‘Oh, that’s been done so many times. I think you should write a murder mystery about a suspicious death that takes place on a tropical island.’
‘Murder is something I know nothing about,’ he said. He frowned down at his right hand, at the red blotch, which he knew perfectly well was a mosquito bite. ‘I suppose I could write a one-act comedy about a distinguished middle-aged couple having a desultory and somewhat pointless kind of conversation. One of those fictions that are rooted in reality. L’art égale la vie. It would be fun, I think.’
3
Why Not Say What Happened?The moment her eyes fell on the Revd Duckworth’s clerical collar, a miasma of oppressive gloom descended on Hortense Tilling, not unlike the onslaught of sudden fever. She felt a shudder run through her. This is absurd, she thought. I have seen his collar hundreds of times.
‘Dear lady, there is an odd look about your eyes, which I cannot read,’ he said playfully.
‘I’ve only just come back, Ducky.’
‘Back? My dear Hortense, you are the most travelled person I have ever known! Back from what distant shores this time, pray?’
‘Back from Hertfordshire. Remnant Regis.’
‘Ah – Lord Remnant’s final journey. A melancholy occasion. Coronary thrombosis, I believe you said? Suddenly at his residence – they still write that, I’ve noticed. Cherished husband. I never cease to be amazed at the resilience of certain clichés. We all feel blessed to have known him… There is safety in clichés, I suppose… You will give me some tea, Hortense, won’t you?’
‘Of course I will, Ducky… The cup that cheereth,’ she murmured ruefully as she left the room.