Artists spend a lot of time trying to find and develop their unique voice. Purveyors of art want you to copy first – so they can compare it to something they already sell – and put a unique – but not TOO unique – touch on it later.
These contrasting mandates send the artist down a lot of rabbit holes with no rabbits at the end.
Before I discovered True Crime my own work annoyed me with its amorphousness. I could not figure out where my sense of doom was coming from. Everyone around me just assumed I was being fashionably angsty. You know! Modern megrims!
But then I attended the Beth Carpenter trial for capital murder in New London, CT in 2002. The guilty were paraded before us – the hitman, the girlfriend, the coked-up lawyer, the hitman’s son. Frozen in the press gallery (my husband was covering it) our eyes boggled. American law gave the story shape – defense attorneys battled right in front of us with the prosecution bar. The jury, invisible on TV, sat before us dressed as if attending sporting event. Which this was – the outcome in question right up to the end.
This was thrilling modern theatre – the view (the harbor was visible from the courthouse), the company (Press World), even the food was good – we tried a different restaurant every day (once the jury treated us to an Italian meal.)
I became an addict of Court TV, segueing to the ID channel (where I appeared on Blood Relatives in 2014.) I began reading the true crime greats of which, it turns out, there are many. A novel I had been struggling with – Model Prisoner (which could have described me) was freed into becoming Woman Into Wolf. I based Find Courtney on 2 famous cases.
Film Review – Scammers Get Scammed – Saltburn VS The Crown
Well, it’s finally happened – The Crown has fallen in love with its subjects and a syrupy lot of over-privileged spoiled babies they are. When the nausea rises to projectile-vomiting level, try Saltburn, Emerald Fennell’s revenge on all twits everywhere.
There’s an obvious reason Fennell can’t call this new enterprise Promising Young Man to remind us of her magnificent first outing, Promising Young Woman ,because its subject, Oliver Quick, is pure evil. And that, of course, is the problem with this movie. If there’s anything more sickening than the self-confident blathering of nitwits, it’s the triumph of evil. No thanks! Sadly, it ruins the film because it “jumps the shark” into unbelievability. The twits certainly can become silly enough to be overtaken by the more intelligent but the sad truth of reality is, there’s always someone smarter and meaner coming along.
One of my great pleasures, as a Plot Maven, is re-writing bad endings and Saltburn’s is easy. Aristocrats of the Saltburn type are surrounded by servants whom they vigorously try not to see. But the servants see them. Try Joseph Losey’s magnificent The Servant as a helpful restorative.
Stoker’s screenplay started out as fan-fiction to Alfred Hitchcock’s much more enjoyable Shadow of a Doubt, which has a moral center, plus victims we care about and characters we can root for.
Stoker has a good, even beautiful movie buried in it but park Chan-Wook kept messing it up, very deliberately, probably under the pressure (and pleasure) of his personal fetishes. It starts WONDERFULLY – psychologically interesting, visually compelling, achieving an apotheosis of eidetic perfection hen a shot of hair dissolves into quivering grasses but jumps the shark on story sanity. Anyone who want to write about crime (and criminal psychology) need to STUDY it carefully or they risk sounding like nine year old girls guessing about sex – majorly clueless and missing all the real points – ultimately creating an uninteresting world too obviously made up.
Subjects like mental illness, spies, the foreign service, rituals of different countries, etc., can’t be persuasively invented, and threadbare simulacrums relentlessly reveal unpleasant truths about immature people who just don’t want their fantasies interrupted.
I used to write fantasies, too, until I began an in-depth study of crime. It changed what I wrote, how I think about the world, even how I live my life. Devlyn is a fantasy – but Find Courtney can actually happen. (Versions of it already have.) This is the reason I usually don’t like sci fi. It is possible to completely make up a world – for example Alice in Wonderland – but if it doesn’t satirize the rules of the real one it collapses like a bad soufflé. Michelangelo felt he couldn’t create a credible physicality of angels without studying dead bodies in morgues.
I understand that in Stoker our “Oldboy” doesn’t want to be “bothered” by all that stuff – he’s an “artist” who wants to create visual poetry so hypnotic it gets away with breaking the rules and it almost works! But by the end of the film real life insistently intrudes with its message that the “impossible” is ultimately boring.
The acting in Stoker is very good – especially Matthew Goode who seemed creepily young and was almost perfect – he would have BEEN perfect if the director had allowed him to be a little less vampiric and a little less “ka-razy” and a little more human. That would have made him more appealingly believable. But of course everyone has to submit to becoming an “archetype” to satisfy this director. India Stoker’s amoral, murderous sexuality has been a fetish for middle-aged men seeking to relieve their guilt (and excuse their behavior) for literally HUNDREDS of years. “Some girls” don’t have “proper feelings” so can be ruthlessly used and heartlessly exterminated.
Poor Mia Wasikowska! I have admired her ever since In Treatment with Gabriel Byrne – she deserves better. That said, I have to admit a personal failing – Nicole Kidman’s frozen weirdness always gets my back up. I have been rolling my eyes over her rigidity since Cold Mountain.
Mostly I feel sorry for actors who are talked into limiting the range of their gifts by these visual directors who set out to make a cohesive, visually stunning objet d’art, not a complex story about humans. As proud professionals they know how to give the director what he wants, thereby betraying their actual abilities which could create something much more intriguing, provocative and mentally long-lasting.
I watch a fair amount of crime and it’s always entertaining for me to speculate about how people could have gotten away with it. In this case, easily with a modicum of adulthood & sanity which seemingly bores our first-time scriptwriter (Wentworth Miller) who needs to be more “in your face”. Too bad. But I did enjoy seeing it because I relish being given a puzzle mistakenly assembled – in my view. Then I have the mental fun of putting it together more effectively myself – an amusing occupation for a winter afternoon Ah.
Candi admitted everything. According to the newspapers, who disclosed much more than the police, “Scorned Girlfriend Plots to Confront Wife.” Candi admitted only that her plan was to “get the truth out of Scarlet,” but Miss Bottomley started screaming when Candi entered the house – “I couldn’t shut her up and I just panicked.”
Mrs. Pourfoyle was indicted for “Malice Murder” – a capital offense. The murder weapon – brought by Candi all the way up from Wyvern House – was a table leg she wielded as a club.
Candi’s husband David announced he was standing by her. “Husband Claims Home-wrecking Cad Manipulated Lovelorn Girl.”
Was Ian the one who really wanted Scarlet dead? That was David’s argument! Would Ian be indicted? And how long would the generous, the fantastical, the life-altering disposition of Miss Bottomley’s estate remain private knowledge?
For these reasons and many more it was no surprise to receive a call from Scarlet’s solicitor, Pelham D’Arcy.
“Ian agrees to sign the divorce agreement we propose, without changes.”
