Flowers for Miss Pengelly by Rosemary Aitken

Author:Rosemary Aitken
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Two

Jenkins did catch up with him in the end, of course. He came in while Alex was lying on the bed that night, pretending to be engrossed in studying the police manual again by the light of the flickering candle on the bedside chest. Jenkins put his own nightlight down and gave his roommate a knowing leer.

‘You’ll wear that Black Book out entirely, if you don’t look out,’ he said, taking off his jacket and stripping to his vest. He went over to the wash-stand and poured out some cold water from the jug. ‘If you don’t know the rules of giving evidence by now, then there’s no help for you.’ He slipped his braces down around his waist and plunged his face and whiskers into the washing bowl. He came up sputtering and groped for the towel, saying as he rubbed his glowing skin, ‘What became of you this morning, anyway? You got that letter and then you disappeared. What happened? Your Miss Pengelly write to summon you?’

Alex slammed the Black Book firmly shut – he hadn’t succeeded in looking at it anyway. ‘No, of course she didn’t. Quite the opposite! As it happens we’ve decided not to meet – for the present, anyway. As if it were any business of yours.’

Jenkins gave a little whistle of astonishment – amazing how sardonic he contrived to make it sound! ‘Well there is a turn-up for the book and no mistake. Given you your marching orders, has she, after all? Well, you’ll have no qualms about riding and dining with your heiress now.’

‘As it happens I am dining with Miss Caroline this week.’ He had written after getting Effie’s note, to confirm the fact. ‘Though that has nothing at all to do with it.’

Jenkins grinned. ‘So you won’t be interested to know that the “unidentified” we had last year – the one who was asking for your Effie in the town – may have been in line for an inheritance himself, according to that Broadbent fellow who called in today. Pity he brought that letter when he did. You might be sorry that you’ve broken off with her.’

Alex sat up sharply. He could not help himself. ‘What do you mean by that?’

Jenkins poured the dirty water into the waiting pail and took down a pair of scissors from the hook. ‘It’s rather a long story,’ he began. It was a long story, made longer by Jenkins trimming his whiskers between sentences and pulling strange faces in the shaving-glass. When he had finished he examined the effect – with apparent satisfaction – and swept the hairs into a paper bag, before he turned to Alex. ‘So there you are, old man. You can see what this might mean for Effie!’

Alex had been listening to the tale with interest, of course, but he found himself saying, quite impatiently, ‘No I damned well can’t. What’s it to do with her?’

Jenkins was pulling on his nightshirt by this time and there was a pause until his head emerged from it.

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