A Murder of Quality

'Would you mind, dear. I hate sherry, but Felix is so mean.'

Smiley filled her glass from the decanter on the table.

'Dreadful about the murder, wasn't it? That beggar-woman must be mad. Stella Rode was such a nice person, I always thought… and so unusual. She did such clever things with the same dress… But she had such curious friends. All for Hans the woodcutter and Pedro the fisherman, if you know what I mean.'

'Was she popular at Carne?'

Shane Hecht laughed gently: 'No one is popular at Carne… but she wasn't easy to like… She would wear black crepe on Sundays… Forgive me, but do the lower classes always do that? The townspeople liked her, I believe. They adore anyone who betrays Carne. But then she was a Christian Scientist or something.'

'Baptist, I understand,' said Smiley unthinkingly.

She looked at him for a moment with unfeigned curiosity. 'How sweet,' she murmured. 'Tell me, what are you?'

Smiley made some facetious reply about being unemployed, and realized that it was only by a hair's-breadth that he had avoided explaining himself to Shane Hecht like a small boy. Her very ugliness, her size and voice, coupled with the sophisticated malice of her conversation, gave her the dangerous quality of command. Smiley was tempted to compare her with Fielding, but for Fielding other people scarcely existed. For Shane Hecht they did exist: they were there to be found wanting in the minute tests of social behaviour, to be ridiculed, cut off and destroyed.

'I read in the paper that her father was quite well off. From the North. Second generation. Remarkable really how unspoilt she was… so natural… You wouldn't think she needed to go to the launderette or to make friends with beggars… Though, of course, the Midlands are different, aren't they? Only about three good families between Ipswich and Newcastle. Where did you say you came from, dear?'

'London.'

'How nice. I went to tea with Stella once. Milk in first and Indian. So different,' and she looked at Smiley suddenly and said, 'I'll tell you something. She almost aroused an admiration in me, I found her so insufferable. She was one of those tiresome little snobs who think that only the humble are virtuous.' Then she smiled and added, 'I even agreed with Charles about Stella Rode, and that's saying something. If you're a student of mankind, do go and have a look at him, the contrast is riveting.' But at that moment they were joined by D'Arcy's sister, a bony, virile woman with untidy grey hair and an arrogant, hunting mouth.

'Dorothy darling,' Shane murmured; 'such a lovely party. So kind. And so exciting to meet somebody from London, don't you think? We were talking about poor Mrs Rode's funeral.'

'Stella Rode may have been damn' bad form, Shane, but she did a lot for my refugees.'

'Refugees?' asked Smiley innocently.

'Hungarians. Collecting for them. Clothes, furniture, money. One of the few wives who did anything.' She looked sharply at Shane Hecht, who was smiling benignly past her towards her husband: 'Busy little creature, she was; didn't mind rolling her sleeves up, going from door to door. Got her little women on to it to at the Baptist chapel and brought in a mass of stuff. You've got to hand it to them, you know. They've got spirit. Felix, more sherry!'

There were about twenty in the two rooms, but Smiley, who had arrived a little late, found himself attached to a group of about eight who stood nearest the door: D'Arcy and his sister; Charles and Shane Hecht; a young mathematician called Snow and his wife; a curate from the Abbey and Smiley himself, bewildered and mole-like behind his spectacles. Smiley looked quickly round the room, but could see no sign of Fielding.

'… Yes,' Dorothy D'Arcy continued, 'she was a good little worker, very… right to the end. I went over there on Friday with that parson man from the tin tabernacle—Cardew—to see if there was any refugee stuff to tidy up. There wasn't a thing out of place—every bit of clothing she had was all packed up and addressed; we just had to send it off. She was a damn' good little worker, I will say. Did a splendid job at the bazaar, you know.'

'Yes, darling,' said Shane Hecht sweetly. 'I remember it well. It was the day I presented her to Lady Sawley. She wore such a nice little hat—the one she wore on Sundays, you know. And so respectful. She called her "my lady".' She turned to Smiley and breathed: 'Rather feudal, don't you think, dear? I always like that: so few of us left.'

The mathematician and his wife were talking to Charles Hecht in a corner and a few minutes later Smiley managed to extricate himself from the group and join them.

Ann Snow was a pretty girl with a rather square face and a turned-up nose. Her husband was tall and thin, with an agreeable stoop. He held his sherry glass between straight, slender fingers as if it were a chemical retort and when he spoke he seemed to address the sherry rather than his listener; Smiley remembered them from the funeral. Hecht was looking pink and rather cross, sucking at his pipe. They talked in a desultory way, their conversation dwarfed by the exchanges of the adjoining group. Hecht eventually drifted away from them, still frowning and withdrawn, and stood ostentatiously alone near the door.

'Poor Stella,' said Ann Snow after a moment's silence. 'Sorry,' she added. 'I can't get her out of my mind yet. It seems mad, just mad. I mean why should she do it, that Janie woman?'

'Did you like Stella?' Smiley asked.

'Of course we did. She was sweet. We've been here four Halves now, but she was the only person here who's ever been kind to us.' Her husband said nothing, just nodded at his sherry. 'Simon wasn't a boy at Carne, you see—most of the staff were—so we didn't know anyone and no one was really interested. They all pretended to be terribly pleased with us, of course, but it was Stella who really…'

Dorothy D'Arcy was descending on them. 'Mrs Snow,' she said crisply, 'I've been meaning to talk to you. I want you to take over Stella Rode's job on the refugees.' She cast an appraising look in Simon's direction: 'The Master's very keen on refugees.'

'Oh, my goodness!' Ann Snow replied, aghast. 'I couldn't possibly, Miss D'Arcy, I…'

'Couldn't? Why couldn't you? You helped Mrs Rode with her stall at the bazaar, didn't you?'

'So that's where she got her clothes from,' breathed Shane Hecht behind them. Ann was fumbling on:

'But… well I haven't quite got Stella's nerve, if you understand what I mean; and besides, she was a Baptist: all the locals helped her and gave her things, and they all liked her. With me it would be different.'

'Lot of damn' nonsense,' declared Miss D'Arcy, who spoke to all her juniors as if they were grooms or erring children; and Shane Hecht beside her said: 'Baptists are the people who don't like private pews, aren't they? I do so agree—one feels that if one's paid one simply has to go.'

The curate who had been talking cricket in a corner, was startled into mild protest: 'Oh, come, Mrs Hecht, the private pew had many advantages…' and embarked on a diffuse apologia for ancient custom, to which Shane listened with every sign of the most assiduous interest. When at last he finished she said: 'Thank you, William dear, so sweet,' turned her back on him and added to Smiley in a stage whisper: 'William Trumper—one of Charles's old pupils—such a triumph when he passed his Certificate.'