Наташа Купер - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 126, No. 1. Whole No. 767, July 2005

Fiona Walker said, “Are you sure it’s wise telling him everything?”

He shrugged. “What we all agreed. And it can’t hurt, can it? Given the alternative. We’re not monsters, after all.”

There was no reply to this. She simply looked at him.

“We’re not,” he insisted.

She said, “I just hope you know what you’re doing.”

“And I hope you know what you’re supposed to be doing. And I hope you’re up to it,” he said, looking at her. She looked back at him steadily.

“Don’t you worry, Rod. I know, all right. And I’ll be well up to it, if the time comes.”

“Well, that’s good, because otherwise, it’ll be you saying goodbye. To all sorts of things.”

Fiona held his gaze for a moment and then turned to look out at the garden and the faded grey wilting things in the flower beds.

“Well, I don’t imagine he’ll be sorry to say goodbye to his flowers, do you? Doesn’t seem to be much of a gardener.”

“His roses seem to be doing all right,” said Walker, nodding towards some distant bushes.

“Roses. Anyone can grow roses,” said Fiona Walker, “even I can grow roses.”

They parked in front of the front door, and George caught them up, panting slightly and red in the face. He opened the car door for Fiona, who got out, smoothing creases out of her skirt. She was at least as tall as he was, with a good-looking, angular face, spoiled by a pair of rather thin lips. Rod got out and came round the car to shake George’s hand with a grin on his wide, over-handsome face.

“George,” he said, “good to see you. You remember Fiona?”

George stuck out his hand to Fiona, but she leaned towards him with her head tilted and he was obliged to give her a self-conscious peck on the cheek.

“Welcome to Les Roseaux,” George said. He seemed to be waiting for something.

Rod nodded. “Roseaux,” he said to Fiona, “means ‘reeds’ in French.”

“Reeds. Oh. Reads. I see,” said Fiona Walker. “Jolly good. Nice one, George.”

“Come you in,” said George, ushering them to the massive oak door, “come and have a look at the place.”

He had the air of a man about to take a driving test after too few lessons. He went first to the door and shouted, “Hilda! People!”

He ushered them in.

The house was split in two. To the right, a door opened into a dining room, and a passage led, judging by the smells and noises, to the kitchen. And to the left was the living room. Fiona Walker surveyed the room. It was huge, occupying the entire height of the house, with the original beams and cross-bracings showing. At the far end was a monumental fireplace and at this end an open staircase led up to an open landing where a door led presumably to the bedroom corridor.

In this vast room, the furniture which Hilda had chosen looked lost, a group of orphan children wandering in a cathedral. Even two sofas flanking the fireplace did nothing to fill up the acreage, and the multitude of little end tables and occasional tables and sideboards and cabinets simply served to accentuate all that vastness.

“Very nice, George,” said Walker.

“Charming,” said Fiona Walker, “really very charming.”

George smiled shyly.

“We like it,” he said, as Hilda entered from the kitchen.

“Hilda,” George said, “you remember Rod and Fiona.”

“Yes,” said Hilda, and advanced upon them. She was a large woman — Walker remembered, now — with a large face on which the features were somehow crowded too close together, not quite filling the space available, a bit like the furniture in this enormous room.

“Drinkingtons, I think,” said George, after Hilda had bestowed hesitant kisses upon the two Walkers. “Sit you down, both of you.” He led the way to the sofas.

“Nothing for me, thank you,” said Hilda. She had a soft, hesitant voice. “I have lunch to finish. I’ll have a glass of my cordial in the kitchen.” And she went back to the kitchen.

George served the Walkers with the gin and tonic and the vodka and tonic they asked for and then poured himself a large whisky from a large bottle of Islay malt.

Walker looked at his wife.

“George obviously still appreciates the good things in life,” he said, nodding at the bottle. Fiona nodded, very briefly, just once.

“That’s one thing about France,” George said, sitting down, “drink’s half the price it is in England. Cheers,” he added, raising his glass.

“Your continued good health, George,” said Walker.

“Salut,” said Fiona Walker.

Then they sat making light conversation, and avoiding the only thing that there was to talk about, which was why the Walkers had come.

Lunch was truly appalling. The only eatable thing was a tomato salad which, Walker supposed, nobody could bugger up. But the leg of lamb was overdone to a turn, the potatoes were at once floury and undercooked, and the runner beans were stringy and tough. Hilda was evidently an awful cook, in the classic tradition of awful English cooks. There was a Camembert which was ripe to the point of insolence and that was it for the lunch. The only redeeming feature was the wine, a halfway reasonable claret which George dispensed with what was, for him, abandon. The conversation was stilted, and limited to France, the French, their traditions and customs, and their irritating habit of saying “hein?” at the end of every sentence.

When it was clear that no more inedibles were to appear, Walker nodded at Fiona.

“Right,” she said immediately, “I think the boys should go out on the terrace and do some catching-up, don’t you, Hilda, while I give you a hand with the dishes.”

Hilda nodded. “I’ll bring coffee out presently,” she said. This was almost the first thing she had said since they arrived.

So the boys went out onto the terrace with a bottle of Calvados and two glasses. They sat at the white table under the red parasol. George poured two careful measures and Walker looked at the rolling sunlit countryside.

“Splendid view you have.”

George said, “Oh, yes, it is nice, isn’t it? We’re a bit isolated here, but there are compensations, like the view. I don’t suppose much has changed since Henry the Fifth rolled up through these parts.”

Walker looked uncomprehending. George waved a hand to the north.

“Agincourt’s only about eighty miles from here. Though that was October, and I don’t imagine it was much fun for an archer on foot, mud up to his shins, freezing rain.”

Walker nodded and sipped his Calvados.

“Once more unto the breach and all that,” he said.

George shook his head. “That was Harfleur,” he said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder towards the south, “back that way. Although you’ve got the right campaign.”

Walker smiled. “I never was much of a one for history. Ancient history, that is. More recent history, that interests me a lot more.”

George tilted his head on one side and eyed him, like a bird.

“You’re getting to it, aren’t you? Why you’re here. All that.”

“All that,” said Walker. “Yes, I’m getting to it. I have to, George.”

“All right. I’ll ask the question. Why are you here?”

Walker sipped again at his Calvados, and squinted into the sunlit landscape. “How long has it been? Since you retired, I mean.”

“About a year,” George said.

“And you announced your intention of retiring six months before that.”

“Yes.”

“You see, it was funny, that, we all thought it was funny. Man like you, in the prime of life, only what, fifty-five? Suddenly upping and going like that. We all thought it was funny. Gordon and I did, anyway. You remember Gordon, the Financial Director? Of course you do. He was your boss, after all. We had quite a few chats about you. We didn’t mention it to the other members of the Board, of course, and still less to the Chairman. Poor old Eddie lives in another world anyway.”