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never had, and were pleased with Frances's offer to help.
'Is he hurt?' asked Frances.
'No, nothing like that more depressed,' said Mrs Bates vaguely.
Frances went across to the house gingerly on her high heels, annoyed with
herself for forgetting to change her shoes, and entered quietly. Bates had left
lights on here and there, but even so it felt eerie to walk through the big
shadowy rooms alone so late, and Frances was glad to reach the library. She
paused outside the door, leaving her coat on a chair, then knocked loudly
and went in.
Harry Curthoys was sprawled in one of the wing chairs near the fire, staring
into it. His face was thrown into gaunt relief by the leaping flames, and
when he turned to look at Frances the faint smile on his face was not the
friendly, casual one she was accustomed to, but a faint sardonic lift of his
lips.
'And what in blazes are you doing here, Robin Redbreast? Or are you one of
those im-imaginary figments people talk about?' His voice was thick and
slurred, and informed Frances instantly of one salient point the Bateses had
omitted to mention. Harry Curthoys was not ill or injured, he was drunk.
'No. I'm real.' Frances advanced slowly from the shadows into the flickering
light from the fire and sat down on the chair opposite Harry. 'Why are you
sitting in the dark?'
'Suits my mood,' he said solemnly. 'Ifeel dark.' He peered at her with
half-closed eyes. 'Can't understand why you're here. It's New Year's
Eve you should be out celebrating with your lover.'
'He's in Scotland and I came back to work. I thought you wouldn't be back
for a day or two yet.'
He nodded sagely several times. 'So that's why you came thought I
wouldn't be here.'
Frances didn't bother to contradict him in his present mood. 'I thought you
would be seeing in the New Year at a friend's party.'
'Couldn't stick more than an hour or so. Came home. Sh stopped off at the
King's Arms and had a drink or two with Jim.'
Or even half a dozen drinks, thought Frances, undecided whether to feel
sorry for him, or just amused.
'Jim told me to walk home, but I didn't. My private road anyway. Couldn't
harm anyone on that, could I?' he asked plaintively. 'Trouble was, too much
blasted snow. Got in my way. Misjudged the stable doors. Had a little crash.
Did Bates tell you?'
'He didn't need to. I heard it.' Frances got up to inspect the tray on the desk. It
held two flasks, one of soup, the other presumably coffee provided by the
efficient Mrs Bates.
'How about tasting some of this soup?' asked Frances. 'I had some earlier on.
It's very good.'
Harry shook his head, eyeing her malevolently. 'They sent you over to make
me drink the bloody stuff, I suppose.'
'No, they didn't. I suggested coming to see if you'd like some company.
Perhaps I'd better go back.'
'No! No, don't go yet. Talk to me.'
'Very well.' Frances sat down composedly. Harry stood up for a moment,
swayed a little and decided to sit down again. He was wearing a dinner
jacket, but his white shirt was open at the neck, his black tie dangling and his
hair was wildly untidy.
'I'm a little under the weather,' he informed her with dignity.
'You mean you're sloshed,' she said bluntly.
Harry glared at her, then shrugged indifferently. 'S'right. Sloshed.
Sh stoned, and other terms not fit for delicate ears.'
'Why?'
'What do you mean, why?'
'For all I know it may be an annual habit of yours to get smashed every New
Year's Eve, but if not, then why tonight? And why did you come home?'
Harry's slightly unfocused eyes rested on the slender figure in the red dress
for some time, then a cunning smile spread over his thin face. 'I'll tell you if
you'll tell me.''
'Tell you what?'
'The real reason why you came running back here, when any red-blooded
female ought to be out merrymaking on New Year's Eve.'
Frances regarded him calmly, then shrugged. He might as well know now as
later. 'I got jilted,' she said flatly.
Harry's smile gave way to a look of maudlin sympathy. 'No! Not by the
accountant? Oh, bad luck. I can sympathise. That's my reason too.'
She frowned. 'You mean you got jilted again?'
