“There’s Seal Bay if I turn down the coast,” said Archie, swinging the wheel. “Usually too rough to get near it, but it should be chust fine the day.”
Priscilla went back out and joined Maria. “How’s it going?” she asked.
“No one seems interested in the ones I chose for them,” mourned Maria. “I must be losing my touch. And Petal What a disaster. Look, she’s oiling around John Taylor and he’s walked away from her several times.”
“The others seem all right,” said Priscilla. Sir Bernard and Deborah were holding hands, Peter Trumpington was being charming to Jessica Fitt – Jessica, who had actually managed to find a grey ensemble even for holiday wear; grey blouse with a thin white stripe and grey trousers. Matthew Cowper was showing off to Mary French, who was looking as smug as any woman who thinks she is a combination of Cleopatra and Princess Di usually looks.
And then Peta abandoned John and lumbered towards Matthew Cowper. “Oh, dear,” said Maria. “Now would you look at her! She thinks she’s irresistible to men, no matter what age. I sometimes think all that food has lodged somewhere in Peta’s brain. She’s barmy.”
Matthew was backing towards the side of the boat away from Peta, who was flirting and ogling. And then Priscilla saw the sudden naked hatred in Mary French’s eyes as she looked at Peta and shivered despite the heat.
“You must send her away,” said Priscilla urgently.
“Peta? My dear girl, I would if I could. We’ll all just need to survive the week.”
“But she’s repulsive. There’s something awful about her,” said Priscilla. “She’s the sort of woman who gets killed.”
“No hope of that,” said Maria.
The boat had swung in towards the shore, bucking up and down in the landswell.
Soon Priscilla recognized the sandy cove which was Seal Bay. It was a beautiful spot, almost inaccessible from the land and barely accessible from the sea except on rare summer days like this.
The Jaunty Lass chugged into calm water and then the engines died. Hamish appeared from below and helped Archie to drop anchor and then they lowered the boat’s dinghy, Hamish going first to row the lunch ashore. He had had to do very little preparation. Jenny had fixed everything, even Archie’s breakfast, and Archie, feeling he had had ‘proper’ food, was joining in the holiday atmosphere.
Peta demanded to go ashore before the rest. By common consent, she was allowed the dinghy to herself. Hamish, rowing her ashore, hoped she would not sink the dinghy, for she was so heavy that the stern was dangerously low in the water.
She climbed out, wading through the shallows, and then flopping on the sand like a beached whale.
Soon they were all on shore and Jenny was spreading a white table-cloth on the sand. Peta sat at the edge of the cloth with a fork in one hand and a knife in the other, her piggy eyes gleaming. Priscilla was glad of Jenny’s efficient help, although she knew Jenny was doing it all for Hamish. But then Hamish always attracted that limpet type of female, thought Priscilla sourly.
John Taylor moved around to the far side of the cloth to put a distance between himself and the glutton. But when Peta began to eat, he realized his mistake. He had a perfect view of all that gorging and stuffing. If she would only eat silently, he thought, it would not be so bad. But she snorted and chomped and breathed heavily through her nose.
“Where’s Crystal?” asked Priscilla, wondering if she could slow Peta down by engaging her in conversation.
“Asleep, probably,” said Peta through a spray of breadcrumbs. “Very fond of me, she is. Doesn’t like her parents much and I can’t say I blame her. Pair of old bores.”
“That does not say very much for her,” snapped John. “Children should honour and obey their parents.”
“You must have come out of the ark, sweetie,” said Peta and then roared with laughter. “You should be a judge. You know, one of those ones who live in the Dark Ages and says things like, ‘What does the witness mean by heavy metal music?’”
And John, who did not know what heavy metal was but had no intention of betraying the fact, said instead, “You have not been very well brought up, Mrs Gore, or rather, that is my impression.”
“Wine, anyone?” said Priscilla desperately.
“Oh, what makes you think that?” Peta batted her eyelashes at him. “I know. You think I am a terrible flirt.”
“You are indeed a terrible flirt,” he said in his dry, precise voice, “in that you have no delicacy of manner. Your eating habits are disgusting.”
They all held their breath. But Peta had noticed a spare salmon steak and that was enough to make her temporarily deaf. She reached out and picked it up with her fingers. It began to disintegrate, but she hurriedly crammed it into her mouth. Then she seized the tablecloth to wipe her hands and everyone’s glasses of wine went flying.
Jessica Fitt found that the very sight of Peta made her feel physically ill. She liked her life to be well ordered. She liked beautiful flowers and beautiful paintings. She did not bother much about the sort of clothes she put on because, like most women of low self-esteem, she did not consider herself worth embellishing.
“Are you all right?” she heard Peter Trumpington ask.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t let her get to me. But this – ” she waved a hand around the white sandy beach to the clear blue sea “ – it’s so perfect, so beautiful, and there she sits in the middle of it like a great pile of excrement.”
“You mean the Peta woman?”
“Yes.”
“Would you like to know what to do about her?”
“There’s nothing up with her that a well-thrown hand-grenade wouldn’t cure.”
“Come on, Jessica. Spare me. Look at the size of her. There’d be bits of her splattered from here to America. Can you imagine bits of Peta raining down on New York City?”
Jessica stifled a sudden giggle. “What would you do, Peter?”
He leaned behind him and pulled a bottle of white wine out of the crate and then picked up a corkscrew. “I’d get drunk,” he said. “Let’s get through this bottle before she gets to it.”
Something sad and repressed and rigid inside Jessica seemed to melt. She laughed and held out her glass. “Here’s to sanity,” she said.
“Have you ever thought of committing a crime?” John asked Jenny. His panama hat was pulled down over his face so she could not see the expression in his eyes.
“Well, no, I don’t think so. I feel like killing her.” She waved a hand in Peta’s direction. “But I mean, it’s just a thought. But you don’t mean murder, do you? Do you mean theft or arson or shop-lifting?”
“I have dealt with so many criminals,” he said in a tired voice. “Very few of them show any remorse. They are angry at getting caught out, that’s all. They go to prison and the taxpayer has to pay for their keep.”
“You don’t mean you want to see hanging brought back?”
“Why, not? Why should we work and slave all our lives to keep them cosseted in jails, to keep them fed, to pay for prisoners’ rehabilitation, to pay for therapists?”
“I suppose you have a point,” said Jenny diplomatically. She looked longingly in the direction of Hamish Macbeth, but he had gone to sleep.
“Priscilla’s about to dish out the fresh fruit salad,” she said. “I must help her.”
“Go ahead,” he said wearily. “I’m going for a walk.”
“But you’ll miss dessert!”
“I’ll miss the sight of that swine eating it!”
He turned and strode off.
The castle cook, perhaps to ease his conscience, as he had probably decided before preparing the lunch not to go, had made enough fruit salad for twenty, and Peta ate most of it. No one else was hungry. Jessica Fitt and Peter Trumpington were drinking steadily and whispering to each other, snorting with laughter and then looking furtively around like bad children. They were vying with each other over the best way to kill Peta.