Read Online An Unkindness of Ravens by Ruth Rendell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ruth Rendell
Ads: Link
her in the first place. The mere facts that she was female and young? About twenty, said Budd. Well, maybe twenty-five or six. Pressed to be more precise, he said she could have been any age between eighteen and thirty, he wasn’t good on ages, she was quite young though.
‘Can you think of anything else about her?’
A nurse had come in and was hovering. Wexford knew what she was about to say, he could have written the script for her—’Now I think that’s quite enough. It’s time for Mr Budd to have his rest .. . ‘ She approached the bed, unhooked Budd’s chart and began reading it with the enthusiastic concentration of a scholar who has just found the key to Linear B or some such.
‘She had this sack with her. She grabbed it before she ran off.’
‘What sort of sack?’
‘The plastic kind they give you for your dustbin. A black one. She picked it up and stuck it over her shoulder and ran off.’
‘I think that’s quite enough for now,’ said the nurse, diverging slightly from Wexford’s text.
He got up. It was an extraordinary picture Budd’s story had created and one which appealed to his imagination. The dark wet night, the knife flashing purposefully, even frenziedly, the girl running off into the rain with a sack slung over her shoulder. It was like an illustration in a fairy book of Andrew Lang, elusive, sinister and otherworldly.
6
What had Burden meant when he said this amniocentesis had discovered something to worry Jenny? Wexford found himself brooding on that. Once or twice he had woken in the night and the question had come into his mind. Sitting in the car, being driven to Myringham, he saw a woman on the pavement with a Down’s Syndrome child and the question was back, presenting itself again.
He hadn’t liked to pursue it with Burden. This wasn’t the sort of thing you asked a prospective father about. What small defect was there a father wouldn’t mind about but a mother would? It was grotesque, ridiculous, there was nothing. Any defect would be a tragedy. His mind ranged over partial deafness, a heart murmur, palate or lip deformities—the test couldn’t have shown those anyway. An extra chromosome? This was an area where he found himself floundering in ignorance. He thought of his own children, perfect, always healthy, giving him no trouble really, and his heart warmed towards his girls.
This reminded him that he had the National Theatre’s programme brochure for the summer season in his pocket. Sheila was with the company and this would be the first season she had top lead roles. Hence the disengagement from further work on Runway. He got out the programme and looked at it. Dora had asked him to decide which days they should go to London and see the three productions Sheila was in. For obvious reasons it always had to be he who made those kind of decisions.
The new Stoppard, Ibsen’s Little Eyolf, Shelley’s The Cenci. Wexford had heard of Little Eyolf but he had never seen it or read it, and as for The Cenci, he had to confess to himself that he hadn’t known Shelley had written any plays. But there it was: ‘Percy Bysshe Shelley’ and the piece described as a tragedy in five acts. Wexford was making tentative marks on the programme for a Friday in July and two Saturdays in August when Donaldson, his driver, drew into the kerb outside Sevensmith Harding.
Miles Gardner had been watching for him and came rushing out with an umbrella. It made Wexford feel like royalty. They splashed across the pavement to the mahogany doors.
Kenneth Risby, the chief accountant, told him Rodney Williams’s salary had been paid into the account Williams had with the Pomfret branch of the Anglian-Victoria Bank. From that account then, it would seem, Williams had each month transferred 500 pounds into the joint account he had with Joy. Risby had been with the company for fifteen years and said he could recall no other arrangement being made for Williams, either recently or in the
‘Can you think of anything else about her?’
A nurse had come in and was hovering. Wexford knew what she was about to say, he could have written the script for her—’Now I think that’s quite enough. It’s time for Mr Budd to have his rest .. . ‘ She approached the bed, unhooked Budd’s chart and began reading it with the enthusiastic concentration of a scholar who has just found the key to Linear B or some such.
‘She had this sack with her. She grabbed it before she ran off.’
‘What sort of sack?’
‘The plastic kind they give you for your dustbin. A black one. She picked it up and stuck it over her shoulder and ran off.’
‘I think that’s quite enough for now,’ said the nurse, diverging slightly from Wexford’s text.
He got up. It was an extraordinary picture Budd’s story had created and one which appealed to his imagination. The dark wet night, the knife flashing purposefully, even frenziedly, the girl running off into the rain with a sack slung over her shoulder. It was like an illustration in a fairy book of Andrew Lang, elusive, sinister and otherworldly.
6
What had Burden meant when he said this amniocentesis had discovered something to worry Jenny? Wexford found himself brooding on that. Once or twice he had woken in the night and the question had come into his mind. Sitting in the car, being driven to Myringham, he saw a woman on the pavement with a Down’s Syndrome child and the question was back, presenting itself again.
He hadn’t liked to pursue it with Burden. This wasn’t the sort of thing you asked a prospective father about. What small defect was there a father wouldn’t mind about but a mother would? It was grotesque, ridiculous, there was nothing. Any defect would be a tragedy. His mind ranged over partial deafness, a heart murmur, palate or lip deformities—the test couldn’t have shown those anyway. An extra chromosome? This was an area where he found himself floundering in ignorance. He thought of his own children, perfect, always healthy, giving him no trouble really, and his heart warmed towards his girls.
This reminded him that he had the National Theatre’s programme brochure for the summer season in his pocket. Sheila was with the company and this would be the first season she had top lead roles. Hence the disengagement from further work on Runway. He got out the programme and looked at it. Dora had asked him to decide which days they should go to London and see the three productions Sheila was in. For obvious reasons it always had to be he who made those kind of decisions.
The new Stoppard, Ibsen’s Little Eyolf, Shelley’s The Cenci. Wexford had heard of Little Eyolf but he had never seen it or read it, and as for The Cenci, he had to confess to himself that he hadn’t known Shelley had written any plays. But there it was: ‘Percy Bysshe Shelley’ and the piece described as a tragedy in five acts. Wexford was making tentative marks on the programme for a Friday in July and two Saturdays in August when Donaldson, his driver, drew into the kerb outside Sevensmith Harding.
Miles Gardner had been watching for him and came rushing out with an umbrella. It made Wexford feel like royalty. They splashed across the pavement to the mahogany doors.
Kenneth Risby, the chief accountant, told him Rodney Williams’s salary had been paid into the account Williams had with the Pomfret branch of the Anglian-Victoria Bank. From that account then, it would seem, Williams had each month transferred 500 pounds into the joint account he had with Joy. Risby had been with the company for fifteen years and said he could recall no other arrangement being made for Williams, either recently or in the
Similar Books
