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Chapter 1

A Literary Luncheon

Mrs Oliver looked at herself in the glass. She gave a brief, sideways looktowards the clock on the mantel- piece, which she had some idea wastwenty minutes slow. Then she resumed her study of her coiffure. Thetrouble with Mrs Oliver was – and she admitted it freely – that her stylesof hairdressing were always being changed. She had tried almosteverything in turn. A severe pompadour at one time, then a wind-sweptstyle where you brushed back your locks to display an intellectual brow,at least she hoped the brow was intellectual. She had tried tightly ar-ranged curls, she had tried a kind of artistic disarray. She had to admitthat it did not matter very much today what her type of hairdressing was,because today she was going to do what she very seldom did, wear a hat.

On the top shelf of Mrs Oliver’s wardrobe there reposed four hats. Onewas definitely allotted to weddings. When you went to a wedding, a hatwas a ‘must’. But even then Mrs Oliver kept two. One, in a round bandbox,was of feathers. It fitted closely to the head and stood up very well to sud-den squalls of rain if they should overtake one unexpectedly as one passedfrom a car to the interior of the sacred edifice, or as so often now a days, aregistrar’s office.

The other, and more elaborate, hat was definitely for attending a wed-ding held on a Saturday afternoon in summer. It had flowers and chiffonand a covering of yellow net attached with mimosa.

The other two hats on the shelf were of a more all-purpose character.

One was what Mrs Oliver called her ‘country house hat’, made of tan feltsuitable for wearing with tweeds of almost any pattern, with a becomingbrim that you could turn up or turn down.

Mrs Oliver had a cashmere pullover for warmth and a thin pullover forhot days, either of which was suitable in colour to go with this. However,though the pullovers were frequently worn, the hat was practically neverworn. Because, really, why put on a hat just to go to the country and havea meal with your friends?

The fourth hat was the most expensive of the lot and it had extraordin-arily durable advantages about it. Possibly, Mrs Oliver sometimes thought,because it was so expensive. It consisted of a kind of turban of various lay-ers of contrasting velvets, all of rather becoming pastel shades whichwould go with anything.

Mrs Oliver paused in doubt and then called for assistance.

‘Maria,’ she said, then louder, ‘Maria. Come here a minute.’

Maria came. She was used to being asked to give advice on what MrsOliver was thinking of wearing.

‘Going to wear your lovely smart hat, are you?’ said Maria.

‘Yes,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘I wanted to know whether you think it looks bestthis way or the other way round.’

Maria stood back and took a look.

‘Well, that’s back to front you’re wearing it now, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, I know,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘I know that quite well. But I thoughtsomehow it looked better that way.’

‘Oh, why should it?’ said Maria.

‘Well, it’s meant, I suppose. But it’s got to be meant by me as well as theshop that sold it,’ said Mrs Oliver.

‘Why do you think it’s better the wrong way round?’

‘Because you get that lovely shade of blue and the dark brown, and Ithink that looks better than the other way which is green with the red andthe chocolate colour.’

At this point Mrs Oliver removed the hat, put it on again and tried itwrong way round, right way round and sideways, which both she andMaria disapproved of.

‘You can’t have it the wide way. I mean, it’s wrong for your face, isn’t it?

It’d be wrong for anyone’s face.’

‘No. That won’t do. I think I’ll have it the right way round, after all.’

‘Well, I think it’s safer always,’ said Maria.

Mrs Oliver took off the hat. Maria assisted her to put on a well cut, thinwoollen dress of a delicate puce colour, and helped her to adjust the hat.

‘You look ever so smart,’ said Maria.

That was what Mrs Oliver liked so much about Maria. If given the leastexcuse for saying so, she always approved and gave praise.

‘Going to make a speech at the luncheon, are you?’ Maria asked.

‘A speech!’ Mrs Oliver sounded horrified. ‘No, of course not. You know Inever make speeches.’

‘Well, I thought they always did at these here literary luncheons. That’swhat you’re going to, isn’t it? Famous writers of 1973 – or whichever yearit is we’ve got to now.’

‘I don’t need to make a speech,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘Several other peoplewho like doing it will be making speeches, and they are much better at itthan I would be.’

