Colin Watson - Lonelyheart 4122

“Well, not on the same neck,” replied Miss Teatime, biting her tongue just too late. She hastily added: “As my uncle used to say. He was a bit of a card, the rector.”

“Of course,” Mrs Staunch went on, “I think it is only fair to tell you that by no means everyone who comes here is accepted as a client. We are very selective. We insist upon two qualifications. A good background. And sincerity.”

“How wise you are,” agreed Miss Teatime.

“We do not ask for references. I flatter myself that I am a pretty sound judge of human nature and a personal impression is more valuable to me than any reference. That impression builds up from a dozen small points. Take the matter of fee, for instance...”

“Yes, do,” said Miss Teatime.

“Take the matter of fee,” Mrs Staunch repeated firmly. “Twenty guineas for a mere introduction may seem to some people a little high. But I know that a person of breeding, of integrity, has no difficulty in recognizing that a high fee is really designed for her protection—a sort of safety barrier against swindlers and”—a remark of Purbright’s came back to her—“and exploiters. It is also a test of sincerity. A true heart setting out to seek its fellow does not ask the cost of the journey.”

You don’t run cheap night flights, I suppose? Miss Teatime wanted to ask. Instead, she nodded gravely and took a peep into her handbag. Yes, the cheque book was there just behind a slim brown box.

Mrs Staunch rose and shifted a small mahogany table to Miss Teatime’s chair. “And now a spot of painless form filling,” she announced jocularly. “It seems something we can’t escape these days, doesn’t it?” She went to a drawer in the Welsh dresser and returned with a foolscap sheet.

“Oh, dear, I’m terribly bad at forms,” lamented Miss Teatime. “My stockbroker says I’ll land myself in prison if I’m not careful.”

“Just you take your time, my dear. I’ve one or two things to see to in the office, so I’ll leave you to it. Oh, by the way...” Mrs Staunch bent and pointed to one of the questions on the form. “This part about means is absolutely confidential, so don’t worry. It’s simply to give me a little guidance as to the sort of people you might like to meet.”

She left Miss Teatime nibbling her pen and looking as excited as a nun with dispensation to play Ludo.

A minute went by. Miss Teatime looked at the door and listened. Somewhere a typewriter was being tapped spasmodically. She glanced longingly down beside her at the handbag. No, she didn’t want to shock poor Mrs Staunch. And yet...An idea budded. She got up quickly and went to the window. It opened without trouble. Having carried to it the table and one of the chairs, she re-settled herself and lit the long, black cheroot she had taken from the box in her handbag. Then, carefully but with enormous relish, she expelled a stream of smoke through the open casement and began to write.

When Mrs Staunch returned, she noticed Miss Teatime’s changed position and looked surprised.

“Please say you don’t mind,” said Miss Teatime. “I’m such a fresh air lover, and there did seem just a teeny touch of tobacco smoke in here when I arrived.”

“Of course I don’t mind, my dear.”

“You don’t think I’m an awful fuss-pot?”

“Not at all. Ah, we’ve finished our form filling, have we?”

Miss Teatime held it out shyly. “I do hope it’s all right.”

Briskly, Mrs Staunch read the form through. “Fine,” she said at last. “Just the ticket.”

“And just the cheque,” said Miss Teatime laughingly, handing it over.

Mrs Staunch sugared her careful scrutiny of the cheque by glancing again at the form and remarking: “Isn’t it a pretty name? Lucilla Edith Cavell Teatime. What a pity we have to introduce you simply as Miss 347!”

Simply, perhaps, but there came a quick result.

Miss Teatime was eating breakfast in the dining room of the Roebuck Hotel three mornings later when the receptionist brought to her table a white typewritten envelope. Inside was a smaller envelope addressed, in what Miss Teatime knew instinctively to be a firm masculine hand, to “347, c/o Handclasp Hall, Northgate, Flaxborough”.

She enjoyed the pleasant discipline of leaving the letter intact beside her plate until she finished her two sausages and scrambled eggs and eaten three pieces of toast and marmalade. Then she poured herself another cup of coffee and slit open the envelope.

The letter was quite short.

Dear Miss 347,

I wonder if you would like to write to me, as I understand you are interested in finding companionship. I, too, am a “solitary soul” and would be very glad to hear from another such. Our ages, it seems, are about the same and I feel that we might have tastes in common. As I am in the happy position of not having to worry about earning a living (though not exactly one of the “Idle Rich”!!) time does drag a bit so you will understand how hopeful I am of hearing from you.

Yours very sincerely,

4112 (R.N. retd.)

Miss Teatime read it through twice and was already framing a reply in her mind when she climbed, looking very pleased and determined, up the broad white staircase to her room.

She took a sheet of hotel notepaper from the letter rack beside the pot of cyclamen, then decided against it. No—no address at this stage. At the top of a piece of her own pale sepia, deckle-edged stationery she wrote simply: c/o Handclasp House.

The rest of the letter flowed easily enough.

Dear Mr 4112,

I was so pleased to receive your letter this morning. It had been forwarded to me very promptly and it gave me a nice feeling of being less of a stranger in my new surroundings.

Now what can I tell you about myself?

I am unmarried (there, that is one thing you can put yourself at ease about!) and—like you, it seems—have no demands on my time. This can be rather a bore, of course, but I manage to keep myself occupied with walking (Nature is a never-failing source of delight, don’t you agree?); also with trying my prentice hand at writing (not much success so far, alas!); and with dull, womanly things like needlework.

Perhaps I should mention one little weakness as well. I have a passion—quite damaging to my bank account!—for haunting antique shops. Flaxborough has already captured me in this respect.

Do you like old things? They are a great reassurance, I think, in this world of the tawdry and second-rate.

And of course, if you will forgive me for sounding terribly unfeminine and practical, antiques are a marvellous investment.

Anything else? Oh, yes. You may smile, but I love the sea! Of course, I couldn’t help noticing that you are a Navy man. But I must say nothing of my secret ambition or you will think me silly and romantic and quite, quite unrealistic.

Sincerely yours,

347

Miss Teatime folded and put the sheet straight into its envelope. She never re-read her own letters before posting them. Apart from having confidence born of long practice, she knew that the embellishments and addenda that a second reading might inspire would give the thing a calculated look. And that would never do. Spontaneity, she reflected as she daintily tongue-tipped the envelope flap, was everything.

She stayed in the bedroom long enough to finish the cheroot she had lighted as an encouragement of literary invention. Then she put on her coat and a hat, one of three bought the previous day during what explorers and hunters would call a gear collection and pocketed the letter. It would save time to take it round herself. Anyway, it was a nice day for a walk and she had noticed already how many attractive old inns there were to be examined in Flaxborough.

An intinerary of a very different kind was being planned at that moment by Inspector Purbright.