"Not at all. I'm glad you did. It's always best to have these things sorted out, isn't it?"
"That's what my friend said."
She came with me to the door, and watched me away down the drive. A priest was walking up as I screeched away from the house, probably on some ghoulish errand. They're never far away from widows, I thought unkindly, but I was feeling somehow let down. I gave him a nod and got a glance back, free of charge. I had an impression of middle age, a keen, thin face, and eyes of an interrogator. Interesting, because I'd thought fire and brimstone weren't policy any more, though fashions do change. I didn't see his cash register.
She gave me a wave in the rearview mirror. I waved back, wondering even as I accelerated out of the landscaped gardens and back among the riffraff whether I could ask her out on some pretext. But I'd now blotted my copybook with all the pretending I'd done. Women don't like that sort of thing, being unreasonable from birth. Very few of them have any natural trust.
It's a terrible way to be.
Chapter 5
Back at the cottage I summed things up, getting madder every minute at those slick so-and-so's on TV that make short work of any crime. I worked out a list in my mind of possible events as I made my tea, two eggs fried in margarine, baked beans with the tin standing in a pan of boiling water, and two of those yoghurt things for afters. I always like a lot of bread and make sandwiches of everything when I've not got company. A pint of tea, no sugar on alternate days because the quacks keep scaring the wits out of you about eating things you like, and I was off.
I sat down at the door to watch the birds fool around while I ate.
I'd learned the pistols were something vital, probably a really good pair, almost certainly Durs, as George said. Shiny, the lovely Muriel had said, and black. No decoration, but a platinum plug for the touchhold. And she'd indicated about fifteen inches long, not too far out. Shiny might mean not cross- or star-hatched, as Durs did his, but some of his early pieces were known unhatched, so that was still all right. Black, shiny, ugly… well, the poor lady was still probably slightly deranged after her shock. Cased. And Brother George had said there were accessories in it. And bought by post from Norfolk, near a coastal bird resort.
All Eric's stuff had been sold, but George was certain the flinters weren't there when he discovered his brother. And if they'd been hidden anywhere in the house, presumably Muriel would have come across them by now.
I finished my meal and sat drinking tea. It was afternoon, and the sun threw oblique shadows across the grass. The birds, a fairly ragged lot with not much to do, trotted about the path and milled around after crumbs. My robin, an aggressive little charmer who seemed to dislike the rest, came on my arm and gave its sweet whistle. It was blowing a cool breeze, rising from the east. With the east coast so near, afternoons could take on a chill.
"Do people go to bird sanctuaries to look at things like you?" I asked the robin. He looked back, disgusted. "Well," I explained to him, "some people must. Know where it is?"
He dropped off and shooed some brownish things off his patch. You'd think robins were soft and angelic from all the free publicity they get around Christmas, but they're tough as nails. I've seen this one of mine take on rabbits as well as those big black birds that goose-step about after you've cut the grass. Tough, but means well. I'm just the opposite, weak and bad-intentioned.
"Margaret?"
"Lovejoy!" She sounded honestly pleased. "At last! Where are we to meet?"
"Cool it, babe," I said. "I'm after information."
"I'd hoped you were lusting force five at least." She heaved a sigh. "I suppose it's still that tart from London."
"Which tart?" I asked, all innocent.
"You know. The one you sent walking to the station on her own."
"O.K., Hawkeyes of the East," I said sardonically.
"I just happened to notice," she said sweetly, "seeing as I was dangling out of the pub window when you arrived."
I hadn't seen her. The thought crossed my mind that she might have overheard Tinker and George Field, but I hadn't time to hang about if a real genuine pair of Sinters were in all this.
"She'd just been for a short… er… visit," I explained.
"How long's long, if three days is short?"
"Two," I snapped back, and could have bitten my tongue.
"Oh, two was it," she cooed. "You must be tired, sweetie, after all that entertaining."
See what I mean? They don't like each other really. I honestly believe that's what all that dressing up's all about. It doesn't matter what the bloke thinks, as long as they outdo any other birds in the vicinity. I often wonder how nuns get on, and whether they vie with each other for God in the convent. All the rest are fencing and machinating and circling warily, all for nothing. Frightening, if you let yourself dwell on it.
I once had this bird—the one I got the cottage from—and she found that I'd visited this other woman in the village. Honestly, it was quite innocent, really, but I'd had to stay away from the cottage for a night or two, only because I'd got pressing business, you see. My resident bird hit the roof—gave me hell—but was more eager to cripple this other woman for life than she was to tell me off.
I think they just like fighting each other, and I'd just given my bird an excuse for a scrap. How she found out I'll never know. They always assume the worst, don't they? Trust is not their strong point.
"I rang up to ask," I said with dignity, "about birds."
"How many do you want, sweetie?" she said coyly, putting barbs in.
"Birds that fly about," I reprimanded. "In the air."
"Oh, I beg your pardon, Lovejoy," she said, needling still. "I misunderstood. I thought—"
"Never mind what you thought."
"Stuffed?" she drooled.
"Now, look, Margaret," I snapped, and she relented.
"Sorry, old thing. What is it?"
"I have the offer of some glassed animals," I improvised. "Ten."
"Quite a collection."
"Well, the thing is, I haven't an idea."
"Want me to look at them for you?"
This was a blow, because Margaret was something of our local expert on such horrid monstrosities. Stuffed animals might be valuable antiques, rare as hen's teeth, but they still dampen my ardor.
"Er, well, you see…" I let it wait.
"All right, Lovejoy, I understand." She was smiling from her voice. "You don't trust me."
"Of course I do, Margaret," I said, fervor oozing down the phone. "It's just that I thought I'd rather learn a bit about suchlike myself. Anyway, I believe there are some bird sanctuaries further north along the coast which are pretty well known, so I thought—"
"Look, Lovejoy," she said, serious now, "I don't know what you plan to do, but if you're aiming to cart a load of stuffed birds into a bird sanctuary and ask them to help you identify them, you're going to be unpopular."
"Oh. Well, they might have some literature," I said weakly.
"I'll get the details. My nephew's in a club that comes out this way. Hang on." She left the phone a moment and then gave me a list of three bird sanctuaries, of which two were in Norfolk. I didn't say which one I was interested in, but said I'd probably go to the nearest.
Before she rang off, she asked if I was all right.
"Of course I am. Why?"
She hesitated. "Oh, nothing. It's just… Look, can I come and see you for a second?"
"Oh, Margaret." It was a bit transparent, after all, so I can be forgiven for being exasperated.
"Suit yourself, Lovejoy," she snapped angrily and slammed down the phone. Women don't like to give up, you see. Seen them with knitting? Yards, hours and hours, years even. And still they're there, soldiering on. Something pretty daunting about women sometimes, I often think. Anyway, it's change I like, and that's exactly what they resent.