Free Lucia Triumphant by Tom Holt Page A

the way (surely unnecessary for a motorist), for her mind, like Macbeth’s was full of scorpions. She knew only too well that her own declaration of peace had been Machiavellian policy. What else could Elizabeth’s gratuitous and unprovoked gesture of friendship be but another such? And, if so, what diabolical scheme had that dark intellect devised?
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Chapter 4
    Lucia sat alone in the darkness and gazed at the tangle of wool and needles that represented the shipwreck of her project. Four days had elapsed since that woman had come Assyrian-like out of the West, bearing in her hand that terrible, ruinous cardboard box.
    At this time the room should be full of industry and effort, the electric light gleaming on the points of a hedge of needles. Instead she sat alone like desolate Sappho and could not bring herself to touch the fallen temple, her Tapestry. Even Georgie—perfidious, heartless Georgie—had deserted her for the seductive gaiety of Grebe, the meretricious glamour of the brightly coloured board, the tantalising fall of the dice. Et tu , Georgino ? Then fall Lucia.
    Elizabeth had not made good her promise to run all the way to Mallards but she must have walked ever so swiftly, for she had arrived shortly before the company was due to break off for tea. Under her arm had been a brown-paper parcel, long and flat and rectangular like a painting. She had left it on the hall-table—‘Just a little memento of our holiday’—and had been shown the work in progress, Brutus and the battle of the cannibals against King Tyl, which she had seemed to admire greatly. There had not been time to start her at her work before tea, so the trays had been brought in and the table cleared. Elizabeth had spoken briefly, modestly of her holiday, and the subject had almost been successfully closed. Then Elizabeth had, as an apparent afterthought, remembered her parcel—‘Just let me show you the silly little toy we brought back with us from Southampton.’ The parcel had been opened and a red and white cardboard box, with the incongruous word ‘Monopoly’ written on the lid, had been revealed. It was a game, Elizabeth said, with dice and counters, rather childish as all such things were but strangely gripping once you got into it. Should she just open the box? Would it be a terrible bore to everyone if she just briefly explained the rules? Well then, just a quick demonstration, a few throws of the dice, but they must be sure to start work again at five or she would feel terribly guilty. She had come to work, not to play.
    Not a stitch more had been added that day, and Lucia had been hard put to it to evict the eager players by half-past seven. The game, it seemed, could go on for an awfully long time, and the longer it went on the more exciting it became. They could not bear to leave it half finished with Fenchurch Street Station as yet unclaimed and the Padre still languishing in jail. Just a few throws more, and the game must resolve itself. Elizabeth did appear to be in a commanding position, but things could change so quickly ....
    Work on the Tapestry had resumed the next morning, but at such a pitifully slow rate that hardly anything worthwhile had been done, and there had been no end of careless and botched stitches to be unpicked and done again. The only pleasure seemed to be in discussing Monopoly, with the result that Lucia, who had not participated in the game, was left alone and unregarded. Even Irene had dawdled over her needle, and her usual creative drive had deserted her for she did exactly what she was told. Only Elizabeth had displayed any enthusiasm for the Tapestry. She had laboured tirelessly, drawing the wool through with neat, careful fingers, never looking up and appearing wholly reluctant to discuss the wonder she had brought to Tilling. Indeed it was Elizabeth almost unaided who finished off the second scene, so that for a moment Lucia believed that the