“Well, that’s a relief.” Scarlet sighed.
“He’s worried about being indicted for “transferred malice murder.”
“You mean they think he suggested killing me to Candi? I’ll never believe that.”
“The press is painting him as a lady-killer. He’s concerned about losing his job. A quick divorce removes his motive and makes him an eligible bachelor.”
Eligible Ian. Didn’t women flock to “lady-killers”, no matter what devastating facts they knew? Perhaps, thought Scarlet with her newly-acquired cynicism, they flocked BECAUSE of the “devastating facts.” Doesn’t every woman long to reform a roué? Horribly, I did, thought Scarlet. I fell for that. But she was a different person now. Still, the world thronged with eager victims. Ian wouldn’t be alone for long.
“When’s he going to sign?”
“It’s contingent on meeting you alone. I told them it would have to be at our offices.”
“All right. Let’s get it over with.”
“I suggest you wear your police whistle.”
Could Pelham be serious? Surely Ian wouldn’t try anything violent – but she knew he would expect to physically touch her and she shrank from the thought. She knew him that well.
“Is that a serious suggestion?”
“I’m very serious. If you don’t bring it, we’ll have to bell you like a cat.”
“I’m sure Enid will let me borrow it. If he signs, then where are we?”
“Then we get a decree nisi, which is provisional for one year. They usually rush these things through to get it out of the papers but it depends on the judge. Every now and then you get a Huey.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s Bob’s and my shorthand for an impossible judge. I must say the publicity makes this very unlikely.”
“Why’s that?”
“It’s an open secret that everyone hates our divorce laws. Literally everyone. They’re just on the verge of either breakdown or reform.”
Scarlet shuddered. So many things you didn’t think of when you stood before the altar, wide-eyed and innocent!
“I’ll bring the whistle,” she promised.
She took care to wear it well-concealed. No point red-ragging Ian. She had never figured out his level of self-control. Was everything he did well-planned, or was he ruled by a raging id? Well, thought Scarlet, I don’t care. I don’t have to care. She imagined a future of trying to explain to Nick why Daddy did the things he did. Why he wasn’t like Pom. Adorable, sensitive, reliable Pom, who talked things out, who listened, who cared. Who changed, day by day, evolving to love better. To live better.
Ian looked different. Older, battered, his eyes bloodshot. Scarlet thought she smelled whisky underneath the cigarettes. Was he drinking every morning now, or was it just because he was seeing her? His suit hung on him in a peculiar manner, as if he had given up on any real nourishment. He and his solicitor, Mr. Jellicoe, whose suit also was ill-fitting, could have been a vaudeville act – one so fat and the other starving-lean. Then again, perhaps Ian just wanted Scarlet to feel sorry for him.
Mr. Jellicoe seemed very obliging and impressed by his surroundings. He shook damp hands all around.
Ian looked at Scarlet with deep hunger. I’m the one who “got away”, she thought. The only one. She was glad of the whistle.
They were guided to the Partners’ Room. At ten in the morning, no sherry was on offer. Ian refused everything, even water. Scarlet accepted a cup of tea to have something to do with her hands, until she noticed they were trembling. Then she set her teacup down hastily.
Pelham made a point of seating them at opposite ends of the table. He closed the door softly. Ian began. “Scarlet, I want to let you know how sorry I am.”
He waited for a moment as if to allow her to speak. But what could she say? She had already decided there was no point in being accusatory. When he was her ex-husband and the “occasional” father of her child perhaps they could concoct a relationship. At the moment, the situation was hopelessly fraught.
He spoke again as if covering her silence. “I never guessed…what she’d do. I didn’t listen to her natterings.”
There went her resolve about accusations. She was just too angry. The words boiled out of her. “You treated her like a joke, but the joke is on every one of us. Poor Candi wanted to be treated like a wife without realizing how cruel you are when you’re sure of someone. You ignore them, you devalue them. You fobbed her off with lies while you went your smug and merry way. I think you secretly enjoyed making her crazy. I think you wanted to see just how crazy she would get. Makes it easier to get rid of them, doesn’t it?”
She half-expected him to fire up or at least smile that he’d gotten her goat but he hung his head like a shamed schoolboy. Scarlet struggled to contain herself. After a moment, he spoke.
“Don’t compare yourself with her. You’re nothing like.”
She could see the oil bubbling beneath his surface. Planning, planning, all along. He schemed to flatter her, fawn on her, throw himself on her mercy. He was testing, testing, for any way in. She should never have bothered giving him her honesty. It was all a game with Ian, and any game with Ian was just too dangerous. She summed up as best she could, “No one likes being lied to. A word of advice: it torpedoes relationships.”
He rose.
“You’re right, I’m wrong. I managed everything badly. I want to turn over a new leaf.”
She rose as well, feeling a bit panicky. Was he planning to chase her around the table?
“There’s Nick,” she said finally.
“Of course, there’s Nick. But we won’t be together – with him – all the time.”
Creepy! We’ll never be together with him at all. If I can help it. She summoned up her strength. “I don’t see that. I’m afraid we have little in common.”
“How can that be? Don’t you remember the two young Oxford students working on St. Euphrosyne, with all our hopes and dreams and ambitions?”
“I do,” she said. “I thought you didn’t.”
He seemed calculating as to whether he could to rush her. He leaned forward, light on his feet.
She pulled out the police whistle.
At the sight of it he sat down heavily and put his head on the table.
“Oh, Scarlet, Scarlet.” He began to weep.
She felt stunned. She had never seen him cry. She was surprised it was even possible. Could he be faking this? Then she suddenly realized with a flash of insight that, from her point of view, the problem wasn’t that his emotions were false, but that they were ephemeral.
“I’m sorry, too.” She advanced toward the door. “Haven’t we said everything?”
He looked up, tear-streaked. “Do you hate me?”
She was startled. She had hated him. That feeling was ephemeral. “No.”
“Will you tell Nick to hate me?”
Now she felt irked. “Of course not.”
He gazed at her slyly.
“Aren’t you afraid he’ll look on me as the fun dad, the devil-may-care seducer who knows how to get whatever he wants?”
He’d been arguing inside his own head, cruelly mimicking her voice.
“I’ll take my chances.” Nick would know Pom. He could choose; trustworthy love or untrustworthy disappointment. Choice – once well-informed – is up to each of us.
“I’m forgiven?”
This was strange. Odd word from a self-confessed unbeliever. The trial hadn’t even been held. Was he planning to call her as a character witness?
“Not yet,” she said briskly. “You haven’t signed this document.”
She put a hand on the doorknob. “Aren’t we done here?”
He seemed almost confused, as if she’d spoke an unknown language. He rose awkwardly, holding out his hand. He had the sense to say nothing.
She took his hand slowly and he immediately grasped it with his other one, as if he wanted her to feel his strength.
