6: Morning at the Cove

i

At half-past nine on that same morning, Ricky chucked his pen on his manuscript, ran his fingers through his hair, and plummeted into the nadir of doubt and depression that from time to time so punctually attends upon dealers in words. “I’m no good,” he thought, “it’s all a splurge of pretension and incompetence. I write about one thing and something entirely different is trying to emerge. Or is there quite simply nothing there to emerge? Over and out.”

He stared through the window at a choppy and comfortless harbor and his thoughts floated as inconsequently as driftwood among the events of the past weeks. He wallowed again between ship and jetty at Saint Pierre-des-Roches. He thought of Julia Pharamond and that teasing face was suddenly replaced by the frightful caved-in mask of dead Dulcie. Ferrant returned to make a fool of him and he asked himself for the hundredth time if it had been Ferrant or Syd Jones who tried to drown him. And for the hundredth time he found it a preposterous notion that anybody should try to drown him. And yet knew very well that it had been so and that his father believed him when he said as much.

So now he thought of his father and of Br’er Fox, who was his godfather. He wondered how exactly they behaved when they worked together on a case and if at that moment they were up at Leathers. Detecting. And then, with a certainty that quite astonished him, Ricky tumbled to it that the reason why he couldn’t write that morning was not because the events of the day before had distracted him or because he was bruised and sore and looked a sight or because the horror of Dulcie Harkness had been revived but simply because he wanted very badly indeed to be up there with his father, finding out about things.

“Oh no!” he thought. “I won’t take that. That’s not my scene. I’ve other things to do. Or have I?” He was very disturbed.

He hadn’t seen any of the Pharamonds since the day of the postponed inquest. Jasper had rung up and asked him to dinner but Ricky had said he was in a bad patch with his work and had promised himself there would be no more junkets until he had got over it. He could hear Julia in the background shouting instructions.

“Tell him to bring his book and we’ll all write it for him.”

Jasper had explained that Julia was in the bath and she, in the background, screamed that umbrage would be taken if Ricky didn’t come. It had emerged that the next day the Pharamonds were flying over to London to see the ballet and meant to stay on for a week or so if anything amusing offered. Ricky had stuck to his guns and not dined at L’Espérance and had wasted a good deal of the evening regretting it.

He wondered if they were still in London. Did they always hunt in a pack? Were they as rich as they seemed to be? Julia had said that Jasper had inherited a fortune from his Brazilian grandfather. And had Louis also inherited a fortune? Louis didn’t seem to do work of any description. Jasper was at least writing a book about the binomial theorem but Louis — Ricky wouldn’t be surprised if Louis was a bit hot: speculated rashly, perhaps, or launched slightly dubious companies. But then he didn’t care for Louis and his bedroom eyes. Louis was the sort of man that women, God knew why, seemed to fall for. Even his cousin Julia when they danced together.

Julia. It would perhaps be just as well, bearing in mind his father’s strictures upon talkativeness, if Julia were still in London. If she were at L’Espérance she would wish to know why his father was here; she would ask them both to dinner and say — he could see her magnolia face and her impertinent eyes — that they were slyboots, both of them. Perhaps his father would not go, but sooner or later he, Ricky, would, and once under the spell, could he trust himself not to blurt something out? No, it would be much better if the Pharamonds had decided to prolong their London visit. Much better.

And having settled that question he felt braced and took up his pen.

He heard the telephone ring and Mrs. Ferrant come out of the kitchen, releasing televisual voices from within.

He knew it was going to be for him and he knew it would be Julia.

Mrs. Ferrant shouted from the foot of the stairs and returned to the box.

As usual Ricky felt as if he had sunk much too rapidly in a fast lift. The telephone was in the passage and before he picked up the receiver he could hear it gabbling. Julia was admonishing her daughter. “All I can say, Selina, is this. Putting mud in Nanny’s reticule is the unfunniest thing you could possibly do and just so boring that I can’t be bothered talking about it. Please go away.”

“I’ve only just come,” Ricky said.

“Ricky?”

“None other.”

“You sound peculiar.”

“I’m merely breathless.”

“Have you been running?”

“No,” said Ricky crossly. He took a plunge. “You have that effect on me,” he said.

“Smashing! I must tell Jasper.”

“When did you come back?”

“Just this moment. The ballet was out of this world. And there were some fantastic parties. Lots of jolly chums.”

Ricky was stabbed by jealousy. “How lovely,” he said.

“I’ve rung up to know if it can possibly be true that your superb papa is among us.”

“Here we go,” Ricky thought. He said. “How did you know?”

“Louis caught sight of him in the hotel last night.”

“But — I thought you said you’d only just got back.”

“Louis didn’t come to London. He doesn’t like the ballet. He stayed at the Hotel Montjoy to escape from Selina and Julietta. Has Troy come too?”

“No, she’s busily painting a tree in London.”

“Louis says your papa seemed to be hobnobbing with an elderly policeman.”

“There’s meant to be some sort of reorganization going on in the force.”

“Are they going to raise Sergeant Plank to dizzy heights? I’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Very much.”

“You’re huffy, aren’t you?”

“No!” Ricky cried. “I’m not. Never less.”

“Nevertheless what?”

“I didn’t say ‘nevertheless.’ I said I was never less huffy.”

“Well then, you’re being slyboots as usual and not divulging some dynamic bit of gossip.” A pause and then the voice said, “Ricky, dear. I don’t know why I tease you.”

“I don’t mind.”

“Promise? Very well, then, is it in order for us to ring up your father and ask him to dine? Or lunch?”

“Yes — well — yes, of course. He’d adore it. Only thing: he is very much occupied it seems.”

“Does it? Well, one can but try,” she said coolly. Ricky felt inclined to say, “Who’s being huffy now?” but he only made vague noises and felt wretched.

“Of course you’d be invited too,” she threw out.

“Thank you, Julia.”

“You still sound odd.”

“I fell in the sea at Saint Pierre.”

“How too extraordinary! What were you doing in Saint Pierre? Or in the sea if it comes to that? Never mind. You should have said so at once and we wouldn’t have been at cross-purposes like funny men on the box. Ricky?”

“Yes, Julia.”

“Has the inquest been reopened?”

“No.”

“I see. I feel we shall never get rid of Miss Harness.”

“Harkness.”

“I don’t do it on purpose. To me she is Harness.”

“I know.”

“I hoped in my shallow way that the ballet and fun things would put her out of my head. But they haven’t.” She added hurriedly, furtively almost, “I dream about it. Seeing her. Isn’t that awful?”

“I’m so terribly sorry. So do I, if it’s any comfort.”

“You do? Not fair to say I’m glad. Ricky — don’t answer if you musn’t — but Ricky — was she murdered?”

“I don’t know. Honestly. How could I?”

“Your father.”

“Julia — please don’t.”

“I’m sorry. How’s your book going?”

“Not very fast.”

“How’s Mr. Jones? At least I can ask you how Mr. Jones is.”