Free The Sirens Sang of Murder by Sarah Caudwell Page B

no.”
    “But,” said Selena, “he didn’t?”
    “No,” said Julia, looking pleased with herself. “No, he didn’t. So we went up to my room and after pouring the wine I disposed myself on the bed in what I hoped was a seductive attitude—that is to say, one which I thought might indicate to a man of experience and sophistication that if he made an advance it would not be rebuffed.”
    “But,” said Ragwort, “he didn’t?”
    “No, he didn’t. He sat on a chair and talked about currency investment. I recalled, however, that Alcibiades had not allowed himself to be discouraged by Socrates continuing to talk about the nature of virtue and truth and so forth, but had decided, when all else failed, to express himself with perfect candour. So I said that I would not by any means wish him to feel obliged to make any advance to me if he were not inclined to do so, but that, if he were, then in view of the lateness of the hour, it would perhaps be a pity to delay further. Which left him quite free,” said Julia defensively, “to say no if he wanted to.”
    “But again,” said Selena, “he didn’t?”
    “No,” said Julia, again with a dreamy and distant look. “No, he didn’t—he asked me if I would like him to undress me.” She declined to say more. It was not going, she said, to be that sort of book.
    The question whether Patrick Ardmore was a heartless and cynical seducer or merely, as Ragwort still maintained, a good-natured man who had discovered too late that there is no such thing as free tax advice seemed still to be unresolved. Wondering what view theman himself might have taken of the matter, I enquired what his manner had been on the following morning.
    It appeared, however, that from his demeanour on that day no significant conclusions could be drawn, for it had not been a day like other days—it had been the day on which Oliver Grynne had died in a drowning accident.
    “And I suppose,” said Julia, frowning slightly into her wineglass, “that that’s what the Daffodil people don’t want to talk about.”
    “It must have been very distressing for them all,” said Ragwort. “It sounds from what you have said as if they would all have been old friends of his—apart from Darkside, of course.”
    “They were, and of course they were extremely upset—Gabrielle in particular, I think. Even so, it seems a little curious that six months later they still don’t even like to mention it. I wonder if it’s because…” She fell silent, still seeking enlightenment in her wineglass.
    “Julia,” I said, “what was there that was odd about it?”
    The body had been found quite early in the morning. The solicitor had been in the habit, while in the Cayman Islands, of rising early, drinking a large glass of orange juice on the terrace of his hotel, and taking a swim before breakfasting further. On the morning of his death he had evidently been swimming in an area of underwater rocks, had dived and struck his head, and thus been rendered unconscious. He had been taking his exercise in an area not much frequented at so early an hour, and there was no one at hand to assist him.
    The burden had fallen on Clementine of telephoning her firm’s office in London to tell them of the death of the senior partner. Her task had not been made easierby having also to tell them that a medical examination showed him to have consumed, shortly before his death, the equivalent of two double measures of vodka.
    “I don’t think I’d exactly call that odd,” said Selena. “I can imagine that Stingham’s wouldn’t want it generally known that one of their senior partners was in the habit of drinking vodka before breakfast. But it would explain how he came to have an accident.”
    “Except,” said Julia, “that he’d given up alcohol on health grounds several years before. He was a strict teetotaler.”
    The candlelit shadows of the Corkscrew seemed for a moment less companionable than usual, and I felt for