She realized she just didn’t like the man.
She turned away. She wrenched her hand back and, very unwillingly, he let it go and picked up the pen.
Dawn was just breaking as Scarlet came home. She took a long, hot bath and dressed, but the warmest sweaters and tights could not block the chill that had settled in her bones. The kitchen had become a crime scene. Enid switched her sphere of operations to the tiny kitchen off the ballroom. She could toast bread. Milk could be placed against the cold windowsill to keep it fresh.
Scarlet crawled into bed with Nick. He still was healthy, wide-eyed, fresh, new and needy. He had no idea how horrible the world really was.
“She’s gone,” Scarlet told Enid. “The brain injury was just too awful.”
“What made you wake?”
“I’m not sure. I had a dreadful dream. Something about Miss Bottomley lost on a raft. I must have heard a sound from downstairs.”
“Miss Bottomley screamed. I heard it too. That dreadful woman must have attacked her to stop her noise.”
Candi had lots of reasons for attacking people. All given to her – thought Scarlet grimly, by my dear husband.
The policeman climbed up the stairs to see the women. He didn’t look like a detective but more like a department store floorwalker with his shiny bald head and a sharp-cut suit.
“Scotland Yard,” he introduced himself. “Inspector MacBlythe. May I get the details of your story?”
“We’ll meet you in the sitting room,” sighed Scarlet. She climbed reluctantly out of bed and walked to the chintz settee she had so admired just a few brief weeks ago. She had thought she knew trouble and sorrow then, but in reality she had been only too naïve in the ways of misery. Fatally so. How could she could have ever guessed what depths of viciousness simple selfishness and greed could release!
The Inspector was not as surprised by the existence of a night guard as the bobby had been. “This place is a treasure house,” he said. “It’s at least a two-man job.”
“I wish we’d thought of it,” Scarlet wept. “The security man seemed so confident.”
Enid freshened the tea.
“What connection are you to Mrs. Pourfoyle?” MacBlythe was coming to the meat of the matter. “When I found out she and my husband were having an affair I told him I wanted a divorce. She quit her job and moved into our country house – at least that’s what my solicitor tells me. But last week she came up to London and threatened me as if I was the one blocking the divorce. But Ian’s been the blocker. It seems he’s got other girlfriends, one actually living with him in his flat. Again, according to my solicitor.”
MacBlythe took down all Pelham D’Arcy’s and Ian’s information, and moved over to Enid. Nick began to cry and Scarlet gladly sprang to her feet to remove him from the room.
Pelham called when the police had finished with him and requested an interview – “you and Enid both.”
“Oh, good,” said Enid. “I don’t want to be alone. Let’s have dinner out, afterwards.”
“I’m too tired for anything but fish and chips,” said Scarlet, who really didn’t want to see people.
“That’s fine with me.” Dear Enid, obliging as always.
Bob Thomas and Pelham met them in the Partners’ Room, which had a long table, imposing portraits and deep comfortable wingback chairs. Nick slept angelically in his carrycot. Scarlet imagined someday trying to explain all this to him.
“Well, this is a terrible thing,” said Bob Thomas, pouring tea all around. From an antique silver set, Scarlet noticed. She and Enid refused sherry. “Is the woman mad?”
“Temporarily maddened,” contributed Pelham, who was more accustomed to the vagaries of divorce.
“Well, she’s committed murder, is what she’s done,” said Bob Thomas.
They all agreed it was an unconscionable thing as they sipped their tea. There was a knock on the door and Pom thrust his head inside.
“Pom, I’m in a meeting!” gasped Scarlet.
“I asked Mr. Bronfen to join us,” said Bob Thomas. “Tea? Sherry?”
Pom accepted a small sherry. He sat next to Scarlet and held her hand tightly, under the table. “All three of you – Mr. Bronfen, Mrs. Rumson and Mrs. Wye – are beneficiaries under Miss Bottomley’s will.”
Light burst onto Scarlet when she realized, he is talking about me! She had forgotten she was Mrs. Wye. Suddenly she was on a par with Lady Lechmere in her attorney’s eyes. She had been upgraded.
“Oh, my goodness,” she gasped. “But won’t they contest it?”
“Who?” inquired Bob Thomas calmly. “There are no interested parties. She was literally the last of her line. The property would have reverted to the Crown.”
“Mr. Inkum-“
“Mr. Inkum would not dare. The papers he attempted to get Miss Bottomley to sign were so outrageously self-interested he would be drummed out of the profession if anyone complained.”
Reality began to sink in. She sadly recalled Miss Bottomley’s delighted exclamation, “Do you know, I am a very rich woman?”
Pom and Enid and Scarlet gazed at each other, dazzled.
Bob Thomas cleared his throat. “There are six trusts concerning real estate, art, publishing and commercial properties. Mrs. Wye is the discretionary trustee and I am the advisor.”
And he proceeded to explain.
Scarlet was openly clutching Pom’s hand as they staggered out of the lawyers’ office. “I’m gobsmacked,” said Enid. “What a lovely human being she was.”
“And how we’re going to miss her,” gasped Scarlet.
Pom guided them into a nearby bistro – “do you like pizza? You must try it,” and ordered a bottle of chianti.
“To Miss Bottomley’s foresight and generosity,” toasted Pom.
Nick’s eyes were big as he looked from each to each in the candle flame.
“But we couldn’t protect her!’ sighed Scarlet. “It’s because of me she’s dead, don’t you see?”
“How could you ever have guessed that Candi would do such a thing?”
“I couldn’t!”
“Any thug could have broken in and attacked poor Miss Bottomley at any time. She could have been assaulted on the street! She was all alone before we came.”
“But the time was so short. Too short.”
“Time is always too short,” said Pom and he squeezed Scarlet’s hand meaningfully.
That very night Scarlet had the strangest dream. She was picnicking with Pom – a Watteau-like scene of countrified perfection. They lolled on a riverbank, dressed in party clothes with the best offerings of Fortnum & Mason spread out at their feet. But it seemed however much they laughed, lifting their glasses to each other, some desperate dread lurked right below the surface. Suddenly in the stream beside them Miss Bottomley appeared on a raft. Night-clothed, disoriented and woebegone she lifted up her hands in supplication before being swept away. Neither Scarlet nor Pom could react. Scarlet felt her clothes an enormous weight, her limbs immobile, she could not even force her lips into a scream. The terror was so immense Scarlet struggled to wake up.
“This must be a dream,” she told herself, and so it was. Scarlet fell back against the pillows as exhausted as if she’d been fighting, not sleeping. Yet she felt some relief. She had been given another chance. She must not waste it. What had she forgotten? It was something connected with Miss Bottomley. Her preoccupation with Pom was causing her to neglect Miss Bottomley. Something – something – she forgot to do. But as so often happens, the dream words melted away on the sand before she could read them.