'No, no, no.' He shook a finger at her impatiently. 'I was doing the
crossword, you see.'
'The crossword.'
'In the morning paper,' he said patiently.
'I know the one. I do it myself quite often, but it doesn't make me hit the
bottle if I can't finish it,' said Frances reasonably.
'Ah, but what do they print just above the crossword?'
'The births column.'
'Bullseye!' Harry clapped in approval.
'So?'
'This morning what do you think caught my eye while I was juggling with an
anagram?'
'No idea. Tell me.'
'It was right there, in black and white to Annabel and Hartley
Breckenridge a son. A son\ Isn't that a joke?' Harry thrust a hand through his
hair and looked round wildly. 'I need a drink--'
'No, you don't,' said Frances firmly. 'Go on about Annabel she was the
lady who jilted you, wasn't she?'
He nodded, an ugly set to his mouth. 'The very same.'
'And you're upset because she's married someone else and given him a son?'
'Upset! Hah! It's the bloody great irony of the year.' He let out a mirthless
crack of laughter. 'She wouldn't marry me and have my son, would she? Yet
she swore she was in love with me! Then she marries this doddering old
moneybags Breckenridge and promptly presents him with an heir. It's
enough to make you laugh, isn't it?'
Frances studied his bitter face gravely. 'Do you still love her so much, then?'
Harry shook his head impatiently. 'You're missing the point, my little robin.
But then, you don't know the punchline of the joke.'
He stared into the fire in morose silence for a lengthy interval, until Frances
began to wonder if he'd forgotten she was there, but eventually he began to
talk again, his voice less slurred than before, in a low, rapid monotone she
had to lean forward to hear clearly.
'I was a bit of a lad in my youth,' he began. 'No worse than anyone else no
drugs or anything heavy, just fast cars, parties, girls, the odd argument with
waiters, a few chairs smashed up you know the kind of thing.'
'Not first hand,' she said drily.
'Quite. Well, my father got pretty fed up with me. Threatened to cut off my
allowance and all that, but I had some money of my own at the time, left by [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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never had, and were pleased with Frances's offer to help.
'Is he hurt?' asked Frances.
'No, nothing like that more depressed,' said Mrs Bates vaguely.
Frances went across to the house gingerly on her high heels, annoyed with
herself for forgetting to change her shoes, and entered quietly. Bates had left
lights on here and there, but even so it felt eerie to walk through the big
shadowy rooms alone so late, and Frances was glad to reach the library. She
paused outside the door, leaving her coat on a chair, then knocked loudly
and went in.
Harry Curthoys was sprawled in one of the wing chairs near the fire, staring
into it. His face was thrown into gaunt relief by the leaping flames, and
when he turned to look at Frances the faint smile on his face was not the
friendly, casual one she was accustomed to, but a faint sardonic lift of his
lips.
'And what in blazes are you doing here, Robin Redbreast? Or are you one of
those im-imaginary figments people talk about?' His voice was thick and
slurred, and informed Frances instantly of one salient point the Bateses had
omitted to mention. Harry Curthoys was not ill or injured, he was drunk.
'No. I'm real.' Frances advanced slowly from the shadows into the flickering
light from the fire and sat down on the chair opposite Harry. 'Why are you
sitting in the dark?'
'Suits my mood,' he said solemnly. 'Ifeel dark.' He peered at her with
half-closed eyes. 'Can't understand why you're here. It's New Year's
Eve you should be out celebrating with your lover.'
'He's in Scotland and I came back to work. I thought you wouldn't be back
for a day or two yet.'
He nodded sagely several times. 'So that's why you came thought I
wouldn't be here.'
Frances didn't bother to contradict him in his present mood. 'I thought you
would be seeing in the New Year at a friend's party.'
'Couldn't stick more than an hour or so. Came home. Sh stopped off at the
King's Arms and had a drink or two with Jim.'
Or even half a dozen drinks, thought Frances, undecided whether to feel
sorry for him, or just amused.
