Mrs Kipling came down at half-past seven next morning and saw her bent over the table with her stubborn forehead in the crook of her left arm. An end of her grizzled hair was floating in a cup of cold tea, and her right hand clutched a teaspoon.
‘Tea, Kipling!’ shouted Asta, starting up.
Mrs Kipling screamed: she had thought — almost hoped — that Asta was dead.
27
At eight o’clock the first post came. The postman had to ring: one of the envelopes was too bulky to pass through the slot of the letter-box. It came from Schiff, and was stuffed with samples of carnival novelties; paper hats, coloured streamers, coiled toys designed to stretch out squeaking and tickle your neighbour, uninflated rubber balloons of unconventional patterns, red card. board noses, masks, balls of pith for throwing at people, and all kinds of amusing invitation-cards.
Near the bottom of the second page Schiff had written:
‘… To be for the present unhappy in the position to not on account of certain circumstances over which I have no control be, as I ordinarily would, in a position to gladly and with my hand on my heart as one friend to another offer you free of charge my services, gives me grief and unhappiness. My Formule I give freely and hope to, in happier circumstances over which I trust I shall have the fullest control, give more as it is in my nature to ordinarily do. I at, however, the present sad moment, am by the circumstances with grief compelled to ask Consultant Fee L5 . o . o. (Five Pounds Exactly.) The Formule, which I baptize in the name of BATTLEAXE, is as research has made clear a psychic laxative and brain-cathartic of the first order. Put on the Market it could not fail to succeed, in which case I have a cheaper formula almost equally as good as the one that I have with all possible admiration and respect pinned to this note…’
The Formule, on Page Three, was as follows:
THE FORMULE
According to Quantity, in the Following Proportion
Take 1 Bot. ORANGE CURACAO
1 Bot. VERY DRY GIN
1 Bot. MANDARIN
1/4 Bot. BRANDY
1/4 Bot. ABRICOTINE
1/8 Bot. COINTREAU
A Dash of ORANGE BITTERS.
Mix the above very thoroughly.
Now, squeeze out and carefully strain the juice of 24 fresh oranges. Mix this juice with the above Mixture, very thoroughly. Put in ice-box and freeze very cold.
WHEN READY TO SERVE:
Fill a large tumbler 5/8 (five eighths) full with the Mixture as above.
Almost fill your tumbler then with Champagne.
It need not be Vintage Champagne.
Add a slice of orange, a slice of fresh peach, a finely-cut curl of orange-peel.
Serve Bitterly Cold.
If the Formule is preferred weaker, dilute with Champagne.
I recommend ROUSPETEUR FRERES, which I can get for you at not disadvantageous prices. Many people prefer it weaker. It is argued that the Formule is better in the following proportions:
3/8 (three eighths) Mixture
5/8 (five eighths) ROUSPETEUR PRERES CHAMPAGNE
Swizzle with swizzle-stick.
This tastes like fruit-juice, and is good.
After that she opened letters from the National Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to this, that, or the other.
She was tired and sad. Her thoughts were wandering … Whosoever kicks a dog kicks a man by proxy: that was her opinion. A blow-fly is an evil thing, better dead.
Kill the blow-fly and have done.
Find pleasure in tearing off the wings or the legs of that fly, and the time will come when you will have graduated from fly to mouse, mouse to rat, rat to cat, cat to dog, dog to child —
Enough, enough is enough! (Asta shuddered). Pull a fly’s wings off, and you rip off the wings of a bird.
Pluck off the fly’s legs and you tear a man between four wild horses.
Kill if you must, but kill clean! That which you must kill so that you may live is your adversary. Then kill it quickly, and have done: the longer it lives in pain, the greater its power in the end.
The tormented beetle takes a terrible revenge at last … the imprisoned gold-fish rounds up its jailers in hundreds and thousands … the game-cock or the terrier dying in the pit sets man against man in vaster pits at long last: the tortured beast is master of the world when all is said and done.
All cruelty is one.
‘Down with it!’ cried the spirit of Asta Thundersley, as she plunged into the day’s correspondence, most of which referred to the case of a woman in Buckinghamshire who kept underfed ducks in a basement. Eagles, chickens, ducks … aviators, in fantrymen, sailors … heavens above, earth beneath, and waters under the earth — all cruelty and oppression were one. There was only one calloused heart in the Universe, and only one good heart. There was only the Devil on one hand and God on the other.
‘_Ha!_’ said Asta. The hairs at the nape of her neck bristled and grew damp. She was about to make a fool of herself again — this time about ducks.
At four o’clock Thea Olivia, who had eaten three-quarters of a pound of meat, some vegetables, and a bit of cheese as big as your fist off a tray in her room, came down in lavender-andgrey for tea.
‘My inky-fingers?’ she said to Asta, who was licking an envelope. ‘How is my little inky-fingers?’
‘Hello, Duck,’ said Asta.
28
The man who had murdered Sonia Sabbatani dressed himself with care. He was an extremely sensitive man, dainty in his habits, sensitive to harsh words, and given to misinterpreting sidelong glances. His nostrils, also, were uncomfortably sensitive. If he had not been smoking too much — ten cigarettes in a day were too much, for he smoked only to defend himself against other people’s breath — he could shut his eyes and recognize people he had met by their smell. He was, therefore, considerate of other people’s nostrils. Anxious not to give offence, he scoured his body, especially his feet, as thoroughly as a surgeon scours his hands, twice a day. He detested above all things the odour of breath. It offended him profoundly. He had the nose of a tobacco-blender or a tea-taster, and could tell with reasonable accuracy at half a yard what anyone had eaten since breakfast time. Radishes disgusted him; cheese turned his stomach; beer caused him to retch. At the same time this man liked to meet people. He was a young man with his way to make in the world — a man with ambition — and it was necessary for him to make contacts, as the saying goes. So he had developed a remarkable knack of controlling his breathing. He never in any circumstances inhaled through his nose while anyone in his immediate vicinity was breathing out through the mouth. His sensitivity cut both ways: it seemed to him that he must offend others as others offended him. So he had cultivated a trick of holding his breath. He had been holding his breath, off and on, for nearly twenty years. Thus, his shoulders were drawn back and his chest thrust forward: he had acquired the lungs of a pearl-fisher. His trepidation in relation to bad smells had given birth to highly individual ways of standing, looking, and holding his head. He was of normal height. In talking to a short man he held his head high with the chin thrust out. And if he happened to be in intimate conversation with a tall man he kept his nose down, tucking in his chin and still contriving to look the other straight in the eye. So he had what might have been mistaken for a military carriage: only he leaned backwards. His distinct erectness contrasted oddly with the expression of his face. The nostrils appeared to be struggling between a tendency to expand in an interested sniff, and snap shut in a spasm of distaste. He kept most of his mouth closed when he talked, using only one side of it — the side farthest from whoever he was talking to. He knew that this habit might lead people to believe that he was trying to make himself look tough; so he made his expression affable by means of his eyes and eyebrows. The Murderer’s eyes were singularly unexpressive; but he could force his eyebrows into a whimsical, almost apologetic expression. He had one devouring fear — that somebody with bad teeth or bronchitis (he could diagnose a bronchial halitosis at three-and-a-half feet) might come up to him and talk right into his face. So, when anyone came near him he put out an anxious hand. If the person speaking to him was a man, the murderer took him by the lapel; if a woman, by the elbow. In any case, he kept people at a distance. And still he wanted to be with people.