Was Miss Bottomley calling out for her? There was only one way to find out. Scarlet struggled into a dressing gown and slippers and hurried down the stairs.
She heard it before she saw it, pushing against the baize kitchen door — some desperate struggle in the lighted kitchen. Scarlet braced her body against the door to see a slight figure kneeling over Miss Bottomley with a flail, beating and beating. Blood was everywhere, swirling patterns rising and falling to the very ceiling. The room stank like a charnelhouse.
Scarlet sprang forward, grabbed the black clothed creature whose eyes beneath a ski mask swiveled up to confront her. Those eyes – mad with rage – were Candi’s eyes. Scarlet tore off the mask to reveal Candi’s demonic face. Candi shrieked – “You!” and attacked her.
The club slipped from her hand and fell to the floor while the women struggled in a desperate embrace. Scarlet felt strong, but stupid and slow – the other woman was wiry and crazed.
“I’ve got to knock her out somehow,” Scarlet thought and with all her power forced Candi’s head against of the cast-iron Aga stove. Again and again she cracked it until Candi went down.
Then she heard a siren, ear-splitting – and saw Enid aghast in the doorway.
“What happened? I pressed the panic button!”
“Call for an ambulance – Miss Bottomley’s been hurt.”
Before she attended to Miss B she must hogtie Candi with kitchen clothesline – no risking another assault. Candi seemed completely out of it but she was breathing.
Miss Bottomley’s eyes were open. She was wearing the cursed red anorak over her nightclothes – bitterly Scarlet rued their casual swap. How much trouble this had caused! She had already received one warning about the dangerous potentialities of clothing confusion but she’d failed to grasp its meaning.
“What happened?” gasped Miss B. “Did I fall?”
Scarlet, hot with tears, pulled her wounded employer into her lap and began rocking her like a child. “You’re going to be all right,” she chanted. “We’re taking you to hospital.”
The night guard appeared in the doorway, his mouth agape.
“What happened?”
“Somehow this woman got in and attacked Miss Bottomley. Enid called the police and ambulance.” “Oh, my lord,” said the poor man, “Must have been when I went to the phone for hourly report.”
Miss Bottomley gasped and gurgled. She clutched Scarlet’s hand so hard it was difficult to surrender her to the medics. As Scarlet climbed into the ambulance she could hear the night guard explaining to anyone who would listen, “I had to make my report.”
Why hadn’t she been informed that his post would be unwatched for minutes every hour? It was ludicrous! She grabbed his arm.
“Don’t you dare let the attacker go,” she commanded. She didn’t trust him anymore, but at least Candi seemed immobilized. Scarlet could hear the police siren, but the ambulance couldn’t wait. Rocking back and forth she asked herself, Why had it occurred to literally no one, that a single guard couldn’t possibly cover the entrance? What about bathroom breaks, not to mention the hourly reports from the corner phone the client had not even been informed about? She gritted her teeth, but the person she most blamed was herself. She could kick herself for not thinking it through.
How easily we accept reassuring appearances without enquiring deeper!
At the hospital, Miss Bottomley was rushed away and Scarlet was given a blanket to cover her bloodstained nightclothes. She longed for the comfort of Enid’s presence but knew Enid must remain at Norfolk Crescent for Nick. She’d have to get through this alone.
“May I speak to you, ma’am?”
It was a London bobby, helmet removed, holding his notebook.
“Sure,” said Scarlet in her exhausted American drawl.
“What occurred precisely? Best you can recall?”
“I must have heard something. I really don’t know why but I got up, thinking Miss Bottomley –“
“The injured party?”
“Yes. She’s my employer. I thought she needed me. When I ran downstairs I heard them struggling. This woman Candi Pourfoyle must have come through the back entrance – there’s a guard on but he says he was making a phone call.”
“There’s a guard?” interest in his gray eyes.
“Well stone masons are building a new entrance at the back and there isn’t a door so they set a guard there. But he’s no good!” She bit her thumb angrily. “I wish I’d known he was going to be no good.”
“Cup of tea?” A sympathetic sister approached.
“Yes, please.” Scarlet accepted the white china cup – you could see the sugar they’d sloshed in. It was lukewarm but enormously comforting.
“You recognized the attacker?”
“Candi Pourfoyle, I told you. “
“And she is?”
“My husband’s girlfriend. I don’t know if she thought Miss Bottomley was me or not – poor Miss B. was wearing my anorak – but Candi would have to come through the kitchen and Miss B often fell asleep sitting by the Aga –“
“Hold on now, please. What exactly did you see?”
“They were both on the floor. Candi was beating her with a club – blood everywhere. I pulled her off, knocked her out and tied her up with clothesline. Enid heard the ruckus and called police.”
“You knocked her out? Did you have a weapon?”
“No. I wish I had. But I bashed her head against the stove.”
The bobby patted her knee. “That’s a ghastly experience,” he said sympathetically. “Dreadful.”
And it’s only going to get worse, Scarlet could tell from the doctors’ faces as they pushed through the operating theatre doors. She stopped trying to be strong and burst into tears.
Outside the first flakes were starting. The sharp air caught in Scarlet’s throat. Baby Nick’s breath came in short puffs. She saw nobody walking in the street at all.
That’s paranoia for you, she thought. Being scared of people who aren’t there because of people who are there. She resolved to walk to the grocery store like someone with a right to exist and to move freely, and not like a fearful, naughty schoolgirl playing hooky. But as soon as she turned the corner a man leaped out of the shadows and a hand grabbed her. It was Ian.
“You almost frightened me to death!” she barked. “You’re not supposed to be here – I have a non-molestation order against you!”
“If I didn’t know it was you – if you insist on creeping about in disguise – how can that be my mistake?” He was unshaven, his eyes terrible. She felt a stab of fear over so much anger. This side of the building was virtually an alley – she should never have taken it but gone the long way around. No one would see her or help her if she needed it.
She tried acting brave, and didn’t address his implication that he might have thought he was grabbing Enid.
“Now that you know, leave me alone.”
“But this court order, Scarlet! What are you playing at? That I’m a danger to you, to our son?” Her heart smote her – this would always be her Achilles’ heel. She could never believe he’d hurt Nick. On the other hand, she knew he was desperately committed to getting whatever he wanted when he wanted it – he would be careless of Nick and all too ready to entrust his child to God knows who. And there had been a day – not so long ago, either – when she would have sworn he would never hurt her. How wrong that had been!
The best defense was offense. “You put Candi in the hospital!” she accused.
“It was nothing but a couple stitches. She was in and out. I was only trying to stir up a bit of excitement – that woman’s like a planked fish in bed.”
“You moved her into Wyvern because you’ve got a yen for fish?”
Ian tightened his hold on Scarlet. “She quit her job! Her husband threw her out after she told him I raped her – I had to figure out some way to shut her up.” His eyes boiled at her – he did look dangerous.
