The Moving Finger

‘So I was much relieved to see you’d still got an eye for a nice bit of skirt. She is a good looker. Funny that the S.A. should have been left out completely. It is odd, you know, Jerry. What is the thing that some women have and others haven’t? What is it makes one woman, even if she only says “Foul weather” so attractive that every man within range wants to come over and talk about the weather with her? I suppose Providence makes a mistake every now and then when sending out the parcel. One Aphrodite face and form, one temperament ditto. And something goes astray and the Aphrodite temperament goes to some little plain-faced creature, and then all the other women go simply mad and say, “I can’t think what the men see in her. She isn’t even good looking!”’

‘Have you quite finished, Joanna?’

‘Well, you do agree, don’t you?’

I grinned. ‘I’ll admit to disappointment.’

‘And I don’t see who else there is here for you. You’ll have to fall back upon Aimée Griffith.’

‘God forbid,’ I said.

‘She’s quite good looking, you know.’

‘Too much of an Amazon for me.’

‘She seems to enjoy her life, all right,’ said Joanna. ‘Absolutely disgustingly hearty, isn’t she? I shouldn’t be at all surprised if she had a cold bath every morning.’

‘And what are you going to do for yourself?’ I asked.

‘Me?’

‘Yes. You’ll need a little distraction down here if I know you.’

‘Who’s being low now? Besides, you forget Paul.’ Joanna heaved up a not very convincing sigh.

‘I shan’t forget him nearly as quickly as you will. In about ten days you’ll be saying, “Paul? Paul Who? I never knew a Paul.”’

‘You think I’m completely fickle,’ said Joanna.

‘When people like Paul are in question, I’m only too glad that you should be.’

‘You never did like him. But he really was a bit of a genius.’

‘Possibly, though I doubt it. Anyway, from all I’ve heard, geniuses are people to be heartily disliked. One thing, you won’t find any geniuses down here.’

Joanna considered for a moment, her head on one side.

‘I’m afraid not,’ she said regretfully.

‘You’ll have to fall back upon Owen Griffith,’ I said. ‘He’s the only unattached male in the place. Unless you count old Colonel Appleton. He was looking at you like a hungry bloodhound most of the afternoon.’

Joanna laughed.

‘He was, wasn’t he? It was quite embarrassing.’

‘Don’t pretend. You’re never embarrassed.’

Joanna drove in silence through the gate and round to the garage.

She said then:

‘There may be something in that idea of yours.’

‘What idea?’

Joanna replied:

‘I don’t see why any man should deliberately cross the street to avoid me. It’s rude, apart from anything else.’

‘I see,’ I said. ‘You’re going to hunt the man down in cold blood.’

‘Well, I don’t like being avoided.’

I got slowly and carefully out of the car, and balanced my sticks. Then I offered my sister a piece of advice.

‘Let me tell you this, my girl. Owen Griffith isn’t any of your tame whining artistic young men. Unless you’re careful you’ll stir up a hornet’s nest about your ears. That man could be dangerous.’

‘Oo, do you think so?’ demanded Joanna with every symptom of pleasure at the prospect.

‘Leave the poor devil alone,’ I said sternly.

‘How dare he cross the street when he saw me coming?’

‘All you women are alike. You harp on one theme. You’ll have Sister Aimée gunning you, too, if I’m not mistaken.’

‘She dislikes me already,’ said Joanna. She spoke meditatively, but with a certain satisfaction.

‘We have come down here,’ I said sternly, ‘for peace and quiet, and I mean to see we get it.’

But peace and quiet were the last things we were to have.

CHAPTER 4 (#ulink_0266a436-fc76-5502-b2d7-b05160cae5c9)

It was, I think, about a week later, that Partridge informed me that Mrs Baker would like to speak to me for a minute or two if I would be so kind.

The name Mrs Baker conveyed nothing at all to me.

‘Who is Mrs Baker?’ I said, bewildered—‘Can’t she see Miss Joanna?’

But it appeared that I was the person with whom an interview was desired. It further transpired that Mrs Baker was the mother of the girl Beatrice.

I had forgotten Beatrice. For a fortnight now, I had been conscious of a middle-aged woman with wisps of grey hair, usually on her knees retreating crablike from bathroom and stairs and passages when I appeared, and I knew, I suppose, that she was our new Daily Woman. Otherwise the Beatrice complication had faded from my mind.

I could not very well refuse to see Beatrice’s mother, especially as I learned that Joanna was out, but I was, I must confess, a little nervous at the prospect. I sincerely hoped that I was not going to be accused of having trifled with Beatrice’s affections. I cursed the mischievous activities of anonymous letter writers to myself at the same time as, aloud, I commanded that Beatrice’s mother should be brought to my presence.

Mrs Baker was a big broad weather-beaten woman with a rapid flow of speech. I was relieved to notice no signs of anger or accusation.

‘I hope, sir,’ she said, beginning at once when the door had closed behind Partridge, ‘that you’ll excuse the liberty I’ve taken in coming to see you. But I thought, sir, as you was the proper person to come to, and I should be thankful if you could see your way to telling me what I ought to do in the circumstances, because in my opinion, sir, something ought to be done, and I’ve never been one to let the grass grow under my feet, and what I say is, no use moaning and groaning, but “Up and doing” as vicar said in his sermon only the week before last.’