Free The Shortest Way to Hades by Sarah Caudwell Page B

see, Hilary,” said Selena, leaning back and finishing her Frascati, in the manner of one who brings a well-rounded narrative to a logical and satisfactory conclusion, “you do see, don’t you, that it can’t have been an accident?”
    My curiosity about the spurious policemen had distracted my mind a little from the chief purpose of the narrative. Not allowing myself to be provoked into any precipitate inquiry as to its relevance, I refilled all our glasses with sufficient deliberation to permit myself time for thought.
    “I suppose,” I said eventually, “that you are—let me see, about five foot four, Selena?” She nodded. “The parapet then, if you could not see over it, must be of a similar height. And Deirdre—Deirdre, I seem to remember, was rather a small girl. Two or three inches shorter than you, I fancy?”
    “At least that,” said Selena.
    “And your suggestion is, I suppose, that a young woman who chooses to watch the Boat Race from a balcony some two inches higher than herself—”
    “Must be singularly indifferent,” said Julia, “to the outcome of the contest.”
    “While the notion of her leaning over it becomes, I agree, distinctly improbable. Are you quite sure, Selena, about the height of the parapet? It seems odd that it should be so high as to obstruct the view of the river.”
    “Quite sure,” said Selena. “I thought at the time what a pity it was. It does, however, prevent the roof terrace from being overlooked from the other blocks of flats in the neighborhood: it seems that the designer preferred privacy to prospect. And it would be more sheltered, I suppose, if one were sitting out there with a breeze blowing.”
    I asked Selena if it would be possible for her to draw for me a plan of Rupert’s flat. The product of her labors with ballpoint and table napkin, being possibly also of some interest to my readers, is reproduced below.

    I was still studying it when Cantrip arrived, showing no signs of weariness from his labors in Fleet Street. The waiters of Guido’s gathered round him with affectionate solicitude: it is their desire to encourage all their clients to a comfortable and prosperous plumpness, and Cantrip is an enduring challenge to them. The slenderness of Ragwort may be attributed to restraint; but Cantrip’s look of artistic semi-starvation survives any quantity of pasta or profiteroles.
    “They’ve kept you very late,” said Timothy. “Has the gossip columnist been sailing more than usually close to the wind?”
    “No,” said Cantrip. “No, it’s not that—I’ve been chatting up this bird. Hang on a minute while I order some food, and I’ll tell you all about it.”
    “No doubt,” said Ragwort, with weary distaste. “You generally do.”
    “All right then, I won’t,” said Cantrip. “What I thought was, if you were still trying to find out about Deirdre, you might all be quite interested. But if you’re not, I won’t bother.” Turning a shoulder towards Ragwort in a manner indicative of pique, he addressed himself to the nearest and most attentive waiter. “I’ll have a steak, please. You needn’t cook it much, I’m practically dying of hunger.”
    “Why?” said Selena. “Who was this girl, Cantrip?”
    “Oh, no one special.” Cantrip was elaborately casual. “Just a bird on the staff of the Scuttle. She covered the inquest on Deirdre. And I’ll have some mushrooms with it and lots of fried potatoes and some salad.”
    “Cantrip, don’t tease,” said Julia. “Tell us what she said.”
    “Shan’t, so there,” said Cantrip with dignity. “Not until Ragwort takes back his malicious innuendo.”
    “A malicious innuendo? On my part? My dear Cantrip,” said Ragwort, “what can you mean?”
    “You know jolly well what I mean. What you innuended was that I kept boring you sick with unsavory stories about my success with birds, and I want a retraction and an apology. That means you’ve got to say it’s not true and you’re