“Well that didn’t work – she followed you to London and threatened me.”
“You’re joking. I don’t believe you.”
Still, he didn’t release her. The greatcoat was so huge he couldn’t really hurt her but simply blocking her motion, imprisoning her, made her feel panicky. She tried shaking him off. “And who’s that I hear about living in the flat?”
He relaxed into his first smile. The old Ian. But it was a wicked grin.
“I knew this was all about jealousy! Relax, Scarlet, you’ll always be my number one! Don’t we need a nanny? She’s a nice country girl with a modest little job who needed a place to stay and who is used to caring for brothers and sisters. If you decide you don’t like her, say the word and she’ll be gone.”
“We need to make decisions through our solicitors,” said Scarlet, trying to push the stroller on. She didn’t want to call his attention to the fact that he hadn’t glanced at his son – but it was informative – and she refused to surrender to his clutches.
Ian shook his shaggy head. He needed a haircut. Maybe he was going for the look of one of the teddy boys at the Aldershot Palais.
“Scarlet, you’re being ridiculous! You’ll beggar us and nobody wins! If you insist on divorce, all right, but let me see my son! Stay out of my sex life and I’ll stay out of yours. Don’t make me show MY photographs of YOUR boyfriend!”
“I don’t have a BOYFRIEND. Pom is a FRIEND. My employer is employing him to do a job of work. If you’re willing to get the divorce all you have to do is tell Jellicoe. We’ll meet formally, iron out visitation, the lot. Don’t spring at me in alleys.”
But he didn’t let her go, and he didn’t look at their son. Instead he pushed her against the wall and began passionately kissing her.
“Oh Scarlet,” he moaned, “I’ve missed you so much. None of them are any good. No one’s got your spark. Don’t make me travel to America for a replacement! Come back to me, or if you won’t, at least give me husband’s privileges. Do you know how long it’s been?”
She did know. She had reason to know that it was longer for her than for him. She twisted her mouth away but he crushed her lip with his teeth. Horribly he scrabbled at her clothing – she felt helpless – thinking –this must be what it feels like to be raped. She was powerless – he was so strong, swarming over her, pushing her right up against the stone wall. He found the police whistle and seemed to back up a little, pulling it up to his eye line so he could see what it was. “What’s this then?” He asked. “Gift from your admirer?”
She snatched it from him and blew. The sound was earsplitting. He staggered away, pointed angrily at her and disappeared around the back of the building.
Scarlet reversed course and rushed back to the front door of 14 Norfolk Crescent. Her thoughts were jumbled and crazy – where was that detective? How about HER detective? Why was nobody taking pictures of THIS? Where was ANYBODY – she certainly had seen no policemen. But Ian seemed to believe that someone might come and that was good enough. She guided the pram up the steps and into Miss Bottomley’s front hall. She threw off the already unbuttoned greatcoat in a frenzy, stripping mitten and hat. Voices still came from the dining room so she pushed the pram towards the kitchen and through the swing door into the warm fug of the friendly room. Nick howled lustily.
“Ian attacked me,” Scarlet gasped, falling into a chair.
Enid’s face went white. “We’ve got to go to the police!”
“I’m not going anywhere. I’m – afraid.” Scarlet burst into tears, laid her head on the table and wept.
“At least we must call them.” Enid scrabbled for the phone.
“Your police whistle saved me. Give me the phone.”
Enid comforted Nick.
Scarlet called D’Arcy instead.
“It’s an emergency.”
Gotobed the clerk put him right on the line.
“Ian attacked me,” said Scarlet, trying to control her voice. “I was walking Nick, he pushed me up against a wall and started kissing me and tearing at my clothes.”
“Oh, my God!” said D’Arcy. “How did you get away?”
“I blew a police whistle.”
“Well that was fortunate. Do you need a doctor?”
Scarlet felt her lip. It was swelling, but no blood.
“I don’t think so. Swollen lip.”
“Can you make a police report?”
The thought of leaving the house made tears spring to her eyes once again. “No, I don’t want to.” “I can do it for you. May I send Gotobed over to photograph your face? He’ll take the particulars.” Scarlet turned this over in her mind. Gotobed was a sweet, elderly man – could she speak to him about this?
“All right.”
“Very well then. He’s a cab ride away.”
She hung up the phone feeling better while Enid alternated between taking pies out of the oven and serving strong mint tea.
“I didn’t get your lemon curd,” she sniffed, “But your police whistle saved me.”
“Thank God for that! Did a bobby respond?”
Scarlet shook her head and sipped her strengthening tea.
Gotobed arrived with a huge accordion camera and took a couple of snaps. Scarlet was so embarrassed she kept her eyes closed. Apparently, there were also red marks on her throat – bruises developing.
“The man must have been mad,” said Gotobed.
“Have you ever been married?” asked Scarlet, instantly regretting the question as Gotobed’s face closed up.
“I have not been blessed,” he sniffed.
“Who would care to be blessed by THAT?” asked Enid, lightening the moment as she placed a plate of fragrant mince pie in front of Gotobed.
Gotobed produced a notebook. “When was this incident precisely?”
“Twenty minutes ago,” said Scarlet. “I was taking Nick on a walk to Sawditch’s to get lemon curd for Enid here and as soon as I rounded the corner – around to the right side there’s sort of an alley – he was on me.”
“What did he say exactly?”
She tried to remember while Gotobed wrote.
“He was angry about the non-molestation order. I told him he shouldn’t be there – we needed to let the solicitors decide and he said they would beggar us. I said something about him putting Candi in the hospital and he said she was terrible in bed.”
“He said that?” Enid gasped, then as Scarlet flushed said, “Sorry. I probably shouldn’t be listening.”
Scarlet placed a restraining hand on her arm. “No. Stay.”
Mr. Gotobed said, “You have to stay. We need a second witness.”
“Then he started kissing me, backed me right up against the wall. I was trying to twist my face away and he unbuttoned my coat and found the police whistle. While he was trying to figure out what it was I grabbed it out of his hands and blew it. He ran away. He never even looked at his son! Nick was right there!”
Gotobed offered her statement for her to sign. “If you’ll just sign on the witness line, Mrs. Rumson? I’ll take this complaint around to the police and they’ll pick him up. Best pie I’ve ever tasted – ” he added, eying his half-eaten piece regretfully. “But I must be going.”
“Of course,” Enid agreed. “Shall I wrap some up for you? No? Well, come back any time.”
He insisted on taking another snap of Scarlet’s face – “It’s darkening up –“ he commented – before he left. Scarlet took Nick gratefully from Enid and buried her nose in his sweet neck..
A bell rang from the dining room.
“Their tea needs freshening,” said Enid, preparing a tray.
Scarlet was not able to get up the stairs without Miss Bottomley seeing her.
