“Boots, you mean?” Her bullet-hole eyes had expanded a little.
“Mmmm...anecdotes relating to Arthur Wellesley, first Duke of Wellington, the Iron one, so-called—Old Nosey. Mostly apocryphal, one suspects, but quite a character.”
“Especially with the artillery,” remarked Birdie, having picked up one of the pistols and grimaced prettily at its weight.
Mr Kebble tried to think of some homely observation to offset the discouraging effect he feared Hoole’s academic chat might have upon the visiting tottie. He indicated the antique. “Stick it up on end and you could put flowers in it, I suppose.”
“As the lady said to the gamekeeper,” Miss Clemenceaux observed, almost automatically. Mr Hoole said it was nice—and something of a novelty—to hear a well-turned literary allusion in Flaxborough. Was Miss Mmm...just passing through? On her way to the D. H. Lawrence country perhaps?
She smiled faintly and turned to the editor. “Are you Mr Kebble?”
“I am.”
“Mr Josiah Kebble.” It was not a question. She framed the words commendingly, as a palaeontologist might read off the name of an unexpectedly well preserved fossil.
Mr Kebble chuckled. “They tell me that when I was born it was the usual thing for parents to pick names by sticking pins in the Bible. I’ve a cousin who got Belial that way.”
Hoole looked delighted at the news. He turned to Birdie. “Do you happen to be of a religious cast of mind, Miss Mmmm...?”
“I am a journalist.”
“That’s nice,” exclaimed Mr Kebble, who did not think it nice at all but was anxious not to alienate someone who might prove to be an envoy—a spy, even—from the hateful head office in London. “Would you like a cup of tea?”
She declined, but accepted one of the editor’s battered cigarettes, which he offered her from a flat tobacco tin. “My name’s Birdie Clemenceaux. Sunday Herald. I’m a research assistant, actually. For Clive Grail.” She leaned back her head and sent slow curls of smoke from her nostrils, as if offering incense to that divinity.
Mr Kebble looked suitably impressed. The optician, though, smirked knowingly. “Should I be in error, Miss, ah, Clemenceaux, in identifying the stock in trade of your periodical as a carefully balanced mixture of moral indignation and libidinous self-indulgence?”
If the little, round editor, who now stared at Birdie with an expression half amused and half alarmed, expected her to show resentment at this slur on her employers, he was disappointed. She simply confirmed, very soberly, that Mr Hoole’s assessment was correct and that she could not have described the situation better herself.
“Unfortunately.” she went on, “I am in hock, as it were, to these Machiavellian muck-spreaders and must serve their purposes or starve.”
Mr Kebble, who could not by the most extreme effort picture an emaciated Miss Clemenceaux, nodded sympathetically nevertheless.
“Which brings me,” she added, “to the purpose of my calling on you, Mr Josiah Kebble.”
And suddenly the eyes were not holes any more but warm and lively lights in the midst of a smile. She’s quite a nice little tottie, after all, reflected the editor. Had he not been a man with a highly developed sense of the ridiculous, he would have been much tempted to put his hand upon her knee. As it was, he just said, “Yes, my dear?” in a tone of kindly encouragement, and hoped that Mr Hoole would soon desist from trying to hog the conversation.
“The fact is,” said Birdie, “that my Mr Grail has been put into a very embarrassing position. Professionally, you understand. Not that I personally could lose much sleep over that—I mean, the man’s an absolute tick—but we do happen to be a team, and we do sort of have to look after the bastard.”
“Of course, duckie.” Mr Kebble, who in his time had employed mutants of journalism ranging from a shop-lifter to a pyromaniac, knew how difficult loyalty could be sometimes.
“You see, we were coming through this village or whatever in the snob-wagon, minding our own business, when this lunatic copper tries to leap over the bonnet. Didn’t touch him, actually, but Bob—he’s our photographer—Bob was driving, and he’s going to get done in court, and the publicity’s going to be absolutely fiendish because of his association with the Clive Grail expose-type column. I mean, Caesar’s wife. All that. You do see.”
“Which Caesar?” hummed Mr Hoole, interested. “There were lots of them, you know.”
The editor frowned. “Are you sure you’re not making too much of this?” he asked Birdie. “I should have thought careless driving was the worst they could throw at your friend.”
“Actually...” The girl looked uncomfortable. “Actually, the charge this copper’s making isn’t just that. It’s something about driving at him. With intent, as they say. Of course, it’s crazy.”
“What’s the policeman’s name? Did you notice?”
“Car... Cow...”
“Cowdrey?”
“That’s it. Yes.”
“Barmy,” said Mr Kebble, very decidedly. “His uncle was once the public hangman, they tell me. You mustn’t worry about Baz, duckie. By the time your friend’s in court again it’ll be for failing to observe a traffic sign, or something.”
Mr Hoole, whose early expectations of academic responsiveness on the part of their visitor had been disappointed, was now wandering aimlessly around the office. The girl took the opportunity to lean closer to the editor and adopt a more serious and confidential tone.
“You’re right, of course, but what we want to avoid is any mention of names at all—even in a local paper and in connection with a trivial traffic offence. There are people in Fleet Street who are keeping a bloody keen eye open for opportunities to make the Sunday Herald look foolish. They’d even use this.”
Mr Kebble’s eyes widened at this intimation of professional skulduggery. After brief consideration, he said: “You know better, of course, than to ask me to keep the case out of the paper.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” averred Miss Clemenceaux, huskily. “Surest way of getting it in.”
The editor nodded cheerfully. “On the other hand, as a newspaperwoman you’ll know that pressure of space does sometimes mean that some trivial item gets dished—always provided, mind you, that nobody’s actually asked for it to be suppressed.”
“Ah, yes. That would be a horse of a different colour.” With which dashing equestrian metaphor, Birdie resumed her former attitude and expression just as Mr Hoole got back from his tour of the office.
Mr Kebble picked up his phone and called across to Carole to put him “upstairs to Mr Prile”, whereupon she pressed two or three switches sprouting from a box-like contraption beside her shopping-bag and then turned a little handle with every appearance of doubt and despondency.