Free Death and the Maiden by Gladys Mitchell Page A

her drink. ‘You’ve annoyed him! Next time we shall get no brandy in them at all! You are rather provoking, Edris!’
    â€˜I am a connoisseur,’ Mr Tidson replied. ‘And when a connoisseur finds that what should be a masterpiece is nothing of the kind, honour compels him to say so. I suggest, my dear Crete, that you put your cocktail down.’
    â€˜Just what she is doing,’ said Connie vulgarly, watching Crete’s tasting of the mixture. Thomas returned at this juncture with the glass on a silver salver.
    â€˜Your drink, sir – laced ,’ he observed.
    â€˜Splendid!’ said Mr Tidson, sipping his drink. He waited until Thomas had gone, and then remarked, ‘It is amazing, my dear Connie, what a display of firmness will do.’
    â€˜You must try it some time, Uncle Edris,’ said Connie angrily. Mr Tidson looked at her with an expression of concern, gulped his drink hastily, and choked.
    â€˜It’s a verra great peety ye wouldn’t be content with the proper mixture,’ said Thomas, coming back with a table napkin and mopping up the cocktail that was spilt on Mr Tidson’s light-grey suit. ‘Maybe anither time ye’ll admit that this hoose kens whit’s guid for ye.’
    This classic setting down of Mr Tidson struck everybody dumb except Connie, who, to the consternation of the guests at another table, suddenly put down her glass and went into hysterical laughter.
    â€˜Dear, do control yourself,’ said her aunt. Connie wiped her eyes, apologized, gulped down her drink, and fled out into the garden.
    â€˜I can’t think why Connie is quite so ill-mannered,’ said Miss Carmody. ‘I do apologize for her. She has made us the cynosure of all eyes, and that, in a public place, is unforgivable. I will go and call her in. She shall at least say she is sorry.’
    Connie, it proved, was ready enough to do this, and she sat down very meekly and waited for lunch to be announced.
    â€˜Talking of plans, I must say I had hoped that some one or two of you would come and sit on the bank and watch me fish,’ observed Mr Tidson, in an attempt to recover his poise.
    â€˜Not to-morrow, Edris,’ said Miss Carmody. ‘I really must do up my Mothers.’
    â€˜Perhaps I will come,’ said Crete amiably. ‘That is, I will come if it is not too far to walk.’
    â€˜No, no. I shall try the St Cross water again,’ said Mr Tidson. ‘I should like to fish the stretch by Itchen Abbas,but, alas! – it is privately owned and I have no acquaintance whatever, so far as I know, with the owner. Never mind! I must work out my ticket.’
    â€˜I thought most of the water was privately owned,’ said Connie. ‘Do they allow you to take trout?’
    â€˜He is not fishing for trout, but only for water-nymphs,’ said Crete, ‘and, as he says, he has his ticket.’
    â€˜Could one be had up for murder if one caught a water-nymph?’ asked Connie.
    â€˜Probably only for cruelty to animals, I should say,’ Crete replied. ‘Perhaps, Edris, you would rather be alone?’
    â€˜No, no,’ said Mr Tidson. ‘Do come with me, my dear. The naiad might recognize in you a fellow-countrywoman.’
    â€˜Half a fellow-countrywoman,’ said Connie. Crete looked at her with lazy hostility.
    â€˜You ought to be more agreeable to Crete,’ said Miss Carmody, getting her niece to herself after lunch, although Mrs Bradley, writing a letter to Laura, was seated at a desk in the window. ‘And to Edris, too.’
    â€˜I am as agreeable as I can bear to be,’ said Connie. ‘I don’t like Uncle Edris, and I don’t like Crete, and I wish we hadn’t come to Winchester with them. And I do my best to please you, Aunt Prissie, you know I do, but I think it’s time I lived my own life, and I’m going to, as soon as we go home. I am sorry about the cocktails, but