“To get rid of your smell, Julian. If he is to sniff out rats and mice, he can’t have Julian all over him.”
“Okay, I see that.” Julian wriggled up beside his mother and looked at Millie with topaz eyes. “Hi,” he said.
“Hi. I’m Millie.”
Out of the corner of her eye Millie saw an ugly pit bull dog join the cat; they ambled together toward the back foyer.
“You can be nice to Julian,” Desdemona said gravely. “He’s through his most annoying phase, at least for the time being.”
“What was your most annoying phase, Julian?” Millie asked.
“Daddy said, I was a defense attorney.” Julian reached for his mother’s tea cup and drank its entire contents thirstily.
“You let him drink tea?” Millie asked, appalled.
“Well, drinking gallons of it from infancy didn’t stop us Brits from ruling most of the world,” said Desdemona, laughing. “I put extra milk in it if Julian drinks it, but tea’s good value.” She gazed at Millie sternly. “Come! Talk to me about you and Jim.”
“That does it!” said Julian loudly, sliding down from the seat with a flick at Alex’s cheek that Millie supposed was love. “I have to supervise Private Frankie and Corporal Winston. See ya!” And off he went.
“His speech is dreadful,” his mother said. “Try though I do to limit them, he’s full of Americanisms.”
“He lives in America, Desdemona.”
She sighed. “The quintessential gun culture. But let’s not talk about my sons. Who interviewed you last night?”
“Abe. Thank God for a friendly face.”
“Don’t say that too loudly. Carmine doesn’t want an outside agency invited in to investigate because of propinquity.” She chuckled. “Such a peculiar word to use!”
“Not much chance of that,” said Millie. “I called Abe Lieutenant Goldberg and was as stiff as a poker. It was dreadful, Desdemona! Jim was right next to John when he took ill.”
“Someone had to be next to him,” Desdemona comforted, and poured more tea around the encumbrance of Alex, still sucking at his cookie. “I gather that further questioning is to wait until tomorrow — maybe Monday for you and Jim.”
“I must say that Abe took Davina’s absence calmly. Even after her doctor told him she’d have to wait until Sunday for questions, he just looked long-suffering.”
Desdemona grinned. “They encounter women like her all the time, Millie. All she’s doing is postponing what will be a nastier interview because she did postpone it. And enough of all that! Have you a nice frock for tonight?”
Millie’s face clouded. “Unfortunately, no. Kate let me pick through her enormous wardrobe, but tonight is a long dress that has to hold up academic robes, so I’m back to my graduation black dress. Men have their ties to hook robes and hoods around, but women don’t. You and Carmine are coming tonight, I hope?”
“We’ll be there, Millie,” said Desdemona, smiling.
“You said tonight was an annoying inconvenience, Mommy,” said Julian, stomping in like a soldier back from the wars.
“He’s turned into a parrot,” his mother said. “I absolutely despair of sensible conversation with him.”
“Why do you absolutely despair of sensible conversation with me, Mommy? I know lots of big words.”
“You know them like a parrot.”
“Pooh, nonsense!” said Julian.
“Oh, lord, I said that weeks ago, and he won’t forget it!”
Alex opened his mouth and grinned, revealing teeth.
Ivy Hall was one of the oldest buildings at Chubb University, itself nearly three hundred years old, and Ivy Hall had been preserved with loving care. Built of red brick in 1725, it had been the original classroom, though for the last hundred years it had been used only for important banquets. Until Mawson MacIntosh, fondly known as M.M., had taken over as President of Chubb, its accommodation had been on the spartan side — scarred wooden benches and refectory tables. With his unparalleled genius for fund raising, M.M. had persuaded the Wicken family to donate a large sum to refurnish Ivy Hall; it now had proper dining tables of the finest mahogany, with upholstered mahogany chairs.
Its walls were hung with priceless Flemish tapestries between floor-to-ceiling Georgian windows, with space for long paintings of landscapes here and there. The oak floor had been treated, and the dais designed to take a high table given a much needed spit and polish.
The official reason for giving this particular banquet was to mark the retirement of the present Head Scholar of the Chubb University Press, and the assumption of the title Head Scholar by his successor. How the man responsible for the administration of C.U.P. had come to be known as its Head Scholar was lost in the mists of time for most; in actual fact it went back to the founding of C.U.P. in 1819, and was supposed to reflect Chubb University’s charter principles. This night, however, also marked another fact about C.U.P.: it was 150 years old, and celebrating its sesquicentenary. For that reason, the heavy place mats bore a beautifully chased design based on the number 150, dreamed up by C.U.P.’s associated design firm, Imaginexa; it was therefore the brain child of Davina Tunbull, who had gone further and put a few festive gold-and-silver touches on the hall that not the most conservative of academics could have damned as in bad taste.