'Mother,' said Swithenbank wearily. 'You've been going into town and having lunch there on Fridays for the last twenty years at least. Everyone in Wearton expects it. I expect it. I can only hope that you may be visiting the hairdresser, too. But I cannot be surprised.'
'I'm not trying to surprise you, dear,' said his mother mildly.
Fifteen minutes later he heard her call goodbye as she passed the open sitting-room door. Almost simultaneously the phone rang.
By the time he got into the entrance hall his mother had picked up the receiver.
'It's that girl again, dear,' she said. 'I must dash or I'll miss my bus. 'Bye!'
He did not touch the phone till he heard the front door close behind her.
Hello? Hello?' he said.
For twenty seconds or more there was no reply then as from a great distance a thin infinitely melancholy voice said, "Ulalume… Ulalume,' stretching the words out like a street-vendor's cry.
"For God's sake, stop fooling around!' commanded Swithenbank, his voice authoritative and controlled. But the control disappeared when a voice behind him said, 'Mr John Swithenbank?'
He spun round. Standing in the open doorway was a man, tall, slim beneath a short fawn raincoat, early thirties, rather a long nose, mop of brown hair falling over his brow and shadowing the light blue, watchful eyes.
'Who the hell are you?' demanded Swithenbank.
'I met a lady on the drive – she said just to walk in. Something about the bell not working.'
He reached out of the door and pressed the bell-push. A deafening chime echoed round the hall. He looked embarrassed.
'I'm sorry,' he said. 'I'm interrupting your call. I'll wait outside, shall I, till you're finished.'
'It is finished,' said Swithenbank, replacing the receiver firmly. 'What do you want with me, Mr…?'
'Inspector. Detective-Inspector Pascoe,' said the man. 'Could I speak with you, Mr Swithenbank? It's about your wife.'
'You'd better come in,' said Swithenbank. 'Hang your coat up if you think it's going to be worth it.'
Pascoe wiped his feet, removed his coat, and carefully hung it up on the old-fashioned hall-stand which loomed like a multiple gallows behind the door.
Boris Kingsley replaced the phone on the bedside table. He was sitting on the edge of the bed and the mattress sagged beneath his weight. He was naked and he contemplated his bulging belly with the helpless bewilderment of a weak king confronting a peasants' revolt.
'When did you last see your little Willie?' asked Ursula Davenport, snuggling against his back and peering over his shoulder.
He dug his elbow into one of her bountiful breasts.
'About the same time you saw your little Umbilicus,' he said.
'Will he come?'
'What?'
'Johnny, I mean.'
'Why do you call him Johnny? No one else calls him Johnny. You always try to suggest a special relationship.'
'We had once. At least, I thought so.'
'But Kate put paid to that,' said Kingsley spitefully. 'Funny, I often think that both you and Stella got married on the rebound.'
'Stella?' She raised her eyebrows.
'Your sister-in-law, dear. There are depths beneath that unyielding surface.'
'I'm glad to hear it. I wasn't conscious of a rebound,' she said evenly. 'Unless it was from Stella moving into the bungalow. I could hardly stay on, could I?'
'I wish you'd stayed and the bungalow had moved,' grumbled Kingsley, walking across to the window and peering out.
The lawn had that tousled unkempt look even the best kept grass gets on a dank October morning. He had the sense of peering down at a wild moorland from some craggy height. Away to the right ran an avenue of trees, while straight ahead was a tangle of neglected shrubbery which reinforced the impression of desolation till he raised his eyes a little and the cheerful red-brick of the Rawlinson bungalow some three hundred yards away re-established the scale of things.
'Pa should never have sold your father that land,' said Kingsley with irritation. 'It ruins the view.'
'I dare say Stella will think the same about little Willie if she's out in the garden,' said Ursula.
'She should be so lucky,' said Kingsley. 'How do you think your brother is since his accident?'
'You are an evil-minded bastard sometimes, Boris,' she said.
'And you're the vicar's wife,' he mocked. 'Is it sermon on the mount time?'
She rolled off the bed as he approached.
'I think it's time to go home and have breakfast.'
'Stay here,' he suggested. 'When's Peter due back from his concert?'
'Not till this afternoon.'
'Well then.'
'But old mother Warnock is due here in half an hour.'
'She'll devil us some kidneys. You can say you dropped in to invite me to address the Mothers' Union.'
'Boris, dear, she'd stand up and denounce us before the first hymn next Sunday morning. No, I'll have a quick shower and be off.'
She left the room before he could attempt to restrain her by force or persuasion.
He did not appear too frustrated by her evasion but strolled round the room getting dressed. Unhappy at the selection of trousers in the large mahogany wardrobe which occupied half a wall opposite his bed, he took a key from a chest of drawers and unlocked a smaller oak wardrobe in the corner by the window. Here were hanging the heavier twills which the chill of the morning invited.
Here also hung a woman's dress in white muslin with blue ribbons to gather it gently in beneath the bosom. On the shelf above was a wide-brimmed floppy hat in white linen trimmed with blue roses. He touched it lovingly, then caressed the soft material of the dress with his open hand.
When he turned from re-locking the wardrobe Ursula was standing dripping wet in the bedroom doorway.
'I couldn't find a towel,' she said.
Til come and rub you dry,' he answered, smiling.
Geoffrey Rawlinson let his binoculars rest on his chest, stood up, collapsed the seat of his shooting-stick and, leaning heavily on it so that he drilled a trail of holes across the lawn, he limped back to the bungalow.
He heard the phone being replaced as he negotiated the high step into the kitchen, and a moment later his wife came into the room, snapping on the light so that he blinked as it came bouncing at him off chrome, tile and Formica. The changes Stella had made in the kitchen never ceased to amaze him. It was, he claimed, more automated than the War Room in the Pentagon. But even in high summer it still needed artificial light till the sun was high in the sky.
'Children off to school?' he asked.
'Yes. Please, Geoff, how many times do I have to ask you? Don't dig up the floor tiles with that thing!'
'Sorry,' said Rawlinson. He leaned the shooting-stick against the waste-disposal unit and took up his heavy blackthorn walking stick which was hooked over the rack of the dishwasher. It had a thick rubber ferrule which squeaked against the floor as he walked towards his wife.
'Who were you phoning?' he asked.
'The butcher,' she said. 'Is she still over there?'
'I've been looking at the birds,' he answered in tones of gentle reproach. 'That pair of whitethroats is still here. It's really incredibly late for them. I think one of them may have been injured and the other's waited for it. Touching, don't you think?'
His wife regarded him without speaking. Her face had all the individual features of great beauty, but there was something too symmetrical, too inexpressive about them, as though they had been put on canvas by a painter of great technique but no talent.
Rawlinson sighed.
'I don't know. Just because you saw her walking down the old drive last night doesn't mean she was going to bed down with Boris.'
'Don't be a fool,' she snapped. 'Peter's away singing, isn't he? And why else should she be skulking around out there on a nasty damp evening?'