‘I’m sure you’d make a lovely speech if you put your mind to it,’ saidMaria, adjusting herself to the r?le of a tempter.

‘No, I shouldn’t,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘I know what I can do and I know whatI can’t. I can’t make speeches. I get all worried and nervy and I shouldprobably stammer or say the same thing twice. I should not only feel silly,I should probably look silly. Now it’s all right with words. You can writewords down or speak them into a machine or dictate them. I can do thingswith words so long as I know it’s not a speech I’m making.’

‘Oh well. I hope everything’ll go all right. But I’m sure it will. Quite agrand luncheon, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ said Mrs Oliver, in a deeply depressed voice. ‘Quite a grand lunch-eon.’

And why, she thought, but did not say, why on earth am I going to it?

She searched her mind for a bit because she always really liked knowingwhat she was going to do instead of doing it first and wondering why shehad done it afterwards.

‘I suppose,’ she said, again to herself and not to Maria, who had had toreturn rather hurriedly to the kitchen, summoned by a smell of overflow-ing jam which she happened to have on the stove, ‘I wanted to see what itfelt like. I’m always being asked to literary lunches or something like thatand I never go.’

* * *

Mrs Oliver arrived at the last course of the grand luncheon with a sighof satisfaction as she toyed with the remains of the meringue on her plate.

She was particularly fond of meringues and it was a delicious last coursein a very delicious luncheon. Nevertheless, when one reached middle age,one had to be careful with meringues. One’s teeth? They looked all right,they had the great advantage that they could not ache, they were whiteand quite agreeable- looking – just like the real thing. But it was trueenough that they were not real teeth. And teeth that were not real teeth –or so Mrs Oliver believed – were not really of high class material. Dogs,she had always understood, had teeth of real ivory, but human beings hadteeth merely of bone. Or, she supposed, if they were false teeth, of plastic.

Anyway, the point was that you mustn’t get involved in some rathershame-making appearance, which false teeth might lead you into. Lettucewas a difficulty, and salted almonds, and such things as chocolates withhard centres, clinging caramels and the delicious stickiness and adherenceof meringues. With a sigh of satisfaction, she dealt with the final mouthful.

It had been a good lunch, a very good lunch.

Mrs Oliver was fond of her creature comforts. She had enjoyed theluncheon very much. She had enjoyed the company, too. The luncheon,which had been given to celebrated female writers, had fortunately notbeen confined to female writers only. There had been other writers, andcritics, and those who read books as well as those who wrote them. MrsOliver had sat between two very charming members of the male sex. Ed-win Aubyn, whose poetry she always enjoyed, an extremely entertainingperson who had had various entertaining experiences in his tours abroad,and various literary and personal adventures. Also he was interested inrestaurants and food and they had talked very happily about food, and leftthe subject of literature aside.

Sir Wesley Kent, on her other side, had also been an agreeable luncheoncompanion. He had said very nice things about her books, and had hadthe tact to say things that did not make her feel embarrassed, which manypeople could do almost without trying. He had mentioned one or two reas-ons why he had liked one or other of her books, and they had been theright reasons, and therefore Mrs Oliver had thought favourably of him forthat reason. Praise from men, Mrs Oliver thought to herself, is always ac-ceptable. It was women who gushed. Some of the things that womenwrote to her! Really! Not always women, of course. Sometimes emotionalyoung men from very far away countries. Only last week she had receiveda fan letter beginning ‘Reading your book, I feel what a noble woman youmust be.’ After reading The Second Goldfish he had then gone off into anintense kind of literary ecstasy which was, Mrs Oliver felt, completely un-fitting. She was not unduly modest. She thought the detective stories shewrote were quite good of their kind. Some were not so good and somewere much better than others. But there was no reason, so far as she couldsee, to make anyone think that she was a noble woman. She was a luckywoman who had established a happy knack of writing what quite a lot ofpeople wanted to read. Wonderful luck that was, Mrs Oliver thought toherself.

Well, all things considered, she had got through this ordeal very well.

