Free A Bedlam of Bones by Suzette Hill

not been for such an untimely event she would never have had the good fortune to meet Mr Attlee. She must have seen my surprise, for she explained that her husband had been allergic to all animals and would never allow her to have one. Other than observing that it was an ill wind, I wasn’t quite sure what I was supposed to say. However, the remark evidently suited her for she exclaimed, ‘My feelings exactly!’, adding that it was strange the way things would often ‘pan out’, even when least expected. I agreed that it was very strange – and considered throwing in something about silver linings and the undoubted rewards of patience, but thought better of it.
By this time a breeze was getting up and my own view was that things were ‘panning out’ in the direction of a large gin. So we moved indoors and Lavinia said she would join me later as she had a new frock she wanted to wear for the opening and it was essential to get it exactly right. She seemed to expect the dog to join her upstairs, but it remained rooted to the sofa, unmoved and unwilling. It’s a dour-faced little creature, but once it had ascertained that I had no intention of smothering it in scent and kisses we became quite matey.
Half an hour later the owner reappeared, resplendent in pearls and shimmering blue satin – with, I may say, eye shadow and snazzy Louis heels to match. I can tell you, Francis, a far cry from the dirndls and drooping tent dresses of Berceau-Lamont! Naturally, with that as an example I felt obliged to cut a dash myself (Mother’s antique earrings and dear Uncle Herbert’s sequinned bolero). So there we were – two tall women decked to the nines, gadding off for the evening in the impeccable company of the tacit Attlee!
     
    I was just pondering in which particular game of charades I had last seen Uncle Herbert sporting that bolero (a garment he would regularly struggle into regardless of theme or suitability), when Maurice leapt through the open window and, evidently in tolerant mood, settled himself on my lap. This doesn’t happen very often and I felt duty-bound to stop my reading and express gratitude and surprise. Courtesies were exchanged, an inquisitive paw extended to scrabble with the discarded envelope, and then, after a few gracious purrs and a quick tweak of my tie, he was off again to harry the woollen mouse. I returned to the letter.
    When we arrived, there was already a great mob of people: quite a number I knew, of course, but a whole gaggle that I didn’t (down from London I think) and presumably associates of Lavinia’s old school chum, a plump mousy little creature – though judging from the diamond studs and necklace, obviously loaded. Business must be booming! Certainly she had spared no expense in furnishing the new premises, and everything looked frightfully chic and à la mode. The champagne wasn’t bad either.
Which, Francis, brings me to our friend Ingaza. Oh yes, he was there all right – draped over a dry martini and muttering querulously about the owner’s taste in contemporary abstracts. ‘If little Miss Prissy imagines the cognoscenti of Brighton are going to be dazzled by these daubings she’s in for a shock,’ he opined. ‘So passé! You’ll see – the whole thing will go bust in a month.’ And deftly intercepting a passing drinks tray, he replaced his empty cocktail glass with a full one of ‘Miss Prissy’s’ vintage champagne.
Yes, on standard form you might say. Except that I couldn’t help feeling he seemed a trifle tense: dragging on even more gaspers than usual and nearly jumping out of his skin when some art-dealing crony tapped him lightly on the shoulder. I made a joke about his looking like a marked man – to which he replied darkly that he probably was. And when I asked marked by whom, he said that that was exactly what he wanted to know. Well frankly I had better things to do than stand grappling with Ingaza’s conundrums – e.g. to reach the caviar canapés