A Perfect Spy Read Free

don’t think our Mr. Canterbury is smitten, do you, Toby?” she enquired archly of her cat. “We’re very bright this morning. Very shiny. Ten years younger, by the look of our coat, Mr. Canterbury is.” Receiving no helpful response from the cat, she addressed herself to the canary. “Not that he’d ever tell us, would he, Dickie? We’d be the last to know. Tzuktzuk? Tzuktzuk?”
    â€œJohn and Sylvia Illegible of Wimbledon,” said Pym, still at the visitors’ book.
    â€œJohn makes computers, Sylvia programs them, and they’re leaving tomorrow,” she told him sulkily. For Miss Dubber hated to admit there was anyone in her world but beloved Mr. Canterbury. “Now what have you done to me this time?” she exclaimed angrily. “I won’t have it. Take it back.”
    But Miss Dubber was not angry; she would have it, and Pym would not take it back: a thickly knitted cashmere shawl of white and gold, still in its Harrods box and swathed in its original Harrods tissue paper which she seemed to treasure almost above their contents. For having taken out the shawl she first smoothed the paper and folded it along its creases before replacing it in the box, then put the box on the cupboard shelf where she kept her greatest treasures. Only then did she let him wrap the shawl round her shoulders and hug her in it, while she scolded him for his extravagance.
    Pym drank tea with Miss Dubber, Pym appeased her, Pym ate a piece of her shortbread and praised it to the skies although she told him it was burned. Pym promised to mend the sink plug for her and unblock the waste-pipe and take a look at the cistern on the first floor while he was about it. Pym was swift and over-attentive and the brightness she had shrewdly remarked on did not leave him. He lifted Toby on to his lap and stroked him, a thing he had never done before, and which gave Toby no discernible pleasure. He received the latest news of Miss Dubber’s ancient Aunt Al, when normally the mention of Aunt Al was enough to hurry him off to bed. He questioned her, as he always did, about the local goings-on since his last visit, and listened approvingly to the catalogue of Miss Dubber’s complaints. And quite often, as he nodded her through her answers, he either smiled to himself for no clear reason or became drowsy and yawned behind his hand. Till suddenly he put down his teacup and stood up as if he had another train to catch.
    â€œI’ll be staying a decent length of time if it’s all right with you, Miss D. I’ve a bit of heavy writing to do.”
    â€œThat’s what you always say. You were going to live here for ever last time. Then it’s up first thing and back to Whitehall without your egg.”
    â€œMaybe as much as two weeks. I’ve taken some leave of absence so that I can work in peace.”
    Miss Dubber pretended to be appalled. “But whatever will happen to the country? How shall Toby and I stay safe, with no Mr. Canterbury at the helm to steer us?”
    â€œSo what are Miss D’s plans?” he asked winningly, reaching for his briefcase, which by the effort he needed to lift it looked as heavy as a chunk of lead.
    â€œPlans?” Miss Dubber echoed, smiling rather beautifully in her mystification. “I don’t make plans at my age, Mr. Canterbury. I let God make them. He’s better at them than I am, isn’t he, Toby? More reliable.”
    â€œWhat about that cruise you’re always talking about? It’s time you gave yourself a treat, Miss D.”
    â€œDon’t be daft. That was years ago. I’ve lost the urge.”
    â€œI’ll still pay.”
    â€œI know you will, bless you.”
    â€œI’ll do the phoning if you want. We’ll go to the travel agent together. I looked one out for you as a matter of fact. There’s the Orient Explorer leaves Southampton just a week away. They’ve got a cancellation. I