She had quite enjoyed herself, talked to some nice people. Now they weremoving to where coffee was being handed round and where you couldchange partners and chat with other people. This was the moment ofdanger, as Mrs Oliver knew well. This was now where other womenwould come and attack her. Attack her with fulsome praise, and whereshe always felt lamentably inefficient at giving the right answers becausethere weren’t really any right answers that you could give. It went reallyrather like a travel book for going abroad with the right phrases.

Question: ‘I must tell you how very fond I am of reading your books andhow wonderful I think they are.’

Answer from flustered author, ‘Well, that’s very kind. I am so glad.’

‘You must understand that I’ve been waiting to meet you for months. Itreally is wonderful.’

‘Oh, it’s very nice of you. Very nice indeed.’

It went on very much like that. Neither of you seemed to be able to talkabout anything of outside interest. It had to be all about your books, or theother woman’s books if you knew what her books were. You were in theliterary web and you weren’t good at this sort of stuff. Some people coulddo it, but Mrs Oliver was bitterly aware of not having the proper capacity.

A foreign friend of hers had once put her, when she was staying at an em-bassy abroad, through a kind of course.

‘I listen to you,’ Albertina had said in her charming, low, foreign voice, ‘Ihave listened to what you say to that young man who came from thenewspaper to interview you. You have not got – no! you have not got thepride you should have in your work. You should say “Yes, I write well. Iwrite better than anyone else who writes detective stories.”’

‘But I don’t,’ Mrs Oliver had said at that moment. ‘I’m not bad, but –’

‘Ah, do not say “I don’t” like that. You must say you do; even if you donot think you do, you ought to say you do.’

‘I wish, Albertina,’ said Mrs Oliver, ‘that you could interview thesejournalists who come. You would do it so well. Can’t you pretend to be meone day, and I’ll listen behind the door?’

‘Yes, I suppose I could do it. It would be rather fun. But they wouldknow I was not you. They know your face. But you must say “Yes, yes, Iknow that I am better than anyone else.” You must say that to everybody.

They should know it. They should announce it. Oh yes – it is terrible tohear you sitting there and say things as though you apologize for what youare. It must not be like that.’

It had been rather, Mrs Oliver thought, as though she had been a bud-ding actress trying to learn a part, and the director had found her hope-lessly bad at taking direction. Well, anyway, there’d be not much difficultyhere. There’d be a few waiting females when they all got up from thetable. In fact, she could see one or two hovering already. That wouldn’tmatter much. She would go and smile and be nice and say ‘So kind of you.

I’m so pleased. One is so glad to know people like one’s books.’ All the staleold things. Rather as you put a hand into a box and took out some usefulwords already strung together like a necklace of beads. And then, beforevery long now, she could leave.

Her eyes went round the table because she might perhaps see somefriends there as well as would-be admirers. Yes, she did see in the distanceMaurine Grant, who was great fun. The moment came, the literary womenand the attendant cavaliers who had also attended the lunch, rose. Theystreamed towards chairs, towards coffee tables, towards sofas, and confid-ential corners. The moment of peril, Mrs Oliver often thought of it to her-self, though usually at cocktail and not literary parties because she seldomwent to the latter. At any moment the danger might arise, as someonewhom you did not remember but who remembered you, or someonewhom you definitely did not want to talk to but whom you found youcould not avoid. In this case it was the first dilemma that came to her. Alarge woman. Ample proportions, large white champing teeth. What inFrench could have been called une femme formidable, but who definitelyhad not only the French variety of being formidable, but the English oneof being supremely bossy. Obviously she either knew Mrs Oliver, or wasintent on making her acquaintance there and then. The last was how ithappened to go.

‘Oh, Mrs Oliver,’ she said in a high-pitched voice. ‘What a pleasure tomeet you today. I have wanted to for so long. I simply adore your books.

So does my son. And my husband used to insist on never travellingwithout at least two of your books. But come, do sit down. There are somany things I want to ask you about.’

Oh well, thought Mrs Oliver, not my favourite type of woman, this. Butas well her as any other.

She allowed herself to be conducted in a firm way rather as a police of-ficer might have done. She was taken to a settee for two across a corner,and her new friend accepted coffee and placed coffee before her also.

‘There. Now we are settled. I don’t suppose you know my name. I amMrs Burton-Cox.’

