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Authors: Christianna Brand
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He added: “I’ll give you a note to your superiors.”
“I did right to come, sir?” said Chucky, evidently playing for time while he thought up reasons for prolonging his stay.
“Yes, yes, perfectly right,” said Carlyon. Tinka could see that he was growing weary of the attentions of Inspector Chucky. He said to her: “Would you like this man to take a note into Swansea for you? You might have a few things sent up from your hotel; you oughtn’t to risk that ankle going down the mountain-path at least till tomorrow.”
If she had known that Chucky was going, leaving her there all alone, she might have funked staying on. But it was too late now. Anyway, she thought, they shall know that if anything happens to me there’ll be enquiries. She could not address Mr. Chucky outright in his role as policeman, but she, also, would give him a note to his “superiors,” would give him, quite openly, a letter addressed to the police. She went back to the dining-room table and was provided with writing paper. A few lines to the manageress of her gloomy hotel explaining her plight and requesting a few things from her room; and then the letter to the police. She was suspicious of the people at Penderyn, she wrote, rapidly scribbling. There had been a girl there who seemed to have disappeared. Would they please listen to Mr. Chucky’s story and confirm details at the offices of Girls Together . She was remaining there to find out more—if she did not communicate with them within three days they would know that something had happened to her. Her fingers shook as she licked down the envelope. Letters in hand, she limped out into the hall.
Carlyon was sitting at his desk in the other room, writing, the lovely cat posed like a statue beside him, only now and again putting out a plush paw to dab at the moving pen. She held out the letters to him, the one to the police on top. “I’ll give them to Chucky,” he said. “He and Miss Evans are having a cup of tea before they go off.” He went out with the letters. The Siamese cat dabbed softly again at the bright green fountain pen.
Amista had told her about the cat. Its name was Tybalt. “… Tybalt, Good King of Cats—it’s out of Romeo and Juliet : Carlyon knows all about those things, he told me about it and now I’ve read it. …” The pen slid down the desk with the cat pouncing after it, and she shot out a hand to prevent its rolling to the floor. The first words of Carlyon’s letter caught her eye. She snatched it up and read what was written there.
“The Superintendent, Swansea Police. Your man Chucky will report to you. He has done a good job. He can tell you about this young woman who has arrived here out of nowhere, calling herself nothing more original than Miss Jones, and making what look rather like deliberate excuses for remaining here. On the whole we think she is probably only a journalist from some feminine magazine, wanting romantic copy about the scenery and I want ho action taken at present. But please note that this situation exists, in case I should have trouble.” It was signed “Carlyon” in inverted commas: apparently he used the single name as some sort of pseudonym, and, equally apparently, the police accepted the fact.
She remained standing by the desk when Carlyon came in. “I was just reading your letter to the police.”
He came across swiftly and whipped it up off the desk. But he merely said, stiffly: “I don’t think you can complain.”
“Especially as I’ve just written one too.”
“That’s what I meant,” said Carlyon. He gave a little, rather rueful laugh. “We are a trustful couple—aren’t we, Miss Jones?”
“Speaking for myself,” said Tinka, “I don’t know the meaning of the word.”
“I don’t know that it’s anything we need be proud of,” he said, almost reproachfully. She felt a little ashamed. I suppose he’d like me to be a clinging Victorian miss, she thought resentfully; all vapours and
“I did right to come, sir?” said Chucky, evidently playing for time while he thought up reasons for prolonging his stay.
“Yes, yes, perfectly right,” said Carlyon. Tinka could see that he was growing weary of the attentions of Inspector Chucky. He said to her: “Would you like this man to take a note into Swansea for you? You might have a few things sent up from your hotel; you oughtn’t to risk that ankle going down the mountain-path at least till tomorrow.”
If she had known that Chucky was going, leaving her there all alone, she might have funked staying on. But it was too late now. Anyway, she thought, they shall know that if anything happens to me there’ll be enquiries. She could not address Mr. Chucky outright in his role as policeman, but she, also, would give him a note to his “superiors,” would give him, quite openly, a letter addressed to the police. She went back to the dining-room table and was provided with writing paper. A few lines to the manageress of her gloomy hotel explaining her plight and requesting a few things from her room; and then the letter to the police. She was suspicious of the people at Penderyn, she wrote, rapidly scribbling. There had been a girl there who seemed to have disappeared. Would they please listen to Mr. Chucky’s story and confirm details at the offices of Girls Together . She was remaining there to find out more—if she did not communicate with them within three days they would know that something had happened to her. Her fingers shook as she licked down the envelope. Letters in hand, she limped out into the hall.
Carlyon was sitting at his desk in the other room, writing, the lovely cat posed like a statue beside him, only now and again putting out a plush paw to dab at the moving pen. She held out the letters to him, the one to the police on top. “I’ll give them to Chucky,” he said. “He and Miss Evans are having a cup of tea before they go off.” He went out with the letters. The Siamese cat dabbed softly again at the bright green fountain pen.
Amista had told her about the cat. Its name was Tybalt. “… Tybalt, Good King of Cats—it’s out of Romeo and Juliet : Carlyon knows all about those things, he told me about it and now I’ve read it. …” The pen slid down the desk with the cat pouncing after it, and she shot out a hand to prevent its rolling to the floor. The first words of Carlyon’s letter caught her eye. She snatched it up and read what was written there.
“The Superintendent, Swansea Police. Your man Chucky will report to you. He has done a good job. He can tell you about this young woman who has arrived here out of nowhere, calling herself nothing more original than Miss Jones, and making what look rather like deliberate excuses for remaining here. On the whole we think she is probably only a journalist from some feminine magazine, wanting romantic copy about the scenery and I want ho action taken at present. But please note that this situation exists, in case I should have trouble.” It was signed “Carlyon” in inverted commas: apparently he used the single name as some sort of pseudonym, and, equally apparently, the police accepted the fact.
She remained standing by the desk when Carlyon came in. “I was just reading your letter to the police.”
He came across swiftly and whipped it up off the desk. But he merely said, stiffly: “I don’t think you can complain.”
“Especially as I’ve just written one too.”
“That’s what I meant,” said Carlyon. He gave a little, rather rueful laugh. “We are a trustful couple—aren’t we, Miss Jones?”
“Speaking for myself,” said Tinka, “I don’t know the meaning of the word.”
“I don’t know that it’s anything we need be proud of,” he said, almost reproachfully. She felt a little ashamed. I suppose he’d like me to be a clinging Victorian miss, she thought resentfully; all vapours and
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