Gary Alexander - Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, Vol. 86, No. 6. Whole No. 511, December 1985

Now here at her door was this young man dressed no differently from the thugs.

Miss Parmenter wrestled mentally with her fear and inexpectation. She knew she led a cloistered existence at the Ocean View. He was probably a decent young man who happened to favor leather and denim. Perhaps they all did nowadays.

She drew back from the secret eye and drew a long, uneven breath, then rubbed distractedly at her fingernails, pressing back her skin until it hurt. She could easily get rid of him by pretending she was out.

Yet she had waited twenty years for this opportunity. She would not let it pass.

She checked her hair. A wayward strand needed repinning under the coil.

He rang again.

It had to be him. There was no reason for anyone else to call.

She slotted the end of the safety-chain into its notch and opened the door the couple of inches it allowed, half hoping she would miraculously find the young man dressed in a three-piece suit and striped tie.

There was no miracle, but at least the jacket looked cleaner than some she had seen.

He grinned. “I’m Paul Yarrow. Not late, am I?”

He had remarkably even teeth. They were so perfect they could have been artificial. Perhaps he wasn’t as young as his style of dress suggested. His eyes were hidden behind a pair of large sunglasses.

“Remember?” he said. “I phoned last week.”

“Yes.”

She thought she had caught a whiff of liquor on his breath. It might have been something else, that aftershave they advertised on television. She tightened her grip on the door. “How do I know who you are?”

He gave a shrug and a smile. “I just said. I’m the guy that phoned.”

“Don’t you have a card or something?”

“Sorry.”

“Some kind of identification?”

“You’ll have to take my word for it.”

“I would have thought a firm as highly regarded as yours—”

“I’m not in the firm. I’m kind of, er, freelance, if you see what I mean. They called me up and asked me to do this one. Shall I come in, or would you fancy a drink somewhere?”

She didn’t care at all for his manner, but she told herself that it sounded like an educated accent. She really wanted to be convinced. She wanted passionately to go through with this.

She took a deep breath and unfixed the chain. “You had better come in, Mr. Yarrow.”

“Cheers.”

The tea things were already on the rosewood occasional table in the drawing room. She had only to fetch the teapot from the kitchen where the kettle had been simmering for the last twenty minutes, but she decided against it. She dared not leave him alone in the room.

“Won’t you sit down?”

Ignoring the invitation, he crossed the carpet to the corner cupboard and picked up a large stoneware vase. He balanced it in his palm and with his free hand caressed the surface, tracing ripples left by the potter’s fingers.

“Fantastic. Fabulous glaze.”

“It is rather lovely,” Miss Parmenter agreed.

“Must date from after her trip to Japan in 1933.”

Her skin prickled. “You know who made it?”

“Your sister — who else?”

He knew. The relief was as palpable as rain in tropical heat. For all his unprepossessing appearance, he had demonstrated his right to be there. He knew about pottery, about Maggie’s pottery. He was a connoisseur. “I couldn’t say which glaze it is,” she told him in a rush of words. “She had hundreds — well, dozens, anyway. She wrote them all down like recipes in a cookery book. She actually called them recipes. This could be anything, anything at all.”

“Celadon,” said Mr. Yarrow. “It’s one of the celadons. The grey-green.”

“Really? I believe you could be right, but I couldn’t for the life of me tell you what went into it.”

“Feldspar, wood ash, and a small quantity of iron oxide,” said Mr. Yarrow.

“You’re very well informed.”

“That’s why I’m here.” He replaced the vase. “Shall we get down to business?”

Miss Parmenter said, “I’ll get some tea. You will have a cup of tea, Mr. Yarrow?”

“Sure”

She felt she had to trust him now, even if she still found it impossible to get those thugs and vandals out of her mind. She was in such a hurry she deliberately omitted to heat the teapot first, a rule she had broken only once or twice in her life. When she carried it — naked, without its cosy — back into the drawing room, Mr. Yarrow had picked up Maggie’s pot again.

“Terrific.”

“It is a fine example of her work,” said Miss Parmenter as she stooped to pour the tea. She had forgotten the strainer. She would break another rule and manage without one.

“No, I was talking about you,” said Mr. Yarrow. “Here you are, a little old lady tucked away in a small hotel on the south coast. Once had a famous sister, but she died twenty years ago. Who would have thought—”

“Just a minute,” broke in Miss Parmenter. “I may be old, Mr. Yarrow, but little I most certainly am not. Nor am I tucked away,’ as you put it. There is an hourly train service to London if I want it.”

He shook his head and smiled. “We haven’t got off to a very good start, have we?”

“If you would be good enough to replace the pot on the shelf, I can hand you a cup of tea.”

“Right.”

“Sugar?”

“No. Do you mind if I try again? Your sister had an international reputation as a potter. She traveled the world. She worked with the greatest potters of the Twentieth Century, people like Hamada and Bernard Leach.”

“I met them.”

“I’m sure you did, but it must have been hell to have been the sister of Margaret Parmenter.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Well, did you ever travel abroad like her?”

“No.”

“Were you ever called a genius?”

“Mr. Yarrow. I don’t know where this is leading, but I find it intrusive and embarrassing.”

“I’m trying to pay you a compliment. Miss Parmenter. You have to be a pretty exceptional lady to go to all the trouble you have to keep your sister’s name before the public, considering you had no talent of your own. That’s what I call selflessness.”

“Oh, nonsense.” murmured Miss Parmenter, looking coyly into her cup.

“Not at all. Come clean with me. Didn’t you ever feel a twinge of envy?”

She looked up and regarded him steadily. “You must understand, Mr. Yarrow, that I was brought up to love and respect my sister and all my family. Father believed in certain principles that I am afraid are neglected by the modem generation of parents.”

“Old-fashioned values?”

“I’ve heard them called that. I’ve heard it said that we were repressed, presumably because we didn’t go about in gangs, terrifying people. If we needed to express ourselves, we learned to do it creatively. like my sister.”

“How about you?” asked Mr. Yarrow. “Did you do anything creative?”

“I would rather not talk about myself.”

“You weren’t motivated?”

“I didn’t have the opportunity. Mother died when I was twenty, so I had to manage the home and care for Father.”

“Ah, the parent trap.” said Mr. Yarrow. “The unmarried daughter caring for the aged parent.”

Miss Parmenter set down her cup and saucer. She was so irritated that she feared she might snap the handle from the cup. “Mr. Yarrow, I don’t know whether that remark was intended to be sympathetic. If so, it was misplaced. I was pleased and privileged to be able to look after my father for over thirty years. The fact that I chose to remain unmarried is immaterial. I have nothing to hide from you or anyone else, but I will not have my life dissected by a total stranger who knows nothing about it. Nothing.”