‘Oh yes,’ said Mrs Oliver, embarrassed, as usual. Mrs Burton-Cox? Didshe write books also? No, she couldn’t really remember anything abouther. But she seemed to have heard the name. A faint thought came to her.

A book on politics, something like that? Not fiction, not fun, not crime. Per-haps a high-brow intellectual with political bias? That ought to be easy,Mrs Oliver thought with relief. I can just let her talk and say ‘How interest-ing!’ from time to time.

‘You’ll be very surprised, really, at what I’m going to say,’ said Mrs Bur-ton-Cox. ‘But I have felt, from reading your books, how sympathetic youare, how much you understand of human nature. And I feel that if there isanyone who can give me an answer to the question I want to ask, you willbe the one to do so.’

‘I don’t think, really …’ said Mrs Oliver, trying to think of suitable wordsto say that she felt very uncertain of being able to rise to the heights de-manded of her.

Mrs Burton-Cox dipped a lump of sugar in her coffee and crunched it ina rather carnivorous way, as though it was a bone. Ivory teeth, perhaps,thought Mrs Oliver vaguely. Ivory? Dogs had ivory, walruses had ivoryand elephants had ivory, of course. Great big tusks of ivory. Mrs Burton-Cox was saying:

‘Now the first thing I must ask you – I’m pretty sure I am right, though –you have a goddaughter, haven’t you? A goddaughter who’s called CeliaRavenscroft?’

‘Oh,’ said Mrs Oliver, rather pleasurably surprised. She felt she coulddeal perhaps with a goddaughter. She had a good many goddaughters –and godsons, for that matter. There were times, she had to admit as theyears were growing upon her, when she couldn’t remember them all. Shehad done her duty in due course, one’s duty being to send toys to yourgod-children at Christmas in their early years, to visit them and their par-ents, or to have them visit you during the course of their upbringing, totake the boys out from school perhaps, and the girls also. And then, whenthe crowning days came, either the twenty-first birthday at which a god-mother must do the right thing and let it be acknowledged to be done, anddo it handsomely, or else marriage which entailed the same type of giftand a financial or other blessing. After that godchildren rather recededinto the middle or far distance. They married or went abroad to foreigncountries, foreign embassies, or taught in foreign schools or took up socialprojects. Anyway, they faded little by little out of your life. You werepleased to see them if they suddenly, as it were, floated up on the horizonagain. But you had to remember to think when you had seen them last,whose daughters they were, what link had led to your being chosen as agodmother.

‘Celia Ravenscroft,’ said Mrs Oliver, doing her best. ‘Yes, yes, of course.

Yes, definitely.’

Not that any picture rose before her eyes of Celia Ravenscroft, not, thatis, since a very early time. The christening. She’d gone to Celia’s christen-ing and had found a very nice Queen Anne silver strainer as a christeningpresent. Very nice. Do nicely for straining milk and would also be the sortof thing a god- daughter could always sell for a nice little sum if shewanted ready money at any time. Yes, she remembered the strainer verywell indeed. Queen Anne – Seventeen-eleven it had been. Britannia mark.

How much easier it was to remember silver coffee-pots or strainers orchristening mugs than it was the actual child.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘yes, of course. I’m afraid I haven’t seen Celia for a verylong time now.’

‘Ah yes. She is, of course, a rather impulsive girl,’ said Mrs Burton-Cox. ‘Imean, she’s changed her ideas very often. Of course, very intellectual, didvery well at university, but – her political notions – I suppose all youngpeople have political notions nowadays.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t deal much with politics,’ said Mrs Oliver, to whompolitics had always been anathema.

‘You see, I’m going to confide in you. I’m going totell you exactly what itis I want to know. I’m sure you won’t mind. I’ve heard from so manypeople how kind you are, how willing always.’

I wonder if she’s going to try and borrow money from me, thought MrsOliver, who had known many interviews that began with this kind of ap-proach.

‘You see, it is a matter of the greatest moment to me. Something that Ireally feel I must find out. Celia, you see, is going to marry – or thinks sheis going tomarry – my son, Desmond.’

‘Oh, indeed!’ said Mrs Oliver.

