‘He was testing you out,’ says Hadrian who is whisking two eggs in a bowl.
‘Yes, that’s what I think, too,’ says Lister. ‘I feel wounded. I opened the door of the library. Passerat got up. The Baron said “Good evening, Victor” and Passerat said “Good evening.” Whereupon, being unwanted, I respectfully withdrew. Sic transit gloria mundi.’
‘They will be sitting down having a drink,’ says Pablo who has cleaned himself up and is now regarding his hair from a distance in the oval looking-glass. This way and that he turns his head, with its hair shiny-black.
‘Didn’t he ask for more ice?’ says Eleanor. ‘They never have enough ice.’
‘They have plenty of ice in the drinks cupboard. I filled the ice-box, myself, and put more on refrigeration this afternoon when you were all busy with your telephoning and personal arrangements,’ Lister says. ‘They have ice. All they need now is the Baroness.’
‘Oh, she’ll come, don’t worry,’ says Clovis, stacking his papers neatly.
‘I wish she’d hurry,’ says Heloise, as she slumps in a puffy cretonned armchair. ‘I want to eat my dinner in peace.’
Hadrian has prepared a tray on which he has placed a dish of scrambled eggs, a plate of thin toasted buttered bread, a large cup and saucer and a silver thermos-container of some beverage. Eleanor, with vague movements, leaves her table-setting to place on the tray a knife, a fork and a spoon; then she covers the toast and the eggs with silver plate-covers.
‘What are you doing?’ says Hadrian, grabbing the knife and fork off the tray. ‘What’s come over you?’
‘Oh, I forgot,’ says Eleanor. ‘I’ve been in a state all day.’ She replaces the knife and fork with one large spoon.
Lister goes to the house-telephone, lifts the receiver and presses a button. Presently the instrument wheezes. ‘Supper on its way up to him in the attic,’ says Lister. ‘Yours will follow later.’
The instrument wheezes again.
‘We’ll keep you informed,’ says Lister. ‘All you have to do is stay there till we tell you not to.’ He hangs up. ‘Sister Barton is worried,’ he says. ‘Him in the attic is full of style this evening and likely to worsen as the night draws on. Another case of intuition.’
Hadrian takes the tray in his hands and as he leaves the room he asks, ‘Shall I tell Sister Barton to call the doctor?’
‘Leave it to Sister Barton,’ says Lister, gloomily, with his eyes on other thoughts. ‘Leave it to her.’
Heloise says, ‘I can manage him in the attic myself, if it comes to that. I’ve always been good to him in the attic.’
‘You better get some sleep after you’ve had your supper, my girl,’ says Clovis. ‘You’ve got a big night ahead. The reporters will be here in the morning if not before.’
‘It might not take place till six-ish in the morning,’ says Heloise. ‘Once they start arguing it could drag on all night. I’m intuitive, as Mr Lister says, and – ’
‘Only as regards your condition,’ says Lister. ‘Normally, you are not a bit intuitive. You’re thick, normally. It’s merely that in your condition the Id tends to predominate over the Ego.’
‘I have to be humoured,’ says Heloise, shutting her eyes. ‘Why can’t I have some grapes?’
‘Give her some grapes,’ says Pablo.
‘Not before dinner,’ says Clovis.
‘Clara!’ says Theo the porter. ‘Clara!’
‘It’s only that I’m burning with desire to ask them what’s going on up at the house tonight,’ she says.
‘Come back here. Come right back, darling,’ he says, drawing her into the sitting-room where the fire glows and flares behind the fender. ‘Desire,’ he says.
‘Theo!’ she says.
‘You and your nightmares,’ Theo says. He shuts the door of the sitting-room and sits beside her on the sofa, absentmindedly plucking her thigh while he stares at the dancing fire. ‘You and your dreams.’
Clara says, ‘There’s nothing in it for us. We were better off at the Ritz in Madrid.’
‘Now, now. We’re doing better here. We’re doing much better here. Lister is very generous. Lister is very, very generous.’ Theo picks up the poker and turns a coal on the fire, making it flare, while Clara swings her legs up on to the sofa. ‘Theo,’ she says, ‘did I tell you Hadrian came down here to borrow a couple of eggs?’
‘And what else, Clara,’ says Theo. ‘What else?’
‘Nothing,’ she says. ‘Just the eggs.’
‘I can’t turn my back but he’s down here,’ says Theo. ‘I’ll report him to the Baron tomorrow morning.’ He goes to draw the window-curtains. ‘And Clovis,’ he says, ‘for not keeping an eye on him.’ Theo returns to the sofa.
Clara screams ‘No, no, I’ve changed my mind,’ and pushes him away. She ties up her cord-trimmed dressing-gown.
‘Not so much of it, Clara,’ says Theo. ‘All this yes-no. I could have the Baroness if I want. Any minute of the hour. Any hour of the day.’
‘Oh, it’s you that makes me dream these terrible things, Theo,’ she says. ‘When you talk like that, on and on about the Baroness, with her grey hair. You should be ashamed.’
‘She’s got grey hair all places,’ Theo says, ‘from all accounts.’
‘If I was a man,’ says Clara, ‘I’d be sick at the thought.’
‘Well, from all accounts, I’d sooner sleep with her than a dead policeman,’ says Theo.
‘Hark, there’s a car on the road. It must be her,’ says Clara. But Theo is not harking. She plucks at his elastic braces and says, ‘A disgrace that they didn’t have an egg in the house for the idiot-boy’s supper. Something must be happening up there. I’ve felt it all week, haven’t you, Theo?’
Theo has no words, his breath being concentrated by now on Clara alone. She says, ‘And there’s the car drawing up, Theo – it’s stopped at the gate. Theo, you’d better go.’
He draws back from his wife for the split second which it takes him to say, ‘Shut up.’
‘I can hear the honking at the gate,’ she says in a loud voice – ‘Don’t you hear her sounding the horn? All week in my dreams I’ve heard the honking at the gate.’ Theo grunts.
The car honks twice and Theo now puts on his coat and pulls himself together with the dignity of a man who does one thing at a time in due order. He goes to the hall, takes the keys from the table drawer and walks forth into the damp air to open the gate beyond which a modest cream coupé is honking still.
It pulls up at the porter’s lodge after it has been admitted. The square-faced woman at the wheel is the only occupant. She lets down the window and says, cheerfully, ‘How are you, Theo?’
‘Very well, thanks, Madam. Sorry to keep you waiting, Madam. There was a question of eggs for the poor gentleman in the attic, his supper.’
She smiles charmingly from under her great fur hat.
‘Everything goes wrong when I’m away, doesn’t it? And how is Clara, is she enjoying this little house?’
‘Oh yes, Madam, we’re very happy in this job,’ says Theo. ‘We’re settling in nicely.’
‘You’ll get used to our ways, Theo.’
‘Well, Madam, we’ve had plenty of experience behind