Free The Trouble-Makers by Celia Fremlin

the form of antagonism among those around him.”
    “You mean he annoys people by being so disagreeable?” hazarded Mrs Forsyth, after a few moments’ pondering on the translation. “But you wouldn’t think, would you,” she added, after further thought, “that any friend of Alan’s could be so crude. I mean actually attacking him physically ——”
    “Stella said ‘enemy’ actually, not friend,” pointed out Katharine mildly; but Stella did not seem at all grateful for the support.
    “Friend—enemy—it’s all the same,” she declared pugnaciously . “Mrs Forsyth is quite right. A man’s enemies do have to be in keeping with his character, just as much as his friends have to. After all, love is a form of hate, really, isn’t it?”
    Stella always made this sort of statement with such a placid, proprietory air as to make contradiction—or even query—impossible. You felt that, to her, an opinion like this was a valuable possession, like a mink coat. If you didn’t possess one too, well, it was just too bad, but not a matter for argument.
    “And another thing,” Mrs Forsyth broke in, tugging the conversation back within reach as if it was an escaping balloon. “Didn’t you notice that Mary seemed—well—a little odd just now—when Stella was talking about this man with the raincoat. It occurred to me that perhaps she knew—or guessed—who it might be. Didn’t you feel that?”
    “Yes, and another thing,” responded Stella eagerly. “Doesn’t it strike you as queer that she should go off and leave Angela alone in the house like that, knowing that this character withthe knife was still around? It only makes sense if—as you say—she did know who he was. Knew that although he had stabbed Alan, he still wouldn’t harm Angela——”
    “Which means she must have known his motive!” squeaked Mrs Forsyth excitedly. “Yes, it all fits in, doesn’t it? For all we know, she may have been his motive! I mean, it’s not so unlikely, is it? Young—well, fairly young—wife: elderly jealous husband…. My goodness! …” Mrs Forsyth began to giggle shrilly as all the interesting implications took hold on her imagination. “My goodness! We’re going to see some fun now, aren’t we, when all the dark husbands with raincoats who were ‘working late’ last night are going to have to produce alibis? My! What a joke!”
    Her laugh was spiteful rather then amused; but all the same, for poor Esmé’s sake, Katharine made an effort to treat the suggestion as really a joke.
    “Goodness, yes,” she said, smiling. “I hope you had your Douglas tied to the kitchen table all evening, for a start!”
    Mrs Forsyth laughed more spitefully than ever.
    “Oh, him !The poor fish can’t even tell the plumber off for bungling the immersion-heater, let alone stab anybody! He’d expect me to do anything like that that needed doing, believe you me! And as to carrying on with Mary—heavens, I’d know soon enough if he was carrying on with another woman; he’d be borrowing the housekeeping money all the time, and getting me to look up the times of week-end trains to Brighton. And she’d always be ringing up asking where he was because of the muddles he’d make about meeting her. I’d have to nurse him through it like an illness, be terribly sympathetic, and at the same time pretend I didn’t know anything about it. In any case, he’d be no damn’ use to another woman. Why——”
    Mr Forsyth’s inadequacies in bed were followed (with equal vehemence) by his inadequacies at finding parking space for the car when he took Mrs Forsyth shopping on Saturday mornings. And Katharine listened, both enjoying it all and gently priding herself on the fact that she wasn’t disloyalenough to expose all her husband’s weaknesses like this. But paradoxically, as well as priding herself on this loyalty, she also felt guilty about it. If you were prepared to take part in and enjoy these husband-belittling sessions,