‘At least, that is their idea at present. Of course, one has to know aboutpeople, and there’s something I want very much to know. It’s an ex-traordinary thing to ask anyone and I couldn’t go – well, I mean, I couldn’tvery well go and ask a stranger, but I don’t feel you are a stranger, dearMrs Oliver.’

Mrs Oliver thought, I wish you did. She was getting nervous now. Shewondered if Celia had had an illegitimate baby or was going to have an il-legitimate baby, and whether she, Mrs Oliver, was supposed to knowabout it and give details. That would be very awkward. On the other hand,thought Mrs Oliver, I haven’t seen her now for five or six years and shemust be about twenty-five or -six, so it would be quite easy to say I don’tknow anything.

Mrs Burton-Cox leaned forward and breathed hard. ‘I want you to tellme because I’m sure you must know or perhaps have a very good ideahow it all came about. Did her mother kill her father or was it the fatherwho killed the mother?’

Whatever Mrs Oliver had expected, it was certainly not that. She staredat Mrs Burton-Cox unbelievingly.

‘But I don’t –’ She stopped. ‘I – I can’t understand. I mean – what reason–’

‘Dear Mrs Oliver, you must know … I mean, such a famous case … Ofcourse, I know it’s a long time ago now, well, I suppose ten – twelve yearsat least, but it did cause a lot of attention at the time. I’m sure you’ll re-member, you must remember.’

Mrs Oliver’s brain was working desperately. Celia was her goddaughter.

That was quite true. Celia’s mother – yes, of course. Celia’s mother hadbeen Molly Preston-Grey, who had been a friend of hers, though not a par-ticularly intimate one, and of course she had married a man in the Army,yes – what was his name – Sir Something Ravenscroft. Or was he an am-bassador? Extraordinary, one couldn’t remember these things. Shecouldn’t even remember whether she herself had been Molly’s brides-maid. She thought she had. Rather a smart wedding at the Guards Chapelor something like that. But one did forget so. And after that she hadn’t metthem for years – they’d been out somewhere – in the Middle East? In Per-sia? In Iraq? One time in Egypt? Malaya? Very occasionally, when theyhad been visiting England, she met them again. But they’d been like one ofthose photographs that one takes and looks at. One knows the peoplevaguely who are in it but it’s so faded that you really can’t recognize themor remember who they were. And she couldn’t remember now whetherSir Something Ravenscroft and Lady Ravenscroft, born Molly Preston-Grey, had entered much into her life. She didn’t think so. But then … MrsBurton-Cox was still looking at her. Looking at her as though disappointedin her lack of savoir-faire, her inability to remember what had evidentlybeen a cause célèbre.

‘Killed? You mean – an accident?’

‘Oh no. Not an accident. In one of those houses by the sea. Cornwall, Ithink. Somewhere where there were rocks. Anyway, they had a housedown there. And they were both found on the cliff there and they’d beenshot, you know. But there was nothing really by which the police could tellwhether the wife shot the husband and then shot herself, or whether thehusband shot the wife and then shot himself. They went into the evidenceof the – you know – of the bullets and the various things, but it was verydifficult. They thought it might be a suicide pact and – I forget what theverdict was. Something – it could have been misadventure or somethinglike that. But of course everyone knew it must have been meant, and therewere a lot of stories that went about, of course, at the time –’

‘Probably all invented ones,’ said Mrs Oliver hopefully, trying to remem-ber even one of the stories if she could.

‘Well, maybe. Maybe. It’s very hard to say, I know. There were tales of aquarrel either that day or before, there was some talk of another man, andthen of course there was the usual talk about some other woman. And onenever knows which way it was about. I think things were hushed up agood deal because General Ravenscroft’s position was rather a high one,and I think it was said that he’d been in a nursing home that year, andhe’d been very run down or something, and that he really didn’t knowwhat he was doing.’

‘I’m really afraid,’ said Mrs Oliver, speaking firmly, ‘that I must say that Idon’t know anything about it. I do remember, now you mention it, thatthere was such a case, and I remember the names and that I knew thepeople, but I never knew what happened or anything at all about it. And Ireally don’t think I have the least idea …’

And really, thought Mrs Oliver, wishing she was brave enough to say it,how on earth you have the impertinence to ask me such a thing I don’tknow.

