‘As we seem to be going to spend almost the whole of our time in the kitchen, we ought to have a wireless there, too.’
‘Yes. How nice kitchens are. I love this kitchen. I think it’s far and away the nicest room in the house. I like the dresser and the plates, and I simply love the lavish feeling that an absolutely enormous kitchen range gives you—though, of course, I’m thankful I haven’t got to cook on it.’
‘I suppose a whole year’s fuel ration would go in one day.’
‘Almost certainly, I should say. But think of the great joints that were roasted in it—sirloins of beef and saddles of mutton. Colossal copper preserving pans full of homemade strawberry jam with pounds and pounds of sugar going into it. What a lovely, comfortable age the Victorian age was. Look at the furniture upstairs, large and solid and rather ornate—but, oh!—the heavenly comfort of it, with lots of room for the clothes one used to have, and every drawer sliding in and out so easily. Do you remember that smart modern flat we were lent? Everything built in and sliding—only nothing slid—it always stuck. And the doors pushed shut—only they never stayed shut, or if they did shut they wouldn’t open.’
‘Yes, that’s the worst of gadgets. If they don’t go right, you’re sunk.’
‘Well, come on, let’s hear the news.’
The news consisted mainly of grim warnings about the weather, the usual deadlock in foreign affairs, spirited bickerings in Parliament, and a murder in Culver Street, Paddington.
‘Ugh,’ said Molly, switching it off. ‘Nothing but misery. I’m not going to hear appeals for fuel economy all over again. What do they expect you to do, sit and freeze? I don’t think we ought to have tried to start a guesthouse in the winter. We ought to have waited until the spring.’ She added in a different tone of voice, ‘I wonder what the woman was like who was murdered.’
‘Mrs Lyon?’
‘Was that her name? I wonder who wanted to murder her and why.’
‘Perhaps she had a fortune under the floorboards.’
‘When it says the police are anxious to interview a man ‘seen in the vicinity’ does that mean he’s the murderer?’
‘I think it’s usually that. Just a polite way of putting it.’
The shrill note of a bell made them both jump.
‘That’s the front door,’ said Giles. ‘Enter—a murderer,’ he added facetiously.
‘It would be, of course, in a play. Hurry up. It must be Mr Wren. Now we shall see who’s right about him, you or me.’
Mr Wren and a flurry of snow came in together with a rush. All that Molly, standing in the library door, could see of the newcomer was his silhouette against the white world outside.
How alike, thought Molly, were all men in their livery of civilization. Dark overcoat, gray hat, muffler round the neck.
In another moment Giles had shut the front door against the elements, Mr Wren was unwinding his muffler and casting down his suitcase and flinging off his hat—all, it seemed, at the same time, and also talking. He had a high-pitched, almost querulous voice and stood revealed in the light of the hall as a young man with a shock of light, sunburned hair and pale, restless eyes.
‘Too, too frightful,’ he was saying. ‘The English winter at its worst—a reversion to Dickens—Scrooge and Tiny Tim and all that. One had to be so terribly hearty to stand up to it all. Don’t you think so? And I’ve had a terrible cross-country journey from Wales. Are you Mrs Davis? But how delightful!’ Molly’s hand was seized in a quick, bony clasp. ‘Not at all as I’d imagined you. I’d pictured you, you know, as an Indian army general’s widow. Terrifically grim and memsahibish—and Benares whatnot—a real Victorian whatnot. Heavenly, simply heavenly—Have you got any wax flowers? Or birds of paradise? Oh, but I’m simply going to love this place. I was afraid, you know, it would be very Olde Worlde—very, very Manor House—failing the Benares brass, I mean. Instead, it’s marvelous—real Victorian bedrock respectability. Tell me, have you got one of those beautiful sideboards—mahogany—purple-plummy mahogany with great carved fruits?’
‘As a matter of fact,’ said Molly, rather breathless under this torrent of words, ‘we have.’
‘No! Can I see it? At once. In here?’
His quickness was almost disconcerting. He had turned the handle of the dining-room door, and clicked on the light. Molly followed him in, conscious of Giles’s disapproving profile on her left.
Mr Wren passed his long bony fingers over the rich carving of the massive sideboard with little cries of appreciation. Then he turned a reproachful glance upon his hostess.
‘No big mahogany dining table? All these little tables dotted about instead?’
‘We thought people would prefer it that way,’ said Molly.
‘Darling, of course you’re quite right. I was being carried away by my feeling for period. Of course, if you had the table, you’d have to have the right family round it. Stern, handsome father with a beard—prolific, faded mother, eleven children, a grim governess, and somebody called “poor Harriet”—the poor relation who acts as general helper and is very, very grateful for being given a good home. Look at that grate—think of the flames leaping up the chimney and blistering poor Harriet’s back.’
‘I’ll take your suitcase upstairs,’ said Giles. ‘East room?’
‘Yes,’ said Molly.
Mr Wren skipped out into the hall again as Giles went upstairs.
‘Has it got a four-poster with little chintz roses?’ he asked.
‘No, it hasn’t,’ said Giles and disappeared round the bend of the staircase.
‘I don’t believe your husband is going to like me,’ said Mr Wren. ‘What’s he been in? The navy?’
‘Yes.’
‘I thought so. They’re much less tolerant than the army and the air force. How long have you been married? Are you very much in love with him?’
‘Perhaps you’d like to come up and see your room.’
‘Yes, of course that was impertinent. But I did really want to know. I
