‘In the first place, it’s not the beetles that eat into the timber, but their larvae. Worms. Maggots. After a while, when they’ve fed long enough — which can be two or three years — each one becomes a chrysalis, and out of that comes the beetle. All this goes on inside the wood, in those galleries that they make. Eventually' the beetle crawls out through what we call flight holes.’
‘And you know all about it?’
‘Lot of old buildings in this borough. They sent me on a course.’
. ‘All right, then. Tell me, have you ever heard of death-watch beetles biting humans?’
‘Oh, it wasn’t death-watch, not this time. These beetles were quite different. Look, I’ll show you.’ He groped into his duffel bag and produced a plastic sandwich box with a rubber band around it. ‘They’re bigger than death-watch, these are.’
‘Tony, you didn’t mention you had some with you!’ Tessa exclaimed sharply.
‘Didn’t ask, did you?’
‘But are they — safe?’
‘Hope so,’ he grinned as he slipped the rubber band off. ‘We’re in dead trouble if they’re not.’
Easing away the lid, he tipped the beetles out on to the table: four of them, lying motionless in a little heap. With the tip of his forefinger he separated them, turning over one which had landed upside down.
‘Jesus!’ she heard Tessa mutter under her breath. ‘That’s what they look like?’
‘Dead, of course,’ Tony said.
Dorothea could not contain her own reaction. ‘But they’re beautiful!’ she exclaimed in astonishment. ‘The colours!’
They were not completely identical but near enough. Their heads were a rich, deep green, reminiscent of shot silk, though with a couple of bright yellow spots, one at either side, and speckles of the same two colours decorated the enamel-pink body, which seemed as perfect as a Faberge pendant. Without their protruding crayfish-style claws, each beetle, she estimated, was about the size of a lOp coin, but oval in shape; the claws added an extra, menacing dimension.
‘Don’t you think they’re beautiful?’ she demanded of Tony.
‘Dangerous.’
‘Aren’t most beautiful things?’
‘These are really vicious, you can be sure of that,’ he insisted seriously. ‘I’ve seem ’em in action. Those little claws are what you’ve got to watch out for.’
Tessa shuddered, then gave the nearest a tentative little push with her finger, drawing back quickly in case it snapped at her — even in death.
‘I wish you’d said earlier you’d got them, while the photographer was still with us,’ she grumbled. ‘I’m going to need a picture.’
‘My God!’ Brian had joined them from the bar. He gazed at the dead beetles with a mixed expression of horror and fascination, then called back: ‘Janet, come an’ give yourself a thrill, darlin’! Did you ever see the like?’ Janet was unimpressed. ‘You might have some consideration, bringing in dead beetles. People come in here to eat, you know. What if the food inspector drops by?’
‘But they’re gorgeous, aren’t they?’ Dorothea repeated, determined to find someone who agreed with her. She felt slightly drunk. Despite her bread and cheese, those two large gins on an empty stomach had done their work. ‘Don’t you think so, Janet?’
‘Thea!’ Brian protested with a little laugh. ‘How can you say that after what they did to Guy?’
‘Only time I saw one, I stamped on it. Didn’t give it a chance. One look o’ them pincers was enough for me.’ Janet made her remark as though it were the most natural thing in the world. Then she stopped and gazed around at them, surprised. ‘What have I said?’
There was a shocked silence. They were all staring at her.
‘Where did you see ’em, love?’ Tony asked gently. ‘Here, of course, in the Plough. Down in the cellar. Mind you, that was three or four weeks ago. Haven’t spotted nothing since.’
More silence, as though no one dared make the first move. Then Dorothea spoke. Someone had to say something.
‘Well, I’m going to have another drink,’ she announced defiantly. ‘This just isn’t my day.’
By the time Dorothea left the Plough that afternoon Tony, accompanied by the landlord, had already examined the cellar. To everyone’s relief, he discovered no sign of beetles, neither pink-and-green nor any other kind. All the same, to be on the safe side he phoned the borough council to report Janet’s story, predicting that they would insist on a proper inspection in view of what had happened at the school.
Dorothea made her way home, feeling exhausted. She had one more large gin inside her, which — she realised as she fumbled to get her key into the lock — was a mistake. In her state, after almost no sleep and nothing to eat, she should either have had a proper meal or else cut down on the drink. Eleven years as an army wife had taught her to know her own capacity. Under the right circumstances she could still be on her feet while everyone else was crawling in the sawdust, but not without food or sleep. That was her weak point; always had been.
But what the hell, it’s not every day your husband gets eaten by beetles, she said to herself as she went into the hall, slamming the front door shut behind her. And Christ, I needed it, that drink!
In case the hospital had rung while she was out she checked the answering machine. The first message was from Guy’s office, wondering where he was. Hell, she’d forgotten she should have let them know; it had just slipped her mind. Otherwise the only call was from the temp agency asking her to confirm if she was free to take on a two-week holiday-relief stint starting on Monday. Personal secretary in a financial adviser’s office.
She shrugged, deciding to answer later, and left the machine on.
Guy was right about the house not looking like home yet, she brooded when she went into the living room, almost stumbling over the rolled-up carpet. There was nowhere comfortable to sit downstairs. All the woodwork was stripped ready for painting, and it had been that way for weeks now. She just hadn’t got round to doing it. The furniture was still the old rubbish she’d kept when they sold her father’s house, stuff he’d often talked about throwing out before he died, but good enough to use till she got all the decoration finished. It wouldn’t matter if she got spots of paint on it, because she intended to replace everything.
During all those years in married quarters a house of her own had been a dream. Now, with the money left to her in her father’s will, she’d made it come true: her house, in her name. And not a comer in it anywhere where she could just drop into an armchair and relax without being reminded of how much work still remained to be done.
Except her bathroom.
Glancing at her watch, she reckoned she’d just enough time for a slow, luxurious bath before she had to collect Kath from her class and take her to visit Guy. She kicked off her shoes and went upstairs.
The marital bedroom with its bathroom en suite, as they say in the estate agents’ handouts, was her pride; the few visitors they had so far risked inviting had all been taken up to admire it. It had quiet good taste, she thought yet again as she stood in the doorway to admire her work. Japanese wallpaper with a delicate hint of distant mountains, Finnish curtains, Austrian furniture, and a thick, comforting carpet which gently caressed her feet. As for the bathroom, she’d been lucky to find a suite in that delicately mottled green, and even luckier to come across contractors capable of doing such an excellent job of conversion. She almost purred with delight every time she walked into it.
Turning on the water, she went back into the bedroom to strip off her clothes — God, she felt as though she hadn’t been out of them for a month! — and tie a towel around her hair. In front of the full-length mirror she paused, passing her hands over her hips as she examined herself critically.