Colin Watson - Lonelyheart 4122

“Tomato and pilchard,” said Henry, after brief consideration. Janice got busy among the jars.

“Names!” cried Henry, as soon as he had recharged his mouth. “Why should I remember names? The only decent book written in the last fifty years hadn’t a single name in it from cover to cover. This labelling obsession is a sign of literary castration. I’m a writer, man! A professional writer, not the compiler of a telephone directory.”

Henry’s pronunciation of the word “writer”, Purbright noted, was the most aggressive instance of his general affection of a West Fading accent. He hurled forth the diphthong like the bleat of an agonized sheep.

“All the same, sir,” Purbright said, “I should be glad if you would belabour your memory and see whether Reckitt or Bannister occurs to you.”

“Never heard of either of them. Who are they, anyway?”

“They are—or were—two of your fellow subscribers to that matrimonial agency. A Miss Martha Reckitt and a Mrs Bannister. Both women now appear to be missing.”

“Well I haven’t lost them.” Henry passed a large white mug to Janice, who hastened to fill it with tea and hand it back. He tasted the tea, held it out for more sugar, then continued to take small sips while he read an item in the New Statesman that had been propped between his plate and a jar of jam.

“You say you are a professional writer?”

“That’s right.” Henry didn’t look up.

“In that case, perhaps you wouldn’t mind obliging me with a sample.”

“What, of urine?”

Janice giggled admiringly.

“No, sir. I was thinking not so much in terms of original composition as of a simple specimen of handwriting. I’d settle for ‘The fox jumped over the lazy dog,’ for instance.”

“Or ‘The inquisitive copper vanished up his own arsehole?’ ”

Purbright nodded blandly. “That would do just as nicely, sir.” He strolled to the table, unscrewing the cap of his pen. The pen and a blank page torn from his notebook he placed beside Henry’s elbow.

Henry stared at them. He looked less confident.

“What’s the idea, anyway?”

“To use an old cliché, I am asking you to help us eliminate you from our inquiries.”

“You mean I’m suspected of something?”

“It does so happen that you bear some resemblance to a man who has been seen in the company of one of the women we’re concerned about.”

“But that’s bloody ridiculous.”

“You never associate with women?”

Henry screwed up his eyes in exasperation. “Look, I’m a wri-i-iter, inspector. Of course I associate, as you call it. Connect up. Charge the battery. Absorb. I’ve got to feed my own parturition. Don’t you see? It’s like a furnace. No. No—a kiln. To get the white heat for beautiful porcelain, I’ve got to stoke, stoke, stoke it all the time. With people. All sorts of people. I don’t have to be fussy like you, with your elimina-a-tions and your associa-a-tions. They just have to be real, and struggling, and smelling of the world’s gut!”

There was a pause during which Purbright fancied he could hear the word “gut” echoing in the room’s cold, huge-throated chimney. What he was afterwards to admit ashamedly to himself had been sheer malice provoked the observation that broke the silence.

“I think John Buchan’s stuff is awfully good, don’t you?”

With a choking noise, Henry Rusk seized the pen and held it poised. For fully a minute he gazed at the blank paper. Within the beard his mouth made fitful little movements. Then at last he groaned and began to write.

It was not until Purbright was well clear of the Old Rectory that he took one hand from the wheel, fished the paper out of his left hand pocket and glanced down to see what was on it.

The single line of writing was in a wavery, rather childish hand, not very easy to read.

It was: “The fox jumped over the lazy dog.”

Chapter Eight

There came to Miss Teatime a second letter by the same firm script as before, snug within its outer and inner envelopes and suggestive of dependable masculinity.

Again it was subscribed merely “4122 (R.N. retd.)” but its contents were more fulsome and, Miss Teatime dared to conclude, in warmer tone.

Dear Miss 347,

How can I describe my pleasure on receiving so prompt and friendly a reply to my little “overture”. As it was my very first attempt through the agency, you can guess how “chuffed” I was when it brought a result—your letter. People are not always very courteous in these selfish times and replies even to the sincerest inquiries cannot be relied upon. Still, you have proved that I do not need to despair altogether! Yes, as you have guessed, I am an “old salt” (though not all that old, I assure you!) and of course I was thrilled to hear that you, too, have a love of the Deep. We must have talks about that when, as I am bold enough to hope, we meet.

So you are a writer (I could tell that from your letter, of course). You make me quite envious. Old shipmates have often told me that I ought to put my experiences into a book, but I never seem to have the time. Which is a pity, because a close friend of mine happens to be a very influential Literary Agent. He holds several publishers “in the palm of his hand” and simply cannot get enough manuscripts—especially, he tells me, by women authors. We must see what

you

have hidden away there, mustn’t we? And antiques—there’s another coincidence! How I agree with what you say about “this world of the tawdry and second-rate”. My dear sister is always telling me that I spend too much of my “humble sufficiency” on the works of old craftsmen, but she does not understand the collector’s “mad joy in ancient graven things and trinkets fondly wrought”.

Please tell me that we may meet. A word, a word, and all will be arranged!!

So far, so jolly, jolly good, mused Miss Teatime, folding the letter away in her handbag.

She looked at her little silver dress watch. Half past nine. She decided against replying immediately to 4122. An impression of over eagerness would not be ladylike. Only a brief note was needed this time; it could go tomorrow.

She crossed the corridor into the resident’s lounge, collected the Daily Mail from a pile of papers on the central table, and sank with it into a big grey chair. Flaxborough mornings were very pleasant; nobody bothered one and there was nothing of that sense imparted by London hotels of having to keep one’s feet tucked out of the way of anxious, self-important people.

Reading a newspaper here was rather like casually scanning dispatches from some mad, remote battlefield, so it was with surprise and amusement that Miss Teatime spotted a Flaxborough dateline over a modest, down-page paragraph.

The story was nothing much—something about police inquiries into the disappearance of a local widow and the possibility of connection with a previous, similar case—but just to see the name Flaxborough in a national paper now had a queerly personal significance.

An hour later Miss Teatime sauntered through the sunshine to the public library, in whose almost deserted reference room she added a few interesting snippets to what she knew about Chippendale, Sheraton and Hepplewhite, besides finding time for a quick cruise through The Elements of Modern Seamanship .

It was just after midday when she left the library and made her way along Church Street to the lane where she had discovered, the day before, an altogether adorable inn.

This was The Saracen’s Head, a thatched, whitewashed building so old that either the weight of its thick walls had caused it to sink during the centuries or the lane had risen by a succession of resurfacings. Through whichever cause, the pavement was now level with the tops of its windows. To reach the door, one had to descend a flight of five steps, each hollowed by wear into the semblance of a shallow tureen.