Free Trial and Error by Anthony Berkeley Page A

Georgian teapot.
    Gradually recollection filtered into Mr Todhunter’s mind. Farroway, yes. This must be Nicholas Farroway, the author of—what was the thing called?— Michael Staveling’s Redemption or some such dreadful title, and a dozen other novels with equally repellent names. Popular stuff. Mr Todhunter had read none of them of course. But he did seem to remember now meeting the man and rather liking him. Or at any rate thinking that he was not so bad as his books must be. There was a gentle, almost wistful air about him, an unostentatiousness which one did not quite associate with a popular novelist. Sleights had said something afterwards about Farroway being quite unspoiled in spite of his success. Yes, and hadn’t the fellow made some complimentary reference to his own reviews in the London Review ? Yes, now Mr Todhunter came to think of it, he had. Yes, yes; quite a good chap, Farroway. Mr Todhunter did not at all mind spending an hour or so in Farroway’s company.
    Mr Todhunter and Farroway looked at each other.
    â€œThinking of making a bid for anything?” they asked simultaneously.
    â€œYou answer first,” suggested Mr Todhunter.
    â€œMe? Oh no.” Farroway looked round him somewhat vaguely. “I’m just watching the prices. I—I happen to be rather interested.”
    â€œIn prices?”
    â€œOh well, in all this kind of thing. And you?”
    Mr Todhunter chuckled. He suffered from a dry, donnish form of humour, extremely irritating to other people, which consisted in telling wild untruths with a perfectly serious face; and the more the victim appeared to believe him, the more firmly would Mr Todhunter elaborate his fiction. In consequence, until one knew him very well it was impossible to know when Mr Todhunter was speaking the truth and when he was not.
    â€œWell,” said Mr Todhunter gravely now, “I rather thought of having a shot at that Calchester mazer, you know. That is, if the bidding doesn’t go too high.”
    It was obvious, to Mr Todhunter’s fiendish pleasure, that Farroway had swallowed this preposterous statement whole. He looked at Mr Todhunter with undisguised respect.
    â€œYou collect?” he asked in the kind of reverent voice in which the B.B.C elocutionists read poetry.
    Mr Todhunter waved a desiccated claw. “Oh well, only in a very small way,” he replied modestly. Mr Todhunter had once bought at an auction a silver sugar basin and cream jug which happened to match exactly his own family George III teapot, and he felt that this act might entitle him to answer as he did.
    â€œAh,” said Farroway thoughtfully and said no more.
    They continued their progress round the hall.
    Mr Todhunter was mildly interested. Farroway had seemed so much impressed on hearing that he was a collector that Mr Todhunter could not help feeling it odd that he should have dropped the subject so quickly, almost abruptly. On the other hand there had been a hint of suspense about that “Ah” as if the subject had only been temporarily shelved and was to be brought up again at some more favourable opportunity. But why in any case should it matter to Farroway whether he was a collector or not?
    No doubt, Mr Todhunter decided, Farroway was a collector himself and wished to exchange gossip with another of the same kidney; but even so it was strange that he should not have plunged into the subject at once.
    Mr Todhunter was sufficiently intrigued to make a couple of absolutely safe bids for the mazer when its turn came, just in order to support the fiction with his companion, and perfunctorily bewailed the fact that, when the bidding rose above six thousand pounds, the price was getting beyond what he cared to spend.
    Farroway nodded. “It’s a lot of money,” he said.
    His tone caused Mr Todhunter to look at him sharply. There was a quality of sheer envy about it which was quite startling. Had the man got some