Free Nothing Like Blood by Leo Bruce Page B

bristly forefinger—” I do not say that Lydia would havemended completely. But I firmly believe she might have been alive today.”
    â€œThen why isn’t she? “I asked innocently.
    â€œAh,” said the bishop, throwing into the interjection such occult significance that I was startled.
    â€œThat’s the point,” said Phiz.
    â€œYou knew her well?”
    â€œSchool chums,” said Phiz loudly. “Ragged old Holly together—Miss Hollington, games mistress. Lyddy was a sport.”
    I had not previously heard her speak at such length and thought this betokened some deep sentiment or emotion.
    â€œWe were not, however,” the bishop pontificated, “on such intimate terms with the man she married. We have never, to be frank, felt much confidence in Mallister.”
    â€œStinker! “put in Phiz, reverting to her normal curtness.
    â€œMy sister, as you will observe, Mrs Gort, is apt to be a mite … categorical. But there certainly has always seemed to us to be something unhealthy about Mallister.”
    I felt it was time to make some contribution to this friendly chatter. “I must say he looks the picture of health to me,” I said.
    â€œPhysically, doubtless. But I am not a blind believer in the tag
mens sana in corpore sano.
I have known too many excessively unhealthy minds in patently healthy bodies for that. I remember, for instance, a man in Durban”—or was it Dondo or Dares-Salaam?—”a powerful fellow in the pink of condition …”
    â€œBut with a nasty mind? “I interpolated briskly. “Yet I wouldn’t say that of Mallister. I have spoken to him several times and he seems to be a very normal creature.”
    It occurred to me at that moment that, with these two and others in the house, Mallister would have had a poorchance if he had not been absent at the time of his wife’s death.
    â€œNormal? Man’s a monster! “shouted Phiz.
    â€œYou see, Mrs Gort, our affection for our old friend Lydia Mallister makes us perhaps too keenly observant. We cannot help seeing that there is an association of sorts between him and the young woman Esmée Welton.”
    â€œYou don’t need to be keenly observant to see that,” I told them. “I saw it my first day in the house. But what about it? They’re both free agents.”
    â€œYou saw it at once, did you?” said the bishop. “That’s highly significant.”
    â€œI told you,” said Phiz to her brother. “They’re quite shameless.”
    â€œIt is not the present situation which gives us concern,” explained the bishop patiently. “They are, as you say, free agents. But this had started while our poor Lydia was still alive.”
    â€œDid she mind?” I asked innocently.
    â€œI beg your pardon?”
    I repeated my question.
    â€œWhat would
you
feel?” asked Phiz sharply. “Husband running around with another woman.”
    â€œIt would depend on the husband,” I pointed out reasonably.
    This seemed to baffle them and I saw them exchange glances. The bishop then began from a new angle.
    â€œWe are not, I hope, intolerant or narrow-minded people. We have seen too much of the world and its ways for that. When I first took up my ministry to the people of the Comorro Islands I found …”
    â€œTerrible,” I said quickly. “But this is England.”
    â€œI was about to demonstrate that we have seen and heard too much to be stuffy. But in this case we felt our broad-mindedness was stretched to the utmost.”
    â€œIt was flagrant,” said Phiz.
    Yet, I thought, it had not been without advantage to Miss Grissell. Perhaps this was an unkind and unworthy thought, but the pomposity of the bishop and the growls of his sister were not easy to bear.
    â€œYou dislike Mallister,” I said. “All right. We are all entitled to our likes and dislikes. But you can