Free Spinsters in Jeopardy by Ngaio Marsh

between Ricky and his eyes until something else diverted their gaze. But Ricky himself stirred a little, flinging out his arm. She moved him over with his face away from Oberon. He murmured: “Mummy?” and she answered: “Yes,” and kept her hand on him until he had fallen back into sleep.”
    She turned and looked past the ridiculous back of the deep-breathing disciple to the figure seated in the glare of the sun, and, being a painter, she recognized, in the midst of her alarm, a remarkable subject. At the same time it seemed to her that Oberon and she acknowledged each other as enemies.
    This engagement, if it was one, was broken off by the appearance of two more of Mr. Oberon’s guests: a tall girl and a lame young man who were introduced as Ginny Taylor and Robin Herrington. Both names were familiar to Troy, the girl’s as that of a regular sacrifice on the altars of the glossy weeklies, and the man’s as that of the reputably wildish son of a famous brewer who was also an indefatigable patron of the fine arts. To Troy their comparative normality was as a freshening breeze and she was ready to overlook the shadows under their eyes and their air of unease. They greeted her politely, lowered their voices when they saw Ricky and sat together on one seat, screening him from Mr. Oberon. Troy returned to her former place.
    Mr. Oberon was talking. It seemed that he had bought a book in Paris, a newly discovered manuscript, one of those assembled by Roger de Gaignières. Troy knew that he must have paid a fabulous sum for it and, in spite of herself, listened eagerly to a description of the illuminations. He went on to speak of other works: of the calendar of Charles d’Angoulême, of Indian art, and finally of the moderns — Rouault, Picasso and André Derain. “But, of course, André is not a modern. He derives quite blatantly from Rubens. Ask Carbury, when he comes, if I am not right.”
    Troy’s nerves jumped. Could he mean Carbury Glande, a painter whom she knew perfectly well and who would certainly, if he appeared, greet her with feverish effusiveness? Mr. Oberon no longer looked at her or at anyone in particular, yet she had the feeling that he talked at her and he was talking very well. Yes, here was a description of one of Glande’s works. “He painted it yesterday from the Saracens’ Watchtower: the favourite interplay of lemon and lacquer-red with a single note of magenta, and everything arranged about a central point. The esoteric significance was eloquent and the whole thing quite beautiful.” It was undoubtedly Carbury Glande. Surely, surely, the operation must be over and if so, why didn’t Alleyn come and take them away? She tried to remember if Carbury Glande knew she was married to a policeman.
    Ginny Taylor said: “I wish I knew about Carbury. I can’t get anything from his works. I can only say awful Philistinish things such as they look as if they were too easy to do.” She glanced in a friendly manner at Troy.
    “Do
you
know about modern art?” she asked.
    “I’m always ready to learn,” Troy hedged with a dexterity born of fright.
    “I shall never learn however much I try,” sighed Ginny Taylor and suddenly yawned.
    The jaws of everyone except Mr. Oberon quivered responsively.
    “Lord, I’m sorry,” said Ginny, and for some unaccountable reason looked frightened. Robin Herrington touched her hand with the tip of his fingers. “I wonder why they’re so infectious,” he said. “Sneezes, coughs and yawns. Yawns worst of all. To read about them’s enough to set one going.”
    “Perhaps,” Mr. Oberon suggested, “it’s another piece of evidence, if a homely one, that separateness is an illusion. Our bodies as well as our souls have reflex actions.” And while Troy was still wondering what on earth this might mean his Sati gave a little yelp of agreement.
    “True! True!” she cried. She dived, stretched out with her right arm and grasped her toes. At the same time she