‘He isn’t the—’ she changed her phrase quickly—‘he isn’t dangerous. Anyway, I’m on my guard. I can—look after myself.’
Giles laughed unpleasantly. ‘So could Mrs Boyle.’
‘Oh, Giles, don’t.’
‘Sorry, my dear. But I’m het up. That wretched boy. What you see in him I can’t imagine.’
Molly said slowly, ‘I’m sorry for him.’
‘Sorry for a homicidal lunatic?’
Molly gave him a curious glance. ‘I could be sorry for a homicidal lunatic,’ she said.
‘Calling him Christopher, too. Since when have you been on Christian-name terms?’
‘Oh Giles, don’t be ridiculous. Everyone always uses Christian names nowadays. You know they do.’
‘Even after a couple of days? But perhaps it’s more than that. Perhaps you knew Mr Christopher Wren, the phony architect, before he came here? Perhaps you suggested to him that he should come here? Perhaps you cooked it all up between you?’
Molly stared at him. ‘Giles, have you gone out of your mind? What on earth are you suggesting?’
‘I’m suggesting that Christopher Wren is an old friend, that you’re on rather closer terms with him than you’d like me to know.’
‘Giles, you must be crazy!’
‘I suppose you’ll stick to it that you never saw him until he walked in here. Rather odd that he should come and stay in an out-of-the-way place like this, isn’t it?’
‘Is it any odder than that Major Metcalf and—and Mrs Boyle should?’
‘Yes—I think it is. I’ve always read that these lunatics had a peculiar fascination for women. Looks as though it were true. How did you get to know him? How long has this been going on?’
‘You’re being absolutely absurd, Giles. I never saw Christopher Wren until he arrived here.’
‘You didn’t go up to London to meet him two days ago and fix up to meet here as strangers?’
‘You know perfectly well, Giles, I haven’t been up to London for weeks.’
‘Haven’t you? That’s interesting.’ He fished a fur-lined glove out of his pocket and held it out. ‘That’s one of the gloves you were wearing day before yesterday, isn’t it? The day I was over at Sailham getting the netting.’
‘The day you were over at Sailham getting the netting,’ said Molly, eying him steadily. ‘Yes, I wore those gloves when I went out.’
‘You went to the village, you said. If you only went to the village, what is this doing inside that glove?’
Accusingly, he held out a pink bus ticket.
There was a moment’s silence.
‘You went to London,’ said Giles.
‘All right,’ said Molly. Her chin shot up. ‘I went to London.’
‘To meet this chap Christopher Wren.’
‘No, not to meet Christopher.’
‘Then why did you go?’
‘Just at the moment, Giles,’ said Molly, ‘I’m not going to tell you.’
‘Meaning you’ll give yourself time to think up a good story!’
‘I think,’ said Molly, ‘that I hate you!’
‘I don’t hate you,’ said Giles slowly. ‘But I almost wish I did. I simply feel that—I don’t know you any more—I don’t know anything about you.’
‘I feel the same,’ said Molly. ‘You—you’re just a stranger. A man who lies to me—’
‘When have I ever lied to you?’
Molly laughed. ‘Do you think I believed that story of yours about the wire netting? You were in London, too, that day.’
‘I suppose you saw me there,’ said Giles. ‘And you didn’t trust me enough—’
‘Trust you? I’ll never trust anyone—ever—again.’
Neither of them had noticed the soft opening of the kitchen door. Mr Paravicini gave a little cough.
‘So embarrassing,’ he murmured. ‘I do hope you young people are not both saying just a little more than you mean. One is so apt to in these lovers’ quarrels.’
‘Lovers’ quarrels,’ said Giles derisively. ‘That’s good.’
‘Quite so, quite so,’ said Mr Paravicini. ‘I know just how you feel. I have been through all this myself when I was a younger man. But what I came to say was that the inspector person is simply insisting that we should all come into the drawing room. It appears that he has an idea.’ Mr Paravicini sniggered gently. ‘The police have a clue—yes, one hears that frequently. But an idea? I very much doubt it. A zealous and painstaking officer, no doubt, our Sergeant Trotter, but not, I think, over endowed with brains.’
‘Go on, Giles,’ said Molly. ‘I’ve got the cooking to see to. Sergeant Trotter can do without me.’
‘Talking of cooking,’ said Mr Paravicini, skipping nimbly across the kitchen to Molly’s side, ‘have you ever tried chicken livers served on toast that has been thickly spread with foie gras and a very thin rasher of bacon smeared with French mustard?’
‘One doesn’t see much foie gras nowadays,’ said Giles, ‘Come on, Paravicini.’
‘Shall I stay and assist you, dear lady?’
‘You come along to the drawing room, Paravicini,’ said Giles.
Mr Paravicini laughed softly.
‘Your husband is afraid for you. Quite natural. He doesn’t fancy the idea of leaving you alone with me. It is my sadistic tendencies he fears—not my dishonorable ones. I yield to force.’ He bowed gracefully and kissed the tips of his fingers.
Molly said uncomfortably, ‘Oh, Mr Paravicini, I’m sure—’
Mr Paravicini shook his head. He said to Giles, ‘You’re very wise, young man. Take no chances. Can I prove to you—or to the inspector for that matter—that I am not a homicidal maniac? No, I cannot. Negatives are such difficult things to prove.’
He hummed cheerfully.
Molly flinched. ‘Please Mr Paravicini—not that horrible tune.’
‘“Three Blind Mice”—so it was! The tune has got into my head. Now I come to think of it, it is a gruesome little rhyme. Not a nice little rhyme at all. But children like gruesome things. You may have noticed that? That rhyme is very English—the bucolic, cruel English countryside. ‘She cut off their tails with a carving knife.’ Of course a child would love that—I could tell you things about children—’
‘Please don’t,’ said Molly faintly, ‘I think you’re cruel, too.’ Her voice rose hysterically. ‘You laugh and smile—you’re like a cat playing with a mouse—playing—’
She began to laugh.
‘Steady, Molly,’ said Giles. ‘Come along, we’ll all go into the drawing room together.
