At Bertram’s Hotel

He asked Elvira if she would like a drink. He was about to propose a bitter lemon, ginger ale, or orangeade, but Elvira forestalled him.

‘Thank you. I should like a gin and vermouth.’

Colonel Luscombe looked at her rather doubtfully. He supposed girls of—what was she? sixteen? seventeen?—did drink gin and vermouth. But he reassured himself that Elvira knew, so to speak, correct Greenwich social time. He ordered a gin and vermouth and a dry sherry.

He cleared his throat and asked:

‘How was Italy?’

‘Very nice, thank you.’

‘And that place you were at, the Contessa what’s-her-name? Not too grim?’

‘She is rather strict. But I didn’t let that worry me.’

He looked at her, not quite sure whether the reply was not slightly ambiguous.

He said, stammering a little, but with a more natural manner than he had been able to manage before:

‘I’m afraid we don’t know each other as well as we ought to, seeing I’m your guardian as well as your godfather. Difficult for me, you know—difficult for a man who’s an old buffer like me—to know what a girl wants—at least—I mean to know what a girl ought to have. Schools and then after school—what they used to call finishing in my day. But now, I suppose it’s all more serious. Careers eh? Jobs? All that? We’ll have to have a talk about all that sometime. Anything in particular you want to do?’

‘I suppose I shall take a secretarial course,’ said Elvira without enthusiasm.

‘Oh. You want to be a secretary?’

‘Not particularly—’

‘Oh—well, then—’

‘It’s just what you start with,’ Elvira explained.

Colonel Luscombe had an odd feeling of being relegated to his place.

‘These cousins of mine, the Melfords. You think you’ll like living with them? If not—’

‘Oh I think so. I like Nancy quite well. And Cousin Mildred is rather a dear.’

‘That’s all right then?’

‘Quite, for the present.’

Luscombe did not know what to say to that. Whilst he was considering what next to say, Elvira spoke. Her words were simple and direct.

‘Have I any money?’

Again he took his time before answering, studying her thoughtfully. Then he said:

‘Yes. You’ve got quite a lot of money. That is to say, you will have when you are twenty-one.’

‘Who has got it now?’

He smiled. ‘It’s held in trust for you; a certain amount is deducted each year from the income to pay for your maintenance and education.’

‘And you are the trustee?’

‘One of them. There are three.’

‘What happens if I die?’

‘Come, come, Elvira, you’re not going to die. What nonsense!’

‘I hope not—but one never knows, does one? An airliner crashed only last week and everyone was killed.’

‘Well, it’s not going to happen to you,’ said Luscombe firmly.

‘You can’t really know that,’ said Elvira. ‘I was just wondering who would get my money if I died?’

‘I haven’t the least idea,’ said the Colonel irritably. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘It might be interesting,’ said Elvira thoughtfully. ‘I wondered if it would be worth anyone’s while to kill me.’

‘Really, Elvira! This is a most unprofitable conversation. I can’t understand why your mind dwells on such things.’

‘Oh. Just ideas. One wants to know what the facts really are.’

‘You’re not thinking of the Mafia—or something like that?’

‘Oh no. That would be silly. Who would get my money if I was married?’

‘Your husband, I suppose. But really—’

‘Are you sure of that?’

‘No, I’m not in the least sure. It depends on the wording of the Trust. But you’re not married, so why worry?’

Elvira did not reply. She seemed lost in thought. Finally she came out of her trance and asked:

‘Do you ever see my mother?’

‘Sometimes. Not very often.’

‘Where is she now?’

‘Oh—abroad.’

‘Where abroad?’

‘France—Portugal. I don’t really know.’