Winifred was not (as I’d thought) Richard Griffen’s wife, but his sister. (Was she married, widowed, or divorced? It wasn’t entirely clear. She used her given name after the Mrs., which would indicate some sort of damage to the erstwhile Mr. Prior, if indeed he was erstwhile. He was seldom mentioned and never seen, and was said to have a lot of money, and to be “travelling.” Later, when Winifred and I were no longer on speaking terms, I used to concoct stories for myself about this Mr. Prior: Winifred had got him stuffed and kept him in mothballs in a cardboard box, or she and the chauffeur had walled him up in the cellar in order to indulge in lascivious orgies. The orgies may not have been that far from the mark, although I have to say that whatever Winifred did in that direction was always done discreetly. She covered her tracks—a virtue of sorts, I suppose.)

That evening Winifred wore a black dress, simply cut but voraciously elegant, set off by a triple string of pearls. Her earrings were minute bunches of grapes, pearl also but with gold stems and leaves. Callie Fitzsimmons, by contrast, was pointedly underdressed. For a couple of years now she’d set aside her fuchsia and saffron draperies, her bold Russian-émigré designs, even her cigarette holder. Now she went in for slacks in the daytime, and V-neck sweaters, and rolled-up shirt sleeves; she’d cut her hair too, and shortened her name to Cal.

She’d given up the monuments to dead soldiers: there was no longer much of a demand for them. Now she did bas-reliefs of workers and farmers, and fishermen in oilskins, and Indian trappers, and aproned mothers toting babies on their hips and shielding their eyes while looking at the sun. The only patrons who could afford to commission these were insurance companies and banks, who would surely want to apply them to the outsides of their buildings in order to show they were in tune with the times. It was discouraging to be employed by such blatant capitalists, said Callie, but the main thing was the message, and at least anyone going past the banks and so forth on the street would be able to see these bas-reliefs, free of charge. It was art for the people, she said.

She’d had some idea that Father might help her out—get her some more bank jobs. But Father had said dryly that he and the banks were no longer what you’d call hand in glove.

For this evening she wore a jersey dress the colour of a duster—taupe was the name of this colour, she’d told us; it was French for mole. On anyone else it would have looked like a droopy bag with sleeves and a belt, but Callie managed to make it seem the height, not of fashion or chic exactly—this dress implied that such things were beneath notice—but rather of something easy to overlook but sharp, like a common kitchen implement—an ice pick, say—just before the murder. As a dress, it was a raised fist, but in a silent crowd.

Father wore his dinner jacket, which was in need of pressing. Richard Griffen wore his, which wasn’t. Alex Thomas wore a brown jacket and grey flannels, too heavy for the weather; also a tie, red spots on a blue ground. His shirt was white, the collar too roomy. His clothes looked as if he’d borrowed them. Well, he hadn’t expected to be invited to dinner.

“What a charming house,” said Winifred Griffen Prior with an arranged smile, as we walked into the dining room. “It’s so—so well preserved! What amazing stained-glass windows—how fin de siècle! It must be like living in a museum!”

What she meant was outmoded. I felt humiliated: I’d always thought those windows were quite fine. But I could see that Winifred’s judgment was the judgment of the outside world—the world that knew such things and passed sentence accordingly, that world I’d been so desperately longing to join. I could see now how unfit I was for it. How countrified, how raw.

“They are particularly fine examples,” said Richard, “of a certain period. The panelling is also of high quality.” Despite his pedantry and his condescending tone, I felt grateful to him: it didn’t occur to me that he was taking inventory. He knew a tottering regime when he saw one: he knew we were up for auction, or soon would be.

“By museum, do you mean dusty?” said Alex Thomas. “Or perhaps you meant obsolete.”

Father scowled. Winifred, to do her justice, blushed.

“You shouldn’t pick on those weaker than yourself,” said Callie in a pleased undertone.

“Why not?” said Alex. “Everyone else does.”

Reenie had gone the whole hog on the menu, or as much of that hog as we could by that time afford. But she’d bitten off more than she could chew. Mock Bisque, Perch a la Provençale, Chicken a la Providence—on it came, one course after another, unrolling in an inevitable procession, like a tidal wave, or doom. There was a tinny taste to the bisque, a floury taste to the chicken, which had been treated too roughly and had shrunk and toughened. It was not quite decent to see so many people in one room together, chewing with such thoughtfulness and vigour. Mastication was the right name for it—not eating.

Winifred Prior was pushing things around on her plate as if playing dominoes. I felt a rage against her: I was determined to eat up everything, even the bones. I would not let Reenie down. In the old days, I thought, she’d never have been stuck like this—caught short, exposed, and thereby exposing us. In the old days they’d have brought in experts.

Beside me, Alex Thomas too was doing his duty. He was sawing away as if life depended on it; the chicken squeaked under his knife. (Not that Reenie was grateful to him for his dedication. She kept tabs on who had eaten what, you may be sure. That Alex What’s-his-name certainly had an appetite on hint, was her comment. You’d think he’d been starved in a cellar. )

Under the circumstances, conversation was sporadic. There was a lull after the cheese course, however—the cheddar too young and bouncy, the cream too old, the bleu too high—during which we could pause and take stock, and look around us.

Father turned his one blue eye on Alex Thomas. “So, young man,” he said, in what he may have thought was a friendly tone, “what brings you to our fair city?” He sounded like a paterfamilias in a stodgy Victorian play. I looked down at the table.

“I’m visiting friends, sir,” Alex said, politely enough. (We would hear Reenie, later, on the subject of his politeness. Orphans were well mannered because good manners had been beaten into them, in the orphanages. Only an orphan could be so self-assured, but this aplomb of theirs concealed a vengeful nature—underneath, they were jeering at everyone. Well, of course they’d be vengeful, considering how they’d been fobbed off. Most anarchists and kidnappers were orphans.)

“My daughter tells me you are preparing for the ministry,” said Father. (Neither Laura nor I had said anything about this—it must have been Reenie, and predictably, or perhaps maliciously, she’d got it a little wrong.)

“I was, sir,” said Alex. “But I had to give it up. We came to a parting of the ways.”

“And now?” said Father, who was used to getting concrete answers.

“Now I live by my wits,” said Alex. He smiled, to show self-deprecation.

“Must be hard for you,” Richard murmured and Winifred laughed. I was surprised: I hadn’t credited him with that kind of wit.

“He must mean he’s a newspaper reporter,” she said. “A spy in our midst!”

Alex smiled again, and said nothing. Father scowled. As far as he was concerned, newspaper reporters were vermin. Not only did they lie, they preyed on the misery of others– corpse flies was his term for them. He did make an exception for Elwood Murray, because he’d known the family. Drivel-monger was the worst he would say about Elwood.

After that the conversation turned to the general state of affairs—politics, economics—as it was likely to in those days. Worse and worse, was Father’s opinion; about to turn the corner, was Richard’s. It was hard to know what to think, said Winifred, but she certainly hoped they’d be able to keep the lid on.