Free Bland Beginning by Julian Symons Page B

get you, Arthur,” Miss Cleverly said, “I think we should go. But I don’t want to leave you alone. Does Mrs Upton stay with you all day?”
    “She cooks my meals. Don’t worry about me. These bouts are not unusual.”
    “Oh.” Miss Cleverly hovered. It was the first time Anthony had seen her uneasy, and he was surprised too by the tenderness in her voice. “Goodbye then, Arthur. We’ll let you know what news we get from Blackburn.”
    “Goodbye, Mr Jebb. And thank you for all your help.” Anthony held out his right hand. The left gripped firmly the copy of Passion and Repentance.
    Jebb’s eyes were still closed, and his hands did not move from the arms of his chair. They left him in the quiet room, with the Cona machine standing on the table by his side, like an instrument of medieval torture.
     
IV
    Stuart Henderson crossed one grey-trousered leg over the other, and looked at them with amused condescension. “And what had the highly scientific Jebb to say?”
    “He thinks it’s a forgery,” said Anthony heavily.
    “Does he really? After that, Miss Cleverly here will no doubt tell us, we can do nothing but bow our heads. Does he give any reasons for his remarkable conclusion?”
    Anthony was silent. How could you talk about conclusions unless you gave the train of reasoning? And he had promised not to do that. Miss Cleverly had returned to her usual brusqueness. “He said something about the type faces being wrong period.”
    “Rather a slender basis for such a vast conclusion, isn’t it? Is this Jebb, by the way, the same man who writes chit-chat for the Peoples’ Literary Weekly ? And does odds and ends of reading for publishers? He is?” Mr Henderson dabbed his damp lips with a handkerchief. “My dear Miss Cleverly, as you know, I have the utmost respect for your terrifying perspicacity, but I should hardly have thought the view of such a man should be preferred to that of somebody like Michael Blackburn.”
    Ruth Cleverly rubbed her nose with a dirty hand. “All right then. Let’s see Blackburn. You said you could arrange it.”
    Henderson trilled musically with head thrown back, and then smiled coyly and confidentially at Anthony. “Excuse me, Mr Shelton. I’m sure Miss Cleverly regards me as a terrible dilettante myself, so I can’t help feeling a teeny bit pleased that the cold hand of science has referred this question back to the – more elegant touch, shall we say – of the dilettante. But just let me see if I can arrange this little matter for you.” He picked up the telephone and asked for a number. “Would you be free for tea today?” Anthony nodded. The publisher left him almost dumb. “ Hullo ,” said Mr Henderson and his rather podgy features seemed almost to melt, and his voice became extremely girlish. “Michael? Guess who. This is Porky Henderson. Yes, Porky. How are you, you old sinner? I so much enjoyed that piece of yours in the Spectator the other day – it was one of the most beautiful things you’ve ever done. Oh yes, it was. Listen, Michael. A young friend of mine here has a problem which I think will fascinate you about that old scoundrel Martin Rawlings. Oh, a literary problem, of course. Yes, he’s fascinating, too.” He smiled archly at Anthony, who had gone very red. “I wondered if I might bring him along to talk about it. Today? Oh, Michael, are you sure? That is sweet of you. And may I bring a dragon as well? A female dragon, I mean – if there is a female of dragon. She works in my Production Department, and has the most terrifying technical knowledge.” The sound at the other end of the line was not enthusiastic, but it was apparently not wholly condemnatory. “About half-past four then. So nice of you. Bye-bye, Michael.” Mr Henderson spoke these last three sentences on a dying fall, so that his “bye-bye” was hardly audible. “Half-past four in Hampstead,” he said to them. “You’ll love Michael. Will you pick us up from here at about