“He’s very kind, you know,” the girl said, half to herself. “More than need go with the job.”
She turned from the window. “Right, now we can have a drink. I don’t dare get it out while Nab’s here. They reckon he’ll even sup embalming fluid.”
Zoe crossed to a walnut corner cupboard from which she drew out and flourished a pair of bottles. “There’s all sorts. Just say what you fancy.” She scrutinized one bottle narrowly against the light. “Christ, looks like a urine sample.” Then, brightening “How about a sherry? There’s a nice one here that’s not a bit sour. Poor Dickie thought it was terrible, but he stuck to whisky mostly.” She rummaged more deeply. “Hey, here’s some of that lovely yucky green stuff. A boyfriend of mine used to give it to me mixed with Guinness. Jeez...”
“Whisky, I think,” said Miss Teatime, “would be very acceptable.” She glanced at Mr Harrington, who said quickly: “Yes, yes indeed.”
Zoe said “Half a tick” and fetched three tumblers from another room. She half-filled two of them, pouring the whisky with bold dispatch, like disinfectant. Into the third glass, more lovingly, she slurped sweet sherry.
Miss Teatime raised her tumbler. “To the dear departed.” Her companion made a reverent murmur.
“Cheers,” said Zoe, then, as if on an afterthought, went again to the cupboard and topped up her sherry with crème de menthe. She winked fondly at the coffin lid and took a sip. She closed her eyes. “Bloody sight better than with Guinness.”
Miss Teatime looked about her. “You have a very beautiful home, Mrs Loughbury.” Edgar pursed his lips and nodded.
Zoe sighed. “I’m very lucky, really.”
Not half, reflected Mr Harrington, eyeing a group of enamelled and silver-gilt snuffboxes. He also noted the pair of Meissen figures that set off a rosewood table (Florentine?—he thought it probable) and the miniature, aglow in its collar of elaborate gilt, depicting one of the children of Louis XVI. Concerning most of the pictures, he was less confident, but one—whose gaiety of colour and exquisite geometries proclaimed Klee—struck him as almost certainly an original.
Zoe saw him looking. She pouted at it disparagingly.
“Like it, do you?”
He said nothing, but peered closer. It was, it had to be.
“Reckon I could do better myself,” said Zoe. “The trouble with getting presents from people is that you’ve got to keep them where they can be seen.”
Miss Teatime joined Edgar in regarding the picture. “It was a gift, was it?” she inquired indifferently over her shoulder.
“Not to me.” Zoe seemed to find that notion amusing. “To Dickie. Instead of a fee, I expect. He was soft about bills. Poor duck.”
“Ah, like doctors.”
“Pardon me?”
“Doctors,” explained Miss Teatime, “once were known to accept payment in kind. Before the National Health Service. I had not realized that solicitors might find themselves similarly placed.”
Zoe said, “Oh yes, Mr Loughbury quite often got presents. That could have been a reason.”
“I rather like it, you know,” said Miss Teatime. It sounded like a concession.
“You don’t!”
“Yes, I do. In a way.”
“Perhaps,” put in Mr Harrington, “Mrs Loughbury would consider selling it. If she does not care for it, I mean. I cannot pretend that I do, either, but if you would permit me...”His hand, wallet-seeking, insinuated itself beneath the lapel of his jacket.
Miss Teatime regarded him smilingly for a moment, then: “Stop it, Edgar; you look like Napoleon. That picture’s market value is something in the region of eighteen thousand pounds and well you know it.” She turned to Zoe. “I’m sorry, my dear, I have not had him long and he is not yet house-trained.”
The girl was staring incredulously at the painting. “Eighteen thousand,” she echoed.
“Thereabouts. The gentleman who painted it was very famous. He was called Mr Klee.” Edgar was now the young person’s guide to great art.
Zoe nudged him. “You were trying to take me to the cleaners, old mate.” Her forefinger jabbed sharply into the expensive suiting in the region of Edgar’s diaphragm. “Weren’t you?” Her expression had lost none of its amiability.
Edgar winced. He appeared to contract. “I was joking.”
For a second, Zoes regard wandered to the coffin. “Dickie was a bit of a joker,” she said, gently. “But about money—never.”
They talked of the future. Zoe said she had no plans to move to a smaller house, or to move from the village at all.
Her late husband had enjoyed good social connections, of which she, Zoe, was anxious to take advantage now that she had the opportunity (Dickie had always tended to be overconsiderate, bless him, with the result that she had been somewhat isolated from Mumblesby society). There were lots of things she wanted to help with: the church garden pageant, the Conservative gala, the Gentry and Yeomanry Association, and, of course, the Hunt—that especially.
The solicitor’s choice of whisky proved to be very much to Miss Teatime’s taste. Mr Harrington, all further jests forsworn, was also now paying its virtues due attention.
The past was touched upon.
“Were you brought up in these parts, Mrs Loughbury?” Miss Teatime inquired.
“Zoe.”
“Very well. Zoe.”
“No, not around here. Flax. My old man kept a pub, as a matter of fact.”
Mr Harrington looked pleased to hear it. So did Miss Teatime, who asked which one and insisted that she be addressed henceforth as Lucy.
“Oh, a real grotty old dump. Saracen’s Head.”
“Off Church Street?”
“That’s it.”
“A delightful inn,” exclaimed Miss Teatime. “How can you call it grotty? I remember your father from my first days in Flaxborough. Fred—am I right? He and some other gentlemen in the bar taught me the game of dominoes.” She turned to Edgar. “What a small world, is it not?”
Zoe was no less moved by the coincidence. “Christ! It was you, was it? Dad often talked about this old bird with a five-pound-note voice who pretended she didn’t know a blank from a six-spot and then took ten whiskies in one session off the poor old sod.” 1 Admiration shone in her eye.
1 related in Lonelyheart 4122
“Is your father still alive?”
“He passed away last February.”
“Oh, dear.”
“Mum’s still on the go. They were going to put her into that Twilight Close place but she wasn’t having any. Dick was very good. He got the new landlord at the Saracens to let Mum stay on in a flat of her own.”
“It must be—must have been—advantageous to have so persuasive a husband, Zoe.”