Free Matricide at St. Martha's by Ruth Dudley Edwards Page A

do.’
    Amiss looked hesitantly at the door through which were coming sounds of angry slogans.
    ‘Oh, I see. Chicken, are you?’ She jerked her head towards the window. ‘I should hop it out the back way if I were you. Don’t suppose you can cope with them without me to protect you.’ She shook her head, ‘What is the modern male coming to? There were never any New Men among the Troutbecks.’
    Amiss swallowed his drink and walked to the window with as much dignity as he could muster.

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    9
    « ^ »
    Amiss headed straight for Francis Pusey’s rooms, arriving just as Miss Stamp was emerging in an advanced state of twitter.
    ‘Oh, Mr Amiss,’ she began. ‘Isn’t it all dreadful? Poor Dr Pusey is in such a state. Between Dr Holdness and that cat of yours…’
    Well, thought Amiss, if nothing else, Plutarch had achieved the feat of moving from ‘dear little pussy cat’ to ‘that cat’ in a matter of a few hours. She was undoubtedly a feline delinquent of a high order.
    ‘I do feel terrible about all that, Miss Stamp. She’s very highly strung, you know and the sight of Dr Pusey’s Pekinese put her in a frightful tizz. I do hope Dr Pusey will forgive me.’
    Her face cleared. ‘I’m sure if you just explain. He gets upset, does Dr Pusey, but he’s not someone to bear a grudge. Well, not really.’
    ‘Advise me, Miss Stamp. What should I offer as an olive branch? Should I ask him to lunch?’ She looked over her shoulder at the heavy oak door behind her, tripped over to him and stood on tiptoes to whisper in his ear. ‘What he likes most is a nice walk followed by a really nice afternoon tea. And he does love showing people round Cambridge.’
    Amiss rapidly translated this into frightful old bore prepared to do anything for a few cream cakes and an audience. ‘Thank you, Miss Stamp,’ he said gravely. ‘I shall act on your advice. You are a great comfort to me.’
    ‘So you do see, don’t you?’ Pusey replaced the card in the box and selected another. ‘In fact, it was my last visit.’ He peered through his big round glasses. ‘Yes, it says it here. “22 February 1990, Sprogget deceased”.’
    ‘Did it come as a shock to you?’
    ‘A very, very great shock. Why, as I’ve shown you, I’d been going to him for more than twenty years. He understood me; no one else has ever quite understood me. It’s a matter of compensating for the very slight difference in height between my shoulders and’ – he giggled – ‘what I am forced to admit is a slight touch of pigeon chest. It takes a genius, you know, to get things just so.’
    ‘So do you have a new tailor?’
    ‘Yes, yes, but he’s hopeless; just doesn’t understand about shoulders. I keep searching. You don’t know anyone, I suppose?’ He looked Amiss up and down. ‘No, I expect you don’t.’
    Pusey returned the card to its box, which he replaced carefully in the corner cabinet. He turned round and threw his hands out in an expansive gesture. ‘Now I hope you appreciate the extent of my loss.’
    ‘Can anything be done to mend it?’
    ‘Mend cashmere? At prodigious expense. And what will be the result?’
    Amiss decided on a calculated risk. ‘Perhaps I might be allowed to contribute, if you wouldn’t mind waiting until the first instalment of my stipend. I’m very hard up at the moment.’
    ‘My dear boy.’ Pusey positively beamed at him. ‘That’s extremely kind of you but I wouldn’t dream of it. It is quite enough that you are sending that… that…’
    ‘Beast?’ offered Amiss.
    ‘Beast away. I don’t wish to be offensive. You are no doubt attached to it.’
    ‘Tethered rather than attached. It was,’ Amiss added mendaciously, ‘a legacy from my dear, late mother.’ He gazed at the floor for a few moments while Pusey emitted a couple of embarrassed squeaks. Then Amiss sat up, squared his shoulders and looked brave. ‘You’ve been most forbearing, Dr Pusey, and you are very good to forgive me. Might I ask