'About ten years ago — ' Even before he observed her expression harden again it occurred to him that if she had any sort of weakness for young men she probably had the reverse for the young women who preyed on them. And that decided him to add doubt and embarrassment to what was coming ' — my inquiry relates to a certain Miss Francis, Mrs dummy2
Simmonds. Miss — ah — Miss Marilyn Francis — ?' Would she remember the papers, from 1978?
The hardness became granite. 'But . . . Miss Francis is . . .
deceased, Mr Robinson.'
Deceased? Or, more likely, dead — and bloody good riddance! — this time instinct shouted at him. So she knew more than either he did, or what the papers had said. 'Yes. I do appreciate that also.' He tried to imply that he also knew a lot more than that, even as he prayed that she wouldn't ask him why, if he knew so much, he wanted to know more.
'Why do you want to know about her?'
He hadn't really expected his prayer to be answered. 'I was hoping you wouldn't ask that. Because, quite honestly, I'm not at liberty to say. But ... all I can say ... is that I would appreciate frankness — and I will respect it, so far as I am able.' All the old Rules of Engagement flooded back. 'What I do promise, is that nothing you say here will be attributed to you, Mrs Simmonds. I simply want to know about Miss Francis — that's all.'
She was on a knife-edge. So it was the moment to lie in what he must hope was a Good Cause. 'I have spoken to others before you.' Whatever he said, it mustn't sound like a threat.
'I'm sorry to sound so mysterious, but I have to respect confidences and I do respect confidences. It's just that I do need reliable confirmation of what I already suspect.' As he delivered this flattery he screwed up his face with youthful embarrassment.
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'Yes.' She pursed her lips. 'You do appreciate, Mr Robinson, that Marilyn — Miss Francis — was a temp. . . . That is to say, a temporary secretary, supplied by an agency. I did not appoint her.'
'Of course.' He decided not to congratulate himself on the return of his old skills: although she liked him, and believed him, she was more concerned to exculpate herself from the Marilyn Francis appointment. 'But you do remember her
— ?'
'I do indeed.' The purse shut tightly.
Marilyn Francis had been memorable. In fact, even assuming that Mrs Beryl Simmonds had a good personnel manager's memory . . . Marilyn Francis had been very memorable. 'She was incompetent, was she — ?'
Sniff. 'On the contrary. Miss Francis was highly competent, actually.'
Ouch! thought Ian. For a man who knew all about Marilyn Francis, that was a mistake — even allowing for the fact that Auntie Beryl would shy away from speaking ill of the dead, which he should have reckoned on. But the rule was to capitalize on one's mistakes. 'Well . . . you do rather surprise me, Mrs Simmonds. But I'm extremely grateful for being corrected — '
'As a secretary, she was competent.' She had done her duty.
But now she didn't want him to get her wrong. 'Her shorthand was excellent — she must have had over 140
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words per minute. Even with Dr Cavendish, who had no consideration for anyone. . . This was before we went over to full audio-typing, you understand — and when we still had old fashioned typewriters . . . But her typing was also excellent — quite impeccable.' Duty still wasn't done, the nod implied. 'And her filing. And her paperwork in generaclass="underline" she had been well-trained . . . and she was . . . an intelligent young woman — of that I'm sure. Appearances to the contrary.' Something approaching pain twisted her displeasure at the memory. 'I blame the schools: they have a lot to answer for — doing away with the grammar schools, and letting children run wild — especially the girls.
Especially girls like Miss Francis, in fact.' Nod. They can't even spell these days. But, of course, we have a spell-check now, so they don't have to.' Sniff. ' Rarefy, liquefy, desiccate, parallel, routing — and the Americanisms we have to cater for: focused, protesters, advisers . . . But Miss Francis could spell, I will say that for her. Except those dreadful Americanisms. And she only had to be told once, even with them, when Dr Cavendish was writing to America . . . No, as a secretary she was perfectly competent. It was her behaviour
— and her appearance . . . both absolutely disgraceful, they were.'
'Yes?' Ian's heart had been sinking all the while she had lectured him: poor little Marilyn's defects were personal and moral, and she had been an innocent bystander at Thornervaulx, by whatever unlikely chain of events. So this dummy2
really was a wild-goose-chase.
'It was so tragic — how she died. We all thought so.'
Curiously, she was on his own wavelength. 'But, the truth is ... and I'd be a hypocrite not to say as much . . . she was quite man-mad, was Marilyn.'
All he wanted to do now was to get away, back to London.'Yes
—?'
'Anything in trousers.' Nod: duty done, now the truth.
'Deluged in the most revolting perfume . . . tight skirts, and transparent blouses — I spoke to her about her blouses. But, of course, there were those who encouraged her — just like they always look at the Sun and the Star in the common room, even now.' Ultimate displeasure. 'Df Page, and Dr Garfield — Dr Page is at Cambridge now . . . and Dr Garfield is in America . . . they thought she was quite wonderful. And even that dreadful Dr Harrison, who ended up in prison — '
She bit her lip suddenly, catching herself too late.
'Dr H—?' He started to repeat the name automatically, still acting his part, because honest curiosity was perfectly in order. But then it echoed inside his memory, attaching itself to British-American in its proper context; and in that instant he knew that he hadn't finished with Marilyn Francis — and also that he too had caught himself too late, because Mrs Simmonds was already registering her surprise. So now he had to extricate himself from his self-betrayal. 'Harrison?
Harrison — ?' Better to pretend to be halfway there first, with a frown. And then embarrassment, for choice? ' Harrison dummy2
— ?'
'He had nothing to do with Miss Francis.' Faced with two unhappy names, Mrs Simmonds chose not to repeat the more offensive one. 'His . . . what happened to him . . . that was some long time after she left our employ.'
He let his frown deepen. Had it been some long time after?
Marilyn Francis had been killed in November, 1978 — the beginning of his final year at university. And the Harrison Case . . .? But, whenever it had been, now was the time for embarrassment. 'Oh! That Dr Harrison — of course.'
Surprised embarrassment. 'But . . . you do a lot of Ministry of Defence work — of course!' What had it been that the
'dreadful' Dr Harrison had betrayed? The guidance system to the Barracuda torpedo, was it? But now he had to let her off the hook. 'No . . . no, of course, Mrs Simmonds.' Smile. 'You wouldn't have given any of your secret work to a temp to copy out — no matter how well she typed!' As he broadened the sympathetically-understanding smile he felt his pulse beat faster. It had been the celebrated Barracuda. And it had not been very long afterwards — weeks, rather than months, for choice.
But meanwhile he mustn't lose Mrs Simmonds. 'I don't want to know about him, anyway — Dr What's-his-name . . .
But . . . Miss Francis had a — ah — a weakness for the male sex, you were saying, Mrs Simmonds.' Losing her fast, in fact.