Inspector Alleyn 3-Book Collection 10: Black as he's Painted, Last Ditch, Grave Mistake by Ngaio Marsh

Author:Ngaio Marsh [Ngaio Marsh]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 2014-02-04T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 7

Syd’s Pad Again

When Ricky had eaten his solitary lunch he was unable to settle to anything. He had had a most disturbing morning and himself could hardly believe in it. The memory of Julia’s blouse creasing under the pressure of his fingers and of herself warm beneath it, her scent and the smooth resilience of her cheek were at once extraordinarily vivid yet scarcely to be believed. Much more credible was the ease with which she had dealt with him.

‘She stopped my nonsense,’ he thought, ‘with one arm tied behind her back. I suppose she’s a dab hand at disposing of excitable young males.’ For the first time he was acutely aware of the difference in their ages and began to wonder uncomfortably how old Julia, in fact, might be.

Mixed up with all this and in a different though equally disturbing key was his father’s suggestion that he, Ricky, should take himself off. This he found completely unacceptable and wondered unhappily if they were about to have a family row about it. He was much attached to his father.

And then there was the case itself, muddling to a degree, with its shifting focus, its inconsistencies and lack of perceptible design. He thought he would write a kind of résumé, and did so and was, he felt, none the wiser for it. Turn to his work, he could not.

The harbour glittered under an early afternoon sun and beyond the heads there was a lovely blue and white channel. He decided to take a walk, first looking in his glass to discover, he thought, a slightly less grotesque face. His eye, at least, no longer leered, although the area beneath it still resembled an over-ripe plum.

Since his return he had felt that Mrs Ferrant, not perhaps spied upon him, but kept an eye on him. He had an impression of doors being shut a fraction of a second after he left or returned to his room. As he stepped down into the street he was almost sure one of the parlour curtains moved slightly. This was disagreeable.

He went into Mr Mercer’s shop to replace his lost espadrilles with a pair from a hanging cluster inside the door. Mr Mercer, in his dual role of postmaster, was in the tiny office reserved for Her Majesty’s Mail. On seeing Ricky he hurried out, carrying an air-letter and a postcard.

‘Good afternoon, sir,’ said Mr Mercer winningly, after a startled look at the eye. ‘Can I have the pleasure of helping you? And may I impose upon your kindness? Today’s post was a little delayed and the boy had started on his rounds. If you would – You would! Much obliged, I’m sure.’

The letter was from Ricky’s mother and the postcard he saw at a glance was from St Pierre-des-Roches with a view of that fateful jetty. For Mrs Ferrant.

When he was out in the street he examined the card. Ferrant’s writing again and again no message. He turned back to the house and pushed the card and the espadrilles through the letter flap.

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