'Jim told me to walk home, but I didn't. My private road anyway. Couldn't
harm anyone on that, could I?' he asked plaintively. 'Trouble was, too much
blasted snow. Got in my way. Misjudged the stable doors. Had a little crash.
Did Bates tell you?'
'He didn't need to. I heard it.' Frances got up to inspect the tray on the desk. It
held two flasks, one of soup, the other presumably coffee provided by the
efficient Mrs Bates.
'How about tasting some of this soup?' asked Frances. 'I had some earlier on.
It's very good.'
Harry shook his head, eyeing her malevolently. 'They sent you over to make
me drink the bloody stuff, I suppose.'
'No, they didn't. I suggested coming to see if you'd like some company.
Perhaps I'd better go back.'
'No! No, don't go yet. Talk to me.'
'Very well.' Frances sat down composedly. Harry stood up for a moment,
swayed a little and decided to sit down again. He was wearing a dinner
jacket, but his white shirt was open at the neck, his black tie dangling and his
hair was wildly untidy.
'I'm a little under the weather,' he informed her with dignity.
'You mean you're sloshed,' she said bluntly.
Harry glared at her, then shrugged indifferently. 'S'right. Sloshed.
Sh stoned, and other terms not fit for delicate ears.'
'Why?'
'What do you mean, why?'
'For all I know it may be an annual habit of yours to get smashed every New
Year's Eve, but if not, then why tonight? And why did you come home?'
Harry's slightly unfocused eyes rested on the slender figure in the red dress
for some time, then a cunning smile spread over his thin face. 'I'll tell you if
you'll tell me.''
'Tell you what?'
'The real reason why you came running back here, when any red-blooded
female ought to be out merrymaking on New Year's Eve.'
Frances regarded him calmly, then shrugged. He might as well know now as
later. 'I got jilted,' she said flatly.
Harry's smile gave way to a look of maudlin sympathy. 'No! Not by the
accountant? Oh, bad luck. I can sympathise. That's my reason too.'
She frowned. 'You mean you got jilted again?'
'No, no, no.' He shook a finger at her impatiently. 'I was doing the
crossword, you see.'
'The crossword.'
'In the morning paper,' he said patiently.
'I know the one. I do it myself quite often, but it doesn't make me hit the
bottle if I can't finish it,' said Frances reasonably.
'Ah, but what do they print just above the crossword?'
'The births column.'
'Bullseye!' Harry clapped in approval.
'So?'
'This morning what do you think caught my eye while I was juggling with an
anagram?'
'No idea. Tell me.'
'It was right there, in black and white to Annabel and Hartley
Breckenridge a son. A son\ Isn't that a joke?' Harry thrust a hand through his
hair and looked round wildly. 'I need a drink--'
'No, you don't,' said Frances firmly. 'Go on about Annabel she was the
lady who jilted you, wasn't she?'
He nodded, an ugly set to his mouth. 'The very same.'
'And you're upset because she's married someone else and given him a son?'
'Upset! Hah! It's the bloody great irony of the year.' He let out a mirthless
crack of laughter. 'She wouldn't marry me and have my son, would she? Yet
she swore she was in love with me! Then she marries this doddering old
moneybags Breckenridge and promptly presents him with an heir. It's
enough to make you laugh, isn't it?'
Frances studied his bitter face gravely. 'Do you still love her so much, then?'
Harry shook his head impatiently. 'You're missing the point, my little robin.
But then, you don't know the punchline of the joke.'
He stared into the fire in morose silence for a lengthy interval, until Frances
began to wonder if he'd forgotten she was there, but eventually he began to
talk again, his voice less slurred than before, in a low, rapid monotone she
had to lean forward to hear clearly.
'I was a bit of a lad in my youth,' he began. 'No worse than anyone else no
drugs or anything heavy, just fast cars, parties, girls, the odd argument with
waiters, a few chairs smashed up you know the kind of thing.'
'Not first hand,' she said drily.
'Quite. Well, my father got pretty fed up with me. Threatened to cut off my
allowance and all that, but I had some money of my own at the time, left by [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]