Seventeen

Feeling completely bewildered, Mrs. Oliver was endeavouring to cower in the corner of a veryminute theatrical dressing room. Not being the figure to cower, she only succeeded in bulging.

Bright young men, removing grease paint with towels, surrounded her and at intervals pressedwarm beer upon her.

Mrs. Upward, her good humour completely restored, had speeded their departure with goodwishes, Robin had been assiduous in making all arrangements for her comfort before departure,running back a couple of times after they were in the car to see that all was as it should be.

On the last occasion he came back grinning.

“Madre was just ringing off on the telephone, and the wicked old thing still won’t tell me whoshe was ringing up. But I bet I know.”

“I know, too,” said Mrs. Oliver.

“Well, who do you say?”

“Hercule Poirot.”

“Yes, that’s my guess, too. She’s going to pump him, Madre does like having her littlesecrets, doesn’t she? Now darling, about the play tonight. It’s very important that you tell mehonestly just what you think of Cecil—and whether he’s your idea of Eric. .?.?.”

Needless to say, Cecil Leech had not been at all Mrs. Oliver’s idea of Eric. Nobody, indeed,could have been more unlike. The play itself she had enjoyed, but the ordeal of “going roundafterwards” was fraught with its usual terrors.

Robin, of course, was in his element. He had Cecil (at least Mrs. Oliver supposed it wasCecil) pinned against the wall and was talking nineteen to the dozen. Mrs. Oliver had beenterrified of Cecil and much preferred somebody called Michael who was talking to her kindly atthe moment. Michael, at least, did not expect her to reciprocate, in fact Michael seemed to prefer amonologue. Somebody called Peter made occasional incursions on the conversation, but on thewhole it resolved itself into a stream of faintly amusing malice by Michael.

“—too sweet of Robin,” he was saying. “We’ve been urging him to come and see the show.

But of course he’s completely under that terrible woman’s thumb, isn’t he? Dancing attendance.

And really Robin is brilliant, don’t you think so? Quite quite brilliant. He shouldn’t be sacrificedon a Matriarchal altar. Women can be awful, can’t they? You know what she did to poor AlexRoscoff? All over him for nearly a year and then discovered that he wasn’t a Russian émigré at all.

Of course he had been telling her some very tall stories, but quite amusing, and we all knew itwasn’t true, but after all why should one care?—and then when she found out he was just a littleEast End tailor’s son, she dropped him, my dear. I mean, I do hate a snob, don’t you? Really Alexwas thankful to get away from her. He said she could be quite frightening sometimes—a littlequeer in the head, he thought. Her rages! Robin dear, we’re talking about your wonderful Madre.

Such a shame she couldn’t come tonight. But it’s marvellous to have Mrs. Oliver. All thosedelicious murders.”

An elderly man with a deep bass voice grasped Mrs. Oliver’s hand and held it in a hot, stickygrasp.

“How can I ever thank you?” he said in tones of deep melancholy. “You’ve saved my life—saved my life many a time.”

Then they all came out into the fresh night air and went across to the Pony’s Head, wherethere were more drinks and more stage conversation.

By the time Mrs. Oliver and Robin were driving homeward, Mrs. Oliver was quite exhausted.

She leaned back and closed her eyes. Robin, on the other hand, talked without stopping.

“—and you do think that might be an idea, don’t you?” he finally ended.

“What?”

Mrs. Oliver jerked open her eyes.

She had been lost in a nostalgic dream of home. Walls covered with exotic birds and foliage.

A deal table, her typewriter, black coffee, apples everywhere .?.?. What bliss, what glorious andsolitary bliss! What a mistake for an author to emerge from her secret fastness. Authors were shy,unsociable creatures, atoning for their lack of social aptitude by inventing their own companionsand conversations.

“I’m afraid you’re tired,” said Robin.

“Not really. The truth is I’m not very good with people.”

“I adore people, don’t you?” said Robin happily.

“No,” said Mrs. Oliver firmly.

“But you must. Look at all the people in your books.”

“That’s different. I think trees are much nicer than people, more restful.”

“I need people,” said Robin, stating an obvious fact. “They stimulate me.”

He drew up at the gate of Laburnums.

“You go in,” he said. “I’ll put the car away.”

Mrs. Oliver extracted herself with the usual difficulty and walked up the path.

“The door’s not locked,” Robin called.

It wasn’t. Mrs. Oliver pushed it open and entered. There were no lights on, and that struck heras rather ungracious on the hostess’s part. Or was it perhaps economy? Rich people were so ofteneconomical. There was a smell of scent in the hall, something rather exotic and expensive. For amoment Mrs. Oliver wondered if she were in the right house, then she found the light switch andpressed it down.

The light sprang up in the low oak-beamed square hall. The door into the sitting room wasajar and she caught sight of a foot and leg. Mrs. Upward, after all, had not gone to bed. She musthave fallen asleep in her chair, and since no lights were on, she must have been asleep a long time.

Mrs. Oliver went to the door and switched on the lights in the sitting room.

“We’re back—” she began and then stopped.

Her hand went up to her throat. She felt a tight knot there, a desire to scream that she couldnot put into operation.

Her voice came out in a whisper:

“Robin—Robin. .?.?.”

It was some time before she heard him coming up the path, whistling, and then she turnedquickly and ran to meet him in the hall.

“Don’t go in there—don’t go in. Your mother—she—she’s dead—I think—she’s been killed.

.?.?.”