Nest of Vipers

‘Once and only once. Shard took me. He said (having a bee in his bonnet, poor little runt) that they were a ring of spies. My impression was that they could be a gang of crooks and that Minnie was their stool-pigeon and had been sent here to case the joint and see who was worth robbing.’

‘Dear me! What bizarre ideas appear to be current in the literary world!’

‘Oh, we’re all mad nor’ nor’ west, I expect,’ said Latimer, ‘and, of course, the Pans may not be criminals at all; just a collection of dim-witted freaks with a proselytising mission and no sense of humour.’

‘Oh, they make converts, do they?’

‘Not so’s you notice. At any rate they didn’t make a convert of me. I don’t know whether Shard ever went again, but I don’t suppose he did.’

Another lynx-eyed member of the assemblage (not surprisingly in view of her disclosures) was Constance Kent, for although Elysee Barnes was not at the party, the lovely, doll-like, brilliant, tiny Sumatra was. Sumatra was like a butterfly, Dame Beatrice thought. She was flitting from one person or group to another, smiling, bowing, chattering.

When he could manage it, the taciturn, scowling, black-avised, jealous Irelath, who had been watching her every movement, gathered her up at last and planted her on his knee where, without any self-consciousness, as contented as a child who knows she is loved, she snuggled up against him and only raised her head from his shoulder to be given sips out of his glass.

‘That relationship is at least normal,’ said Constance Kent.

At seven-fifteen, as the party showed no sign whatever of breaking up and Cassie brought in more refreshments and Polly poured out more drinks, Dame Beatrice said goodnight and went to her room to change for dinner. There had been one slightly disconcerting moment at the party. Introduced to her at its beginning, Irelath Moore had stared, scowled, stared harder, smiled with infinite charm and then said:

‘Mrs Farintosh? Married again, have you?’

Chapter Seven

Personal Questions

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(1)

‘IT may turn out to be rather a nuisance, George, if Mr Moore has recognised me,’ she said, as George waited on her at table that same evening. ‘I may have to take him into my confidence, and that is the last thing I want to do with anybody in that house, with the exception, I think, of Mr Evesham Evans.’

‘Would a face of brass and a policy of stout denial meet the case of Mr Moore, madam?’

‘I doubt it. He may be a poet in his own right, but he is also the son of a business man who went to Canada with almost nothing and now is a cattle baron. I do not think it would be easy to hoodwink him, and it might lead to unnecessary complications if I did.’

As it chanced, she had no need to contact Irelath, for he tapped at her door on the following morning and said:

‘Excuse the early call, but I knew you were up. I saw you go down to the hall for your letters. You wouldn’t care to put me wise, would you?’

‘I think you had better come in, Mr Moore,’ said Dame Beatrice. When she had admitted him, she added, ‘As you appear to surmise, there are reasons why we should not converse upon landings. There is also a good reason for keeping our voices low and for our seating ourselves as far as possible from the door.’

‘I get you,’ said Irelath, relaxing his long frame in the armchair which she indicated and his habitual expression to a grin of tolerant understanding. ‘The eyes and ears of this place are four feet six in height and have a complex about spies. Right?’

‘Right. Well, now, ask your question. It was good of you not to elaborate upon it last night.’

‘Oh, it is nothing to do with me if you change your name. Most of the folk here have changed theirs and, like you, I am sure, for the best of reasons.’

‘I am Mrs Farintosh only while I live here. Does that convey anything to you?’

‘Well, at a guess, I’d say you were here to look into the matter of the old lady’s death. That means you’re not sure Chelion Piper did for her.’

‘I keep an open mind. What is your own opinion?’

‘The one I gave the police when they came rooting around and questioned us. That bloke didn’t hold any old lady under water and drown her. Still less did he bash her over the head afterwards.’

‘She is said to have written some anonymous letters. Such letters can be hurtful and even dangerous.’

‘Sure. I got one myself. One was sent to my baby, too, but as in the ordinary way she never gets any letters —’

‘Not even from her editor?’

‘Bless you, she hasn’t got an editor. I’m Sumatra, except for the photograph at the top of the page. Su can’t write a word of English. She just gives me the low-down and I write it up. Simple as that.’

‘So when this anonymous letter came?’

‘I opened it as usual and found out it was some more of this pernicious muck about our not being married. Well, we are married, to all intents and purposes. What do a few formal words said in front of