“Scarlet! What happened to your face?”
Bob Thomas’ concerned features appeared behind her.
“Ian – my husband – attacked me. Mr. Gotobed’s taking my complaint to the police. I’m going to lie down.”
Mr. Gotobed emerged from the kitchen, putting on his hat.
“Just the man,” said Mr. Thomas. “Mrs. Bottomley’s business also requires a witness.”
“Should I stay?” Scarlet asked unwillingly.
“No. Gotobed can do it. You go lie down.”
“Won’t the police want to speak to me?”
“Not till tomorrow.”
Nick started his caterwauling again – it was hard for Scarlet to surrender him to Enid but she knew the best thing for her now was a hot bath. Thank God for mothers’ helpers. Every woman needs several, to Scarlet’s way of thinking. She went right upstairs and sank gratefully into a hot tub liberally laced with aromatic gardenia bath salts. Once she was dry she took a sleeping pill. When she awoke it was dark outside. “Turning night into day,” she thought. “Now I’ll be up forever.”
She went into the bathroom. Her own face in the mirror terrified her – was that a BITE? She had no recollection of Ian’s teeth but he had kissed so forcefully she finally understood the term “masher.” This would take more cover-up and concealer makeup than Scarlet knew she possessed. In a way, it was a relief to see the dark bruising – it proved she wasn’t “making a mountain out of a molehill” as Ian doubtless would claim.
There was a knock on the bathroom door. Scarlet opened it slightly to see Enid’s concerned face.
“May I bring up a bit of food after your bath?” she asked. “We could have dinner together.” “Dinner? Isn’t it after nine?”
“Miss Bottomley went to bed before dinner, she was so exhausted. She says she and Bob Thomas created four trusts!”
“Good heavens,” laughed Scarlet – “I’m tired just HEARING about it. What happened with the publishing?”
“She’ll be majority owner! Once again she’ll own the Miss Clew books!”
“That’s good news anyway.”
“I missed you both so much it really took the fun out of dinner. I ate cheese and crackers and put my nice hot pot aside. But here I am hungry again, and as you know, hot pot only gets better! And we have the rest of that lovely wine.”
“Well,” sighed Scarlet – “I don’t want you to take trouble –“
“Scarlet, there’s a dumbwaiter! As you very well know!”
Scarlet felt less surprised about the story Pelham had shared about some woman “setting up base camp at Ian’s town residence.” Too young and too footloose to be Margalo but Scarlet felt confident that the BBC doubtless pullulated with skimpily attired, pretty young things, all skimpily paid of course, in desperate need of a London bolt-hole with “all found”; girls who would adore offering comfort to a handsome, lonely man whose wife had abandoned him. What had Ian called them? Dolly birds? Unfortunately, judging by Candi’s hospital records, these poor women failed to reckon with just how “abandoned” Ian actually was!
A two storey “maisonette” (with balcony!) in central London – that girl probably felt fortunate indeed. He could have his cake and eat it too – nanny, housekeeper and girlfriend all mixed together! So probably unpaid? Worse and worse, poor thing. And it sounded just like Ian, thinking himself so clever for dangling before Scarlet just how easily and cheaply she could be replaced. The most bothersome aspect of all this news was how little it seemed he really knew the girl he had married! Scarlet found this new picture of Ian repellant rather than inciting. She couldn’t imagine Pom putting some girl in hospital!
But if she was honest with herself, hadn’t Ian’s aura of danger been a large part of his attraction when they were in college? She knew her rivals thought so. But around children such explosive potential seemed suddenly very unappealing. Maybe I just grew up, thought Scarlet.
Scarlet might be a mystery to her husband, but Scarlet felt she understood Candi all too well. It was Scarlet whom Candi yearned to supplant, Scarlet whom in fact she wanted to be. She had made that very clear in Foyle’s – she was angling to become Mrs. Wye. Poor Candi may have felt that throwing over her job and even being injured by him made Ian “owe” her something. Candi didn’t realize that it was Scarlet’s personal power that she envied, and not the power Scarlet acquired as a wife, if any. But it’s my “power” as a confident, educated woman with a sense of my own value, she thought.
Candi didn’t know herself – or Ian – or even marriage – well enough to realize she’d made the worst possible decision. Scarlet wondered if she should reach out to David Pourfoyle, Candi’s abandoned husband. He must be a wreck. In hindsight, all these actions and reactions seemed so easy to categorize. Look at the mistakes Scarlet herself had made – allowing herself to become the “country wife” – a benefit more honored in fantasy than reality. In Ian’s eyes women cheapened themselves by becoming “convenient”. And Candi hadn’t even insisted on a ring! How could she – married to someone else.
The phone rang again, and since Scarlet was sitting right there, she answered it.
“Er – Scarlet?” Pom’s unmistakable voice.
Scarlet felt an enormous gush of relief.
“It’s for me,” she said to Enid’s, “And who’s that now?”
Enid signed off with a harried, “Very well then.”
“Your life appears to be heating up,” said Pom. “Who was that, if I may enquire?”
“It’s a long story. I hired a nanny and she turned into a godsend. In fact, she’s been rather – taken over by Miss Bottomley.”
“So you’re still in nanny straits?”
“No, Mrs. Rumson can tackle both jobs – quite well, so far, I believe. She’s the most fantastic cook! Miss Bottomley’s eating like a rescued castaway.”
“Well, she really is one, isn’t she? Anyway, I phoned to say I’m back in town – Freddie did a bang-up job on my car – and wondered if we could dine? Or does divorce case forfend?”
I’ve got to get my emotions under control, thought Scarlet. She was rocketing between the ecstasy of seeing him again – the embarrassment of feeling the depth of that need – and her dashed hopes over Pelham’s lawyerly injunction.
She was rescued by a brilliant idea.
“I say,” she proposed, “What do you know about art?”
“A lot,” said Pom. “I hope.”
‘Would you be willing to do a job for Miss Bottomley?”
“Anything at all.”
“Why don’t you come to dinner tonight and make an aesthetic inventory of her paintings? She’s got a lot here.”
Pom sounded intrigued. “An aesthetic inventory?”
“Certainly.. She inherited all this stuff and she has insurance policies and inventories and that sort of thing, but she doesn’t care about these works and she never looks at them. Perhaps they would be better off in some museum and she could decorate her walls with…something more modern. Something of her own choice, that gives her meaning and pleasure.”
“Oh, I see. What a fun idea! I couldn’t charge money of course. This would be strictly friend-to-friend. I mean, otherwise my conflicts of interest would be too opprobrious.”
Scarlet laughed. “Too, too opprobrious.”
“Shall we say seven?”
“We’d better say six. There’s old ladies and infants to consider. Unless you can’t.”
“Oh, but I can.”
And just like that, Scarlet was happy again. Lovely Pom!
