Here the crowd thinned out and she quickened her pace so that Dickie, with his short legs, was forced to trot. The other boys lounged along sullenly, plainly resentful at having their precious time wasted on a boring shopping expedition. Though they were big enough to help, Zoe had not been able to bring herself to ask them to carry anything. Reggie would have answered, echoing his father, «We have servants to do the bleedin' shopping.»
Except for little Dickie, who now stumped cheerfully along at her side, nobody in her social circle could understand her need to do things for herself, even if they were things that «weren't done.» All of them sat down most of the time, and smoked a great deal, and drank a great deal in a quiet way and tried to look world-weary. Their favorite expression was, «You'll get over it, my dear.» If she showed any feeling at all, any unusual happiness or unhappiness, someone would always parrot, «You'll get over it, my dear.»
She sometimes thought, How efficient! A single bit of wisdom that fits every possible occasion! She'd never been able to bring herself to say the loathsome phrase, even on those occasions when it really did fit.
Sometimes her friends asked her, «Are you happy?»
She would answer, «I suppose so.»
It always satisfied them to hear her say that.
She strode along narrow Dove Street, crossed Pottergate, and continued on to the corner of Duke Street and Charing Cross, passing under the overhanging second floors of the ancient pastel-painted cottages. There she paused to let Reggie and Smitty catch up. They had been dawdling along behind, listlessly trying to push each other into the gutter.
«Mama,» Dickie said suddenly. «Do I know him?»
«Know who?» she asked, puzzled.
«The man you're mad it. The man with my name.»
«No you don't, dear.»
«Will I ever meet him?»
She shook her head firmly. «Never! Now let's hurry home. Daddy will worry about us if we're out when the rain starts.» She had already felt a few tiny droplets on her cheek.
The rain began in earnest as they came in through the garden gate, so Zoe and the boys were forced to run the last few hundred yards along the stone walkway, up the red brick steps, across the little porch and, with a whoop of laughter from Zoe and Dickie, through the tall front doorway into the vestibule. Reggie and Smitty ran, but they permitted themselves no laughter, only a mild annoyance.
The Smythe-Evans residence was, to judge by its exterior, a beautiful old house, as beautiful and as old as any of the others in the neighborhood, half-timbered, tile-roofed, vaguely Tudor, with the stucco portions of the wall in a pale candylike «Suffolk pink.» It was surrounded with the usual trees, the usual flowers, and the usual lawns.
The interior, however, had been modernized by Reginald's father some time in the Roaring Twenties, and the omnipresent Art Deco furniture and hangings were not yet old enough to be quaint, but too old to make a strong statement in favor of progress.
Mrs. Kelly, the roly-poly cleaning woman, paused on her way down the hall stairs to frown disapprovingly as Zoe opened the closet and proceeded to put her yellow raincoat on a hanger.
«May I be assisting you, mum?» the old woman demanded.
«No, thank you, Mrs. Kelly. I can manage.» Zoe was helping the children off with their coats.
«There was a telephone call for you, mum.»
«Really? Who from?»
«I've no idea, mum. When I found out it was long distance, I passed the phone to the mister.»
«If you don't know who it was from, surely you can tell me where it was from.»
«From London, mum.»
«London? I don't know anyone in London. At least, not anymore.»
Mrs. Kelly drew herself up indignantly. «I wouldn't lie to you, mum.»
«No, no, of course you wouldn't.» Zoe was perplexed.
The children, freed from their raincoats, clambered up the stairs. Mrs. Kelly, with a minimum of movement, stood aside to let them pass.
From the library, at the opposite end of the entrance hall, came the well-modulated, profoundly civilized voice of «the mister» himself, Reginald Smythe-Evans. «Is that you, dear?»
«Yes. I'm home,» Zoe answered brightly.
«Could you come in here for a moment, old girl?» In his carefully controlled tone there was a trace of tension that only someone who knew him well could have detected.
«Of course.» She hurried to the library door and opened it.
Reginald, behind his massive plain «functionally modern» desk, looked up at her as she entered. He was pale, thin, balding, and had a spotty complexion. He forced a broad toothy grin as he leaned back in his chair, but the illusion of ease and calm was spoiled by the way he pulled nervously at the lapels of his brown tweed suitcoat with his long white fingers. To her surprise, she noticed beads of sweat on his forehead.
«Good Lord, Reggie. What's the matter?»
«If you'll sit down, I'll tell you.» He gestured toward one of the few chairs in the room. (It was, she knew, no more uncomfortable than any of the others.)
She sat down, saying, «The phone call?»
''Yes.»
«What was it?»
«You remember that fellow Richard Blade?»
«Blade?»
«Come, come, old girl. I know you remember him. I daresay there are times when you're out of sorts with me that you wish you were his wife instead of mine. I'm not a fool, you know.» He paused, frowning. «But be that as it may, it seems something's happened to him.»
«Happened? Are you trying to tell me he's dead?»
Reginald waved the suggestion aside with a languid hand. «No, nothing like that. His employer, a chap named Jay, claims your Mr. Blade is sick. Yes, and it seems the only thing can put the fellow to rights is a few words from you. Bleeding romantic, eh what?»
«Reggie, there's no need to be upset. Whatever there was between Richard Blade and me is over.»
«Nothing but memories, eh? Never mind. I'm not the sort to turn up on the front page of The Sun, a smoking revolver in my hand and my wife and her lover tastefully piled in the background.»
Impulsively she stood up and leaned over to kiss him lightly on the cheek, whispering, «You do understand me, don't you?»
«Yes. Quite. Are you going to see Mr. Blade?»
«Not if you say no.»
«I won't be put in the position of jailer, my dear. You're old enough to make up your own mind.»
She sat down again, unnerved by the coldness in her husband's voice. «What's the phone number of this Jay person?» she asked. «We could ring him back and see how serious this is. Perhaps there's no real need for me to step in.»
«He wouldn't give me his phone number, my dear. If he's Richard Blade's employer, his phone number is probably secret, like everything else about him. He said he would phone back.»
She searched her memory frantically. Jay? Jay? Suddenly she placed him. J! The funny old man with no name, only an initial. He'd been at her wedding, hovering in the background, always in the background. Had she known J before? Had she seen him after that? She could not remember. The man was so gray, so utterly-perhaps deliberately-forgettable.
When the telephone on the desk rang, it startled her badly. Though she sprang up and reached for it, Reginald was quicker.
«Hello. Reginald Smythe-Evans speaking. Yes, she's here now.»
He handed her the receiver.
J had briskly walked the few blocks from the Tower of London to the Fenchurch Street Station where now he paused inside the entrance, stepping out of the stream of pedestrian traffic to examine his pocketwatch and get his breath.
He was a little early, though the gathering darkness outside in the street showed nightfall was not far off, overcast blurring the distinction between night and day. By fast train, as J knew, Norwich was only two hours from London. Mrs. Smythe-Evans would be arriving in three minutes, if the British railway system performed with its customary punctuality. He waited, composing himself, until he heard, above the murmur of the crowd, the rumble of the train entering the station, then he went to meet her.