was there.
I got up. I said:
'I – I must think it over.'
Mr Bradley was once more his pleasant and urbane self.
'Certainly think it over. Never rush into anything. If you decide to do business, come back, and we will go into the matter fully. Take your time. No hurry in the world. Take your time.'
I went out with those words echoing in my ears.
'Take your time…'
Chapter 13
I approached my task of interviewing Mrs Tuckerton with the utmost reluctance. Goaded to it by Ginger, I was still far from convinced of its wisdom. To begin with I felt myself unfitted for the task I had set myself. I was doubtful of my ability to produce the needed reaction, and I was acutely conscious of masquerading under false colours.
Ginger, with the almost terrifying efficiency which she was able to display when it suited her, had briefed me by telephone.
'It will be quite simple. It's a Nash house. Not the usual style one associates with him. One of his near-Gothic flights of fancy.'
'And why should I want to see it?'
'You're considering writing an article or a book on the influences that cause fluctuation of an architect's style. That sort of thing.'
'Sounds very bogus to me,' I said.
'Nonsense,' said Ginger robustly. 'When you get on to learned subjects, or arty ones, the most incredible theories are propounded and written about, in the utmost seriousness, by the most unlikely people. I could quote you chapters of tosh.'
'That's why you would really be a much better person to do this than I am.'
'That's where you are wrong,' Ginger told me. 'Mrs T. can look you up in Who's Who and be properly impressed. She can't look me up there.'
I remained unconvinced, though temporarily defeated.
On my return from my incredible interview with Mr Bradley, Ginger and I had put our heads together. It was less incredible to her than it was to me. It afforded her, indeed, a distinct satisfaction.
'It puts an end to whether we're imagining things or not,' she pointed out. 'Now we know that an organization does exist for getting unwanted people out of the way.'
'By supernatural means!'
'You're so hidebound in your thinking. It's all that wispiness and the false scarabs that Sybil wears. It puts you off. And if Mr Bradley had turned out to be a quack practitioner, or a pseudo-astrologer, you'd still be unconvinced. But since he turns out to be a nasty down-to-earth little legal crook – or that's the impression you give me -'
'Near enough,' I said.
'Then that makes the whole thing come into line. However phony it may sound, those three women at the Pale Horse have got hold of something that works.'
'If you're so convinced, then why Mrs Tuckerton?'
'Extra check,' said Ginger. 'We know what Thyrza Grey says she can do. We know how the financial side is worked. We know a little about three of the victims. We want to know more about the client angle.'
'And suppose Mrs Tuckerton shows no signs of having been a client?'
'Then we'll have to investigate elsewhere.'
'Of course, I may boob it,' I said gloomily.
Ginger said that I must think better of myself than that.
So here I was, arriving at the front door of Carraway Park. It certainly did not look like my preconceived idea of a Nash house. In many ways it was a near castle of modest proportions. Ginger had promised to supply me with a recent book on Nash architecture, but it had not arrived in time, so I was here somewhat inadequately briefed.
I rang the bell, and a rather seedy-looking man in an alpaca coat opened the door.
'Mr Easterbrook?' he said. 'Mrs Tuckerton's expecting you.'
He showed me into an elaborately furnished drawing room. The room made a disagreeable impression upon me. Everything in it was expensive, but chosen without taste. Left to itself, it could have been a room of pleasant proportions. There were one or two good pictures, and a great many bad ones. There was a great deal of yellow brocade. Further cogitations were interrupted by the arrival of Mrs Tuckerton herself. I arose with difficulty from the depths of a bright yellow brocade sofa.
I don't know what I had expected, but I suffered a complete reversal of feeling. There was nothing sinister here; merely a completely ordinary young to middle-aged woman. Not a very interesting woman, and not, I thought, a particularly nice woman. The lips, in spite of a generous application of lipstick were thin and bad-tempered. The chin receded a little. The eyes were pale blue and gave the impression that she was appraising the price of everything. She was the sort of woman who undertipped porters and cloakroom attendants. There are a lot of women of her type to be met in the world, though mainly less expensively dressed, and not so well made-up.
'Mr Easterbrook?' She was clearly delighted by my visit. She even gushed a little. 'I'm so pleased to meet you. Fancy your being interested in this house. Of course I knew it was built by John Nash, my husband told me so, but I never realised that it would be interesting to a person like you!'
'Well, you see, Mrs Tuckerton, it's not quite his usual style, and that makes it interesting to – er -'
She saved me the trouble of continuing.
'I'm afraid I'm terribly stupid about that sort of thing – architecture, I mean, and archeology and all that. But you mustn't mind my ignorance -'
I didn't mind at all. I preferred it.
'Of course all that sort of thing is terribly interesting,' said Mrs Tuckerton.
I said that we specialists, on the contrary, were usually terribly dull and very boring on our own particular subject.
Mrs Tuckerton said she was sure that that wasn't true, and would I like to have tea first and see the house afterwards, or see round the house and then have tea.
I hadn't bargained for tea – my appointment had been for three-thirty, but I said that perhaps the house first.
She showed me round, chattering vivaciously most of the time, and thus relieving me of uttering any architectural judgments.
It was lucky, she said, that I'd come now. The house was up for sale – 'It's too big for me, since my husband's death' – and she believed there was a purchaser already, though the agents had only had it on their books for just over a week.
'I wouldn't have liked you to see it when it was empty. I think a house needs to be lived in, if one is really to appreciate it, don't you, Mr Easterbrook?'
I would have preferred this house unlived in, and unfurnished, but naturally I could not say so. I asked her if she was going to remain in the neighbourhood.
'Really, I'm not quite sure. I shall travel a little first. Get into the sunshine. I hate this miserable climate. Actually I think I shall winter in Egypt. I was there two years ago. Such a wonderful country, but I expect you know all about it.'
I knew nothing about Egypt and said so.
'I expect you're just being modest,' she said gaily and vaguely. 'This is the dining room. It's octagonal. That's right, isn't it? No corners.'
I said she was quite right and praised the proportions.