‘It’s very important that I should know,’ Mrs Burton-Cox said.

Her eyes, which were rather like hard marbles, started to snap.

‘It’s important, you see, because of my boy, my dear boy wanting tomarry Celia.’

‘I’m afraid I can’t help you,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘I’ve never heard anything.’

‘But you must know,’ said Mrs Burton-Cox. ‘I mean, you write these won-derful stories, you know all about crime. You know who commits crimesand why they do it, and I’m sure that all sorts of people will tell you thestory behind the story, as one so much thinks of these things.’

‘I don’t know anything,’ said Mrs Oliver, in a voice which no longer heldvery much politeness, and definitely now spoke in tones of distaste.

‘But you do see that really one doesn’t know who to go to ask about it? Imean, one couldn’t go to the police after all these years, and I don’t sup-pose they’d tell you anyway because obviously they were trying to hush itup. But I feel it’s important to get the truth.’

‘I only write books,’ said Mrs Oliver coldly. ‘They are entirely fictional. Iknow nothing personally about crime and have no opinions on crimino-logy. So I’m afraid I can’t help you in any way.’

‘But you could ask your goddaughter. You could ask Celia.’

‘Ask Celia!’ Mrs Oliver stared again. ‘I don’t see how I could do that. Shewas – why, I think she must have been quite a child when this tragedyhappened.’

‘Oh, I expect she knew all about it, though,’ said Mrs Burton-Cox. ‘Chil-dren always know everything. And she’d tell you. I’m sure she’d tell you.’

‘You’d better ask her yourself, I should think,’ said Mrs Oliver.

‘I don’t think I could really do that,’ said Mrs Burton-Cox. ‘I don’t think,you know, that Desmond would like it. You know he’s rather – well, he’srather touchy where Celia is concerned and I really don’t think that – no –I’m sure she’d tell you.’

‘I really shouldn’t dream of asking her,’ said Mrs Oliver. She made a pre-tence of looking at her watch. ‘Oh dear,’ she said, ‘what a long time we’vebeen over this delightful lunch. I must run now, I have a very importantappointment. Goodbye, Mrs – er – Bedley-Cox, so sorry I can’t help you butthese things are rather delicate and – does it really make any differenceanyway, from your point of view?’

‘Oh, I think it makes all the difference.’

At that moment, a literary figure whom Mrs Oliver knew well driftedpast. Mrs Oliver jumped up to catch her by the arm.

‘Louise, my dear, how lovely to see you. I hadn’t noticed you were here.’

‘Oh, Ariadne, it’s a long time since I’ve seen you. You’ve grown a lot thin-ner, haven’t you?’

‘What nice things you always say to me,’ said Mrs Oliver, engaging herfriend by the arm and retreating from the settee. ‘I’m rushing away be-cause I’ve got an appointment.’

‘I suppose you got tied up with that awful woman, didn’t you?’ said herfriend, looking over her shoulder at Mrs Burton-Cox.

‘She was asking me the most extraordinary questions,’ said Mrs Oliver.

‘Oh. Didn’t you know how to answer them?’

‘No. They weren’t any of my business anyway. I didn’t know anythingabout them. Anyway, I wouldn’t have wanted to answer them.’

‘Was it about anything interesting?’

‘I suppose,’ said Mrs Oliver, letting a new idea come into her head. ‘Isuppose it might be interesting, only –’

‘She’s getting up to chase you,’ said her friend. ‘Come along. I’ll see youget out and give you a lift to anywhere you want to go if you haven’t gotyour car here.’

‘I never take my car about in London, it’s so awful to park.’

‘I know it is. Absolutely deadly.’

Mrs Oliver made the proper goodbyes. Thanks, words of greatly ex-pressed pleasure, and presently was being driven round a London square.

‘Eaton Terrace, isn’t it?’ said the kindly friend. ‘Yes,’ said Mrs Oliver, ‘butwhere I’ve got to go now is – I think it’s Whitefriars Mansions. I can’t quiteremember the name of it, but I know where it is.’

‘Oh, flats. Rather modern ones. Very square and geometrical.’

‘That’s right,’ said Mrs Oliver.