunt Adela, so don’t fuss. This fellow may be the murderer, for all we know. You can’t go and visit him alone. Gavin would have our blood, and quite right, too.’
‘How do I explain you?’
‘I’ve very kindly given you a lift up to Town. You thought you would do some shopping, then you remembered that poor dear what-was-her-name had told you her husband was at this art school in London, so you felt you must look him up. Then I shall suggest giving you lunch and include him in. All right?’
‘All right, then, but I don’t suppose I’ll get much out of him with you hanging around.’
‘Yes, you will, girl. Besides, didn’t you notice I’ve shaved? What did you think that was for? I’m not going to waste it on the pigs?’
They drove in Carey’s car to his home in Stanton St John as soon as his work was over for the day. Laura stayed the night there, and they set off early next morning for southeast London. The art school was separated from the road by a short gravel drive at the end of which it was possible to park the car. Carey remained seated at the wheel while Laura went exploring. She soon located the secretary’s office, tapped on the glass panel and asked at what time it would be possible for her to speak to Mr Coles.
‘He’s in Life,’ said the secretary. A little taken aback, Laura remarked that she hoped so.
‘Life-drawing,’ the secretary explained. *You can go in, if you don’t mind the nude. Oh, it’s a male model this week, so he won’t be. Room 24. There’s a rude drawing on the door. You can’t miss it. Up there.’
With a presentiment, unusual with her, that she was going to muff the coming interview, Laura traversed the corridor indicated by the secretary and discovered Room 24 without difficulty. She knocked, but there was no answer, so, after waiting a moment, she went in. There were eight or nine students in the room, also the professor of life-drawing and the model. The latter, astoundingly reminiscent of the Olmec
‘I wanted to find Mr Coles,’ said Laura.
‘Mr Coles?’ The professor looked vaguely round the room. ‘Not here. Oh, Mr
‘He just went out of the room for a moment,’ said one of the men. ‘You’re thinking of his father, I believe, sir.’
‘Then he’ll be along’—the professor waved his hand—‘at any time now. Speak to him in the corridor, if you please. The model has just had his rest, and we are anxious to press on.’ He returned to his work. As she opened the door to go out, Laura heard him say, ‘Deltoid, Mr Soper. No good unless.’
The corridor was draughty, but Coles did not keep her waiting long. She did not know him by sight, but as he put his hand out to open the door of Room 24, she said:
