Free Put on by Cunning by Ruth Rendell Page B

saying, and her flush told him that she did.
    Without digressions this time, she repeated her story. He listened concentratedly. When she had finished he said rather sharply:
    ‘Did Sir Manuel tell anyone else about this?’
    ‘Not so far as I know. Well, no, I’m sure he didn’t.’ Her face was pale again and composed. She asked him, ‘What will you do?’
    ‘I don’t know.’
    ‘But you’ll do something to find out. You’ll prove she is Natalie Arno?’
    Or that she is not? He didn’t say it, and before he had framed an alternative reply she had jumped up and was taking her leave of him in that polite yet child-like way she had.
    ‘It was very good and patient of you to listen to me, Mr Wexford. I’m sure you understand why I had to come. Will you give my love to Sheila, please, and say I’ll be thinking of her on Saturday? She did ask me to come but of course that wouldn’t be possible. I’m afraid I’ve taken up a great deal of your time . . .’
    He walked with her out to the Volkswagen which she had parked round the corner of the street on an ice-free patch. She looked back once as she drove away and raised her hand to him. How many times, in telling her story, had she said she didn’t believe it? He had often observed how people will say they are sure of something when they truly mean they are unsure, how a man will hotly declare that he doesn’t believe a word of it when he believes only too easily. If Dinah Sternhold had not believed, would she have come to him at all?
    He asked himself if he believed and if so what was he going to do about it?
    Nothing till after the wedding . . .

7
    The success or failure of a wedding, as Wexford remarked, is no augury of the marriage itself. This wedding might be said to have failed. In the first place, the thaw set in the evening before and by Saturday morning it was raining hard. All day long it rained tempestuously. The expected crowd of well-wishers come to see their favourite married, a youthful joyous crowd of confetti-hurlers, became in fact a huddle of pensioners under umbrellas, indifferently lingering on after the Over-Sixties meeting in St Peter’s Hall. But the press was there, made spiteful by rain and mud, awaiting opportunities. And these were many: a bridesmaid’s diaphanous skirt blown almost over her head by a gust of wind, a small but dismaying accident when the bride’s brother-in-law’s car went into the back of a press photographer’s car, and later the failure of the Olive and Dove management to provide luncheon places for some ten of the guests.
    The Sunday papers made the most of it. Their pictures might have been left to speak for themselves, for the captions, snide or sneering, only added insult to injury. Dora wept.
    ‘I suppose it’s inevitable.’ Wexford, as far as he could recall it and with a touch of paraphrase, quoted Shelley to her. ‘They scatter their insults and their slanders without heed as to whether the poisoned shafts light on a heart made callous by many blows or one like yours composed of more penetrable stuff.’
    ‘And is yours made callous by many blows?’
    ‘No, but Sheila’s is.’
    He took the papers away from her and burnt them, hoping none would have found their way into the Burdens’ bungalow where they were going to lunch. And when they arrived just after noon, escorted from their car by Burden with a large coloured golf umbrella, there was not a newspaper to be seen. Instead, on the coffee table, where the Sunday Times might have reposed, lay a book in a glossy jacket entitled The Tichborne Swindle .
    In former days, during the lifetime of Burden’s first wife and afterwards in his long widowerhood, no book apart from those strictly necessary for the children’s school work was ever seen in that house. But when he re-married things changed. And it could not be altogether due to the fact that his wife’s brother was a publisher, though this might have helped, hat the inspector was