Free The New Sonia Wayward by Michael Innes

neurosis. Boswell is encouraged to bury and unbury bones.’
    Mrs Gotlop again laughed loudly, and Petticate was left in doubt whether he had been listening to a joke or to some actual, if gross, absurdity in the way of dog-mania. He wanted to say something about Boswell being encouraged not to smell, but judged that this might well give offence. So, instead, he took a plunge into the matter in hand.
    ‘About Sonia,’ he said. ‘You remember my asking you whether you had seen her on the train? Well, I knew you couldn’t have.’
    Mrs Gotlop stared. ‘Don’t follow you, Blimp. Don’t follow you at all. Why couldn’t I see Sonia as well as you could? Did you take me to be blind drunk?’
    ‘Sonia isn’t on this train. She couldn’t possibly be on this train. She’s gone away.’
    ‘I don’t blame her, if you’ve taken to raving. Why should you ask me if I’d seen a woman who wasn’t there?’
    ‘It was very childish, I’m afraid,’ Petticate said. ‘A sort of make believe. I was pretending that Sonia was still with me, after all.’
    ‘Do you mean that she’s left you at last?’
    Petticate frowned. He found Mrs Gotlop’s last two words most offensive.
    ‘Nothing like that,’ he said. ‘Or rather, nothing quite like that. But she has gone off on rather an indefinite holiday. I’ve no idea where to. We did have a certain mild disagreement when we were on the yacht. Close quarters like that can be a little trying, you know. So we decided on splitting up for a time. Nothing serious. But I feel a little sensitive about it, all the same. That’s why I asked you that senseless question. A naïve impulse to cover the matter up. Foolish of me. Of course I don’t mind telling a very old friend like yourself.’
    Petticate’s voice had rather tailed off. He was conscious that his speech had been a little too wordy. He was conscious, too, that Mrs Gotlop had sniffed loudly. It was not, of course, a vulgar sniff of disapproval, such as might have been indulged in by a parlourmaid. It was genuinely directed to discovering whether the compartment reeked not merely of Boswell but of spirits as well. Petticate was being suspected of inebriety.
    ‘You seem to me to be prevaricating,’ Mrs Gotlop said.
    ‘Prevaricating!’ Petticate was dismayed.
    ‘Remember my profession, Blimp. I am accustomed to discriminate between truth and falsehood as they are conveyed in the tone of a voice. Yes!’ – and Mrs Gotlop pointed a be-ringed finger dramatically at Petticate – ‘even when it comes to me muted in the pages of an old diary, a forgotten memoir. I cannot be deceived!’
    ‘I assure you…’ Petticate began, and then broke off helplessly. He was unnerved. Minutes had passed since Mrs Gotlop had last roared with laughter, and this in itself was unfamiliar and alarming. But even more alarming was the absoluteness of the claim she had just enunciated. It reminded Petticate of the terrible text, bordered with forget-me-nots, which had hung above his childish cot: I , God , see you . The claim was one which his conscious intellect had long ago dismissed as meaningless. Had this not been so, he might at least have been preserved from even momentarily viewing Mrs Gotlop as one possessed of a supernatural perspicacity now.
    ‘You cannot assure me, Blimp,’ Mrs Gotlop said. ‘ I know .’
    Petticate took a large gulp of air – so that Johnson, who was still wheezing, turned and gave him a sympathetic glance.
    ‘Well, yes,’ Petticate said desperately. ‘I suppose you’re right in a way. I haven’t been entirely candid. Sonia has been getting very restless during the last few months. Probably you’ve noticed it yourself. And she doubts whether Snigg’s Green agrees with her health. It’s quite possible that, when we do join up again, it will be elsewhere. She has heard very good reports of the Bermudas. I’m not terribly keen on a move myself. But, of course, I must stick to Sonia.’
    ‘Certainly you