She found Enid and Miss Bottomley in the kitchen playing the card game “crazy eights.”
“I do love this game,” said Miss Bottomley enthusiastically.
Nick was just starting to fuss so Scarlet picked him up, snuffling up his delightful talcum-y smell. She was certain that he recognized her and was gazing up at her trustingly.
“I wonder if I might invite Pom to dinner,” she inquired shyly.
“Oh, your delightful friend! I do like him so.” Miss Bottomley smacked an eight down on the table and declared “Hearts. You’ll like him too,” she told Enid.
“Do you think he’d like spaghetti Bolognese?” inquired the chef.
“I know for a fact he loves anything Italian.”
“What fun!” exclaimed Enid. “Would you like me to take Nick?”
“No, I need fresh air. I think I’ll take him walking. Miss Bottomley, Pom is willing to take a friendly look at your pictures and perhaps suggest some moderns you might buy. Would you like that?”
“Scarlet, you have the best ideas!” declared Miss Bottomley. “These daubs are so DREARY. Do you know in my bedroom there was a picture of a cow. I ask you! Who would want a picture like that? I had it moved of course – exchanged for boring old flowers but that’s hardly better. It would buck everyone up to see a bit of color. The previous owner’s taste seems all dark green and mud brown. Dreadful stuff.”
And expensive to insure, thought Scarlet.
“I’m so glad you feel that way,” she said, taking Nick to get changed. “It would be fun looking for new stuff. Perhaps we could attend some openings and shows.”
“Auctions!” Miss Bottomley brightened. “Let’s go to auctions! Auctions are so thrilling, don’t you find?”
Mr. Gammel the bank manger had been appropriately primed. Scarlet opened a trustee account for her son and one for herself. She did feel relieved – and rich – as she pocketed her new chequebook, even though she had yet to actually get a paycheck. The thirty pounds deposited in each account – she only hoped Ian would cover the checks when they were presented and that depended entirely on his mood – could not yet be accessed.
Enid had prepared a lovely lunch – in the dining room for a change. Her eyes shimmered. “Salmon mousse!” she exclaimed. “Look how beautifully it came out. Miss Bottomley’s kitchen has every amenity – conveniences I’ve only heard about and am looking forward to discovering the use of. I’m having as much fun as a bride!”
In Scarlet’s memory, her “fun” as a bride was quite different, but Enid had spent her morning sorting pots and pans and implements in Miss Bottomley’s kitchen while Baby Nick waved his legs and the elderly author looked on, bemused.
“Nick was as good as gold. He had his bottle and now he’s having a sleep. I spoke to your lovely solicitor Mr. D’Arcy and he’s promising to set me right with my finances. It will be such a relief not to have to sound pathetic and uncertain when I speak to the children. My husband can well afford an adequate disposition.”
It was quite a Mediterranean lunch. Salmon mousse ornamented with black and green olives, a green salad with sliced tomatoes and buttered whole meal bread. Tea to drink – Miss Bottomley’s favorite Earl Grey. No alcohol in sight, Scarlet gratefully noted.
“Mr. Thomas seemed interested about our plan about investing in publishing,” said Scarlet succinctly, shaking out her napkin as she addressed Miss Bottomley. “He said you need another business!”
Miss Bottomley perked up visibly. “Isn’t it wonderful, being rich!”
The ladies agreed that it certainly seemed to be.
“He’ll do a bit of research and come by tomorrow afternoon to discuss it with you.”
“Good plan,” agreed Miss Bottomley. “Scarlet, how can I ever thank you enough? Enid, dear, will you mark it in my book? By the phone?”
Scarlet would have thought that keeping Miss Bottomley’s “books” was her job, but she didn’t argue. Perhaps it was best to see how things shook themselves out. After all, if Miss Bottomley really did buy a stake in Coltsfoot & Briggins, Scarlet might find herself working there. At least temporarily. Having Enid care for Nick and Miss Bottomley at the same time would clearly be the beau ideal. If, that is, she was trustworthy as she seemed. A big “if.” But she certainly appeared to be, so far.
Scarlet’s offer to do the dishes was roundly turned down.
“No, thank you,” said Enid. “I feel Miss Bottomley’s generous pay entitles me to make the kitchen my dominion. I don’t mind it a bit. In Morocco and India, we had servants and they wouldn’t let me do anything. I found it horribly frustrating. We have the most elegant commercial dishwasher and I’m dying to use it! Would you care for coffee?”
There seemed no point waking Nick merely to carry him upstairs so Scarlet took her coffee upstairs instead.
She was kicking off her shoes and looking forward to an exhausted nap when the phone rang. “Mr. Pelham D’Arcy for Mrs. Wye,” announced the careful clerk Mr. Gotobed. Enid came on the line.
“What is it?”
“It’s for me,” said Scarlet shortly.
“That’s all right then.” Enid hung up noisily.
“Good news about Mrs. Rumson,” said Pelham as soon as he took up the line. “I wanted to reassure you that Jim Bogswell made a couple of calls and there’s no black marks against her. I think you made a good hire. Nothing damaging known.”
Scarlet felt relieved to the point of tears. “That’s marvelous. You can’t think how knowing that relieves me. Mrs. Rumson’s doing such a fantastic job here – and Miss Bottomley’s having the time of her life. I would feel dreadful if I brought a wolf into the fold.”
“It seems the wolves are all outside,” Pelham warned sententiously. “We are numbering and fighting them off, one by one. Now, don’t ring off. Bogswell had some other news. It seems your husband has more than one girl-friend.”
That more than explained Candi’s anxiety! Apparently Candi’s upgrade to “house-help” created a vacancy! Now that the poor woman found herself in Scarlet’s old job, maneuvering her way around a prevaricating, untrustworthy male, she as being acquainted with the stresses and strains of the position. Scarlet’s conscience smote her – she hadn’t even mentioned Candi’s threat to Pelham. Should she bring it up now? But D’Arcy was in full cry.
“He’s got some woman staying at the flat. Bogswell’s trying to find out more about her.”
“That was quick work,” said Scarlet. “He only told me this morning he was just beginning the move in.”
“Taradiddle,” said Pelham shortly. “Our source says some young woman – early twenties – has established base camp.”
Well then why on earth had Ian invited her over? To make her jealous? She couldn’t put it past him. “And there’s more.”
“More girls?” No wonder Candi was feeling desperate!
“More facts. I believe I mentioned that Mrs. Pourfoyle gave up her employment and moved to Verne on Wye?”
“You didn’t say she’d quit her job!”
“Oh, yes. Gave in her notice. And she had –“ he cleared his throat – “A recent hospitalization.”
Scarlet couldn’t parse his heavy emphasis. “Some kind of miscarriage?”
“It seems,” Pelham said with the delicacy of an elephant, “She experienced a rupture.”
