The Magus of Hay(45)

PART THREE


The night sky looked pale and

strange. Reflected in the window

I saw a glimmer of flame…

‘Join the ranks of the homeless,’

remarked a hippy standing next

to me.



Richard Booth

My Kingdom of Books (1999)





21

An extremely brief affair


‘AND WHERE, PRAY, is Robinson today?’ Miss White asked sweetly. ‘Are you an ex-item, as they say? Has he tired of your piety and your wearisome soul-scouring and found himself a new home between the thighs of some cheery little whore?’

She was crouching behind her Zimmer like a cat in a cage. None of the other residents was in this particular lounge. Occasionally a wizened face would peer around the door at the far end of the room and then vanish when it discerned the occupant.

‘Athena,’ Merrily said, ‘I’m awfully afraid that… Robinson is working. But he sends his…’

‘Regrets? I doubt it.’ Miss White was sitting in a strong, supportive armchair with the Zimmer in front of it. She peered over the frame, curious. ‘You didn’t call me Anthea. You must want something. How exciting. What’ve you brought me?’

‘Left your chocolates with Mrs Cardelow to share among the other old ladies.’

Poor Mrs Cardelow, who, on arriving at The Glades, must have thought her worst problems would be linked to dementia. As distinct from a malevolent, alien intellect in a bushbaby’s body.

Miss White’s eyes narrowed. Was she wearing heavy mascara or were they just becoming more satanic? Merrily pulled out one of the harder chairs and sat down a safe distance away, her black hoodie unzipped to expose the pectoral cross.



‘So… when will you be back on your feet? I thought people were supposed to do a fair bit of walking after hip replacement.’

‘Never walked anywhere without a specific purpose, Watkins, as you know.’

‘I thought that was the purpose.’

Miss White scowled.

‘Felt compelled to discharge myself soon after surgery. No one warned me that the art of being a patronizing little shit is now part of the core curriculum at medical schools. On which basis…’ She lifted the Zimmer to one side, exposing her cuddly mauve jersey dress ‘… I suppose I should greet you like a breath of fresh air.’ She sniffed. ‘No, that’s not right, either. Never mind. Why did you leave my chocolates with Cardelow?’

‘Mmm…’ Merrily looked out of the window, across the grounds to the Radnor hills, dark with impending rain. Actually she had the overpriced Belgian chocs in her bag. ‘If what I’ve heard is correct, you can now afford to buy your own. Also the finest thirty-year-old malt.’ Turning back to Miss White. ‘In quantity.’

Taking care not to smile. It was a gamble, but the odds were very much against the old vampire bat ever lowering herself so far as to ask how Merrily knew about the Cusop inheritance.

‘Watkins, I should say at the outset that if you’ve come about your pathetic steeple fund or the… parish orphanage, or some such—’

‘Wouldn’t be so crass, Anthea. I’ve come about Peter Rector. A man even older than you. Whose mental decline can only be measured by the way he’s disposed of his assets.’

You didn’t drop your guard and you didn’t give an inch. But her palms were moist and she had to clear her throat.

‘Hard as it is for me even to frame the question,’ she said, ‘does this mean that you might have been the, erm, love of his life?’

Miss White frowned, but her voice was tiny and kittenish.

‘Try harder.’

‘All right. Ruling out the possibility of some enormous, back-dated blackmail payoff, we’re probably looking at something that would take a long time to explain to someone without an extensive knowledge of the dark arts. Closer?’

No reply.

‘Of course, you don’t have to tell me anything. Or even the police.’

‘Watkins, you wouldn’t dare deprive me of the pleasure of demoralizing a detective.’

You had to accept that even the appearance of an Armed Response Unit fanning out across the lawn would elicit no more from Miss White than a faintly scornful smile. But now, quite suddenly, she was serious.

‘Seems to me, Watkins, that the only way you could know of my… well, you might think of it as good fortune, but at my age it’s no more than a tedious responsibility… is, indeed, from the police. Who aren’t yet ruling out the possibility that Peter Rector was murdered. Yes?’

‘Yes.’

‘And who, perforce, must now dip their clomping boots into unfamiliar waters. So some superintendent approaches his masonic brother, the Bishop of Hereford, with a view to obtaining some assistance from his appointed “advisor on the paranormal”…’