Hand in Glove Read Free

“Never mind;
now
you see what I meant by ‘Bloodbath.’ ” He leant towards her. “There is another rather grand taxi in the village,” he confided, “but Pyke Period likes to stick to Mr. Copper, because he’s come down in the world.”
    He raised his voice. “That was a damn’ close-run thing, Mr. Copper,” he shouted.
    “Think they own the place, those chaps,” the driver rejoined. “Putting the sewer up the side lane by Mr. Period’s house, and what for? Nobody wants it.”
    He turned left at the Green, pulled in at a short drive and stopped in front of a smallish Georgian house.
    “Here we are,” said the young man.
    He got out, extricated Nicola’s typewriter and his own umbrella, and felt in his pocket. Although largish and exceptionally tall, he was expeditious and quick in all his movements.
    “Nothing to pay, Mr. Bantling,” said the driver. “Mr. Period gave the order.”
    “Oh, well…One for the road, anyway.”
    “Very kind of you, but no need, I’m sure. All right, Miss Maitland-Mayne?”
    “Quite, thank you,” said Nicola, who had alighted. The car lurched off uproariously. Looking to her right, Nicola could see the crane and the top of its truck over a quickset hedge. She heard the sound of male voices.
    The front door had opened and a small dark man in an alpaca coat appeared.
    “Good morning, Alfred,” her companion said. “As you see, I’ve brought Miss Maitland-Mayne with me.”
    “The gentlemen,” Alfred said, “are expecting you both, sir.”
    Pixie shot out of the house in a paroxysm of barking.
    “Quiet,” said Alfred, menacing her.
    She whined, crouched and then precipitated herself upon Nicola. She stood on her hind legs, slavering and grimacing, and scraped at Nicola with her forepaws.
    “Here, you!” said the young man indignantly. “Paws off!”
    He cuffed Pixie away and she made loud ambiguous noises.
    “I’m sure I’m very sorry, Miss,” said Alfred. “It’s said to be only its fun. This way, if you please, Miss.”
    Nicola found herself in a modest but elegantly proportioned hall. It looked like an advertisement from a glossy magazine:
Small Georgian residence of character
— and, apart from being Georgian, had no other character to speak of.
    Alfred opened a door on the right. “In the library, if you please, Miss,” he said. “Mr. Period will be down immediately.”
    Nicola walked in. The young man followed and put her typewriter on a table by a window.
    “I can’t help wondering,” he said, “what you’re going to do for P.P. After all, he’d never type his letters of condolence, would he?”
    “What can you mean?”
    “You’ll see. Well, I suppose I’d better launch myself on my ill-fated mission. You might wish me luck.”
    Something in his voice caught her attention. She looked up at him. His mouth was screwed dubiously sideways.
    “It never does,” he said, “to set one’s heart on something, does it? Furiously, I mean.”
    “Good heavens, what a thing to say! Of course, one must. Continuously… Expectation,” said Nicola grandly, “is the springboard of achievement.”
    “Rather a phony slogan, I’m afraid.”
    “I thought it neat.”
    “I should like to confide in you. What a pity we won’t meet over your nice curry. I’m lunching with my mama, who lives in the offing with her third husband.”
    “How do you know it’s going to be curry?”
    “It often is.”
    “Well,” Nicola said, “I wish you luck.”
    “Thank you very much.” He smiled at her. “Good typing!”
    “Good hunting! If you are hunting.”
    He laid his finger against his nose, pulled a mysterious grimace and left her.
    Nicola opened up her typewriter and a box of quarto paper and surveyed the library.
    It looked out on the drive and the rose garden and it was like the hall in that it had distinction without personality.
    Over the fireplace hung a dismal little water colour. Elsewhere on the walls were two sporting prints, a painting of a