“A physical rupture?”
“Correct. Requiring stitches.”
Scarlet was imagining Ian had socked Candi in the eye when Pelham continued, “Er – gynecologically.”
“Oh, my God!”
“Precisely. Was your husband excessively adventuresome in the bedroom?”
“I believe I used the word “pushy”,” Scarlet said somewhat coldly. This was what people warned you about with divorce attorneys.
“Ah, yes. Forceful.” He seemed to be making a note. “Well, let me tell you this news puts our case in very good standing. We are certainly entitled to a no-contact order at the very least. I will notify you of further developments.”
“Thank you,” gasped Scarlet and fell back on her pillows, all chance of a nap gone. Would she ever sleep again? Poor Candi! Stitches! Hospitals! She would discover first-hand that Ian really had no sympathy for the sick, the disabled, or the “hors de combat.” Candi was truly, now, a “whore de combat.”
Scarlet had never imagined feeling sorry for the woman, but it seemed her rival had unleashed a whirlwind. This was a vision of the country gent as member of the Hellfire Club. Could it be that Ian divided “wives” and “girlfriends” so thoroughly in his own mind that it liberated his aggression if the woman had no legal claim on him? If so, poor Candi! She seemed like the unlucky sorcerer’s apprentice who couldn’t manage her own spell and was now being threatened by her own creation. In which case, why not wash her hands of him? Militate for a better position? But how could she when she had given up both husband and job?
In fact, it was apparent to Scarlet that now that Candi had given up her London work she was dramatically worse off – at Ian’s mercy in fact. How could Candi have not foreseen this? She had always bragged about her gallery job as if it were a wonderfully lucky break. Plainly she considered Ian an even luckier break, only to discover the man was all smoke and mirrors. What was the matter with women?
At the center of all this was Ian, wreaking havoc and feeling entitled to wreak more. In a way, this piece of unholy medical information erased much of Scarlet’s guilt over a “non-contact” order. She needed to come out the other side, with a good arrangement to focus Ian’s good behavior around his own son, as well as terminating Scarlet’s dependence on such an undependable man.
D’Arcy, too, suggested she sit and helped her off with her coat – probably thinking the sweat on her forehead meant she was overheated instead of merely tense. He closed the door behind her with a conspiratorial air.
“Your husband has acquired an attorney,” he said. “Really it could not be better for us. He seems to have instructed a Mr. Jellicoe, who shares offices with his detective.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively. “It sounds to me as though the cart was driving this particular horse, and we all know what is the result when THAT happens.”
“It sounds horrible,” said Scarlet faintly. “I can’t imagine.”
“Disaster, my dear Mrs. Wye, disaster. I suspect here we have the client who thinks he can manage his solicitor – NEVER a good idea.” He looked repressive. That’s Ian for you, thought Scarlet. He considers himself the smartest man in the room.
“I saw Ian this morning,” she interjected. “His showed up unexpectedly at Norfolk Crescent. To take the car.”
Pelham’s eyebrows knit worriedly but he said nothing.
“That was all right with me,” she hurriedly asserted – “I don’t want it and he’s moving into the BBC flat. I told him in future he should make an appointment. Say, to see Nick.”
“Naturally,” Pelham agreed. “Mr. Jellicoe and I will iron out a schedule. Until we have I suggest you inform your husband there will be no visitation. I will be serving Mr. Jellicoe with our Notice of Potential Harm to a Minor Child.”
He’ll love that, thought Scarlet.
“Have you been to the bank?”
Scarlet looked guilty.
“Not yet.”
“You really need to set that up account. Planters Bank around the corner is the one we use. Would you like me to instruct Mr. Gammel, the bank manager?”
“I wish you would,” said Scarlet hopefully. If there was any way to make this rough course smoother, she would take it.
“I’ll give him a call. Do step round and ask to see Mr. Gammel at conclusion of our business. Should I know any more about this surprise meeting with Ian?”
Should I mention Candi? Wondered Scarlet. The fact that Ian insisted he wouldn’t be getting a divorce. But she couldn’t see how that would help.
“He invited me to help him move into his flat. I declined but I offered to help with a room for Nick. Should I mention the nanny? Could he use mine? My new nanny’s that new client I told you about – the one with the Foreign Service husband. How should I handle this?”
“Ah, Enid Ransom.” Pelham D’Arcy gave a wolfish grin. “We have a lovely case there. Mrs. Ransom will be coming into a tidy sum. I hope that won’t interfere with her need for employment. It would be too cruel if your good interventions deprived you of a nanny.”
“I doubt it,” said Scarlet. “Miss Bottomley also hired her as a cook – I think both of them are having the time of her lives. And Norfolk Crescent’s a most comfortable place to live.”
D’Arcy assumed a serious mien, “Mrs. Wye, I cannot emphasize strongly enough that you NOT go to your husband’s flat. You simply cannot be alone with him. If he assaulted you before the separation is final, such are the marriage laws in this country, we could not prosecute a rape. It would be assumed to be consensual. Every conjugal act sets us back to the beginning of the process, as if you had accepted and forgiven him.”
Scarlet felt faint. Rape as a method of subjection! Like a cruel colonial power subduing recalcitrant populations.
“I did think my husband had some ulterior motive inviting me,” she gasped nervously. “I can’t believe he would be…force me.”
Pelham looked alarmed. “Let’s not wait to find out what he does when he feels desperate,” he insisted, “But assume at the outset that if the worst is possible, the risk is unacceptable.”
Just what Miss Clew would recommend! Thought Scarlet. She began to see the possibility for a new book: Miss Clew’s Advice to Young Girls. Always carry a hatpin would be Precept #1! In spite of the general tension, she giggled.
Pelham D’Arcy pulled out the brandy bottle. Evidently, he considered his client on the verge of becoming hysterical. It had probably happened many times before.
“I’ll do as you suggest,” Scarlet agreed hastily, but declined the brandy. It was eleven thirty in the morning, and on an empty stomach, brandy probably promoted hysteria.
“Have there been occasions in the past” – D’Arcy gasped, pouring himself a snifter, “I realize I should have enquired earlier – when your husband has been – punitive?”
Scarlet blushed uncomfortably. “He is customarily quite pushy,” she said finally. “He hasn’t had occasion to feel…deprived. I was the one being deprived…as soon as he got a girlfriend.”
Pelham tossed back his brandy. Obviously he found discussing marital intimacies the toughest part of his job.
“Live and learn,” he said finally. “We frequently handle suits for restitution of conjugal rights and I confess I usually consider the problem from that point of view. But given the situation, you must have nothing to do with your husband. Consider yourself at risk. Any further questions?”
“No. Thank you very much – for all you have done.” I’ll get right over to the bank.”
She left as Pelham D’Arcy was placing his call to Mr. Gammel.
Alysse Aallyn 