poured me one with a steady hand. “I want to thank you,” he said in a low voice,” for handling the press.”
“I was glad to.”
“I’m afraid I wasn’t in any shape to talk to them. Were they pretty bad?”
I wondered what he meant by that, what he wanted to know. I shook my head. “Just routine questions.”
“I hope there wasn’t any talk of … of suicide.” He looked at me sharply.
“No, it wasn’t mentioned. They accepted the fact it was an accident.” I paused: then I decided to let him in on Miss Lung’s dereliction.
He nodded grimly when I told him what she’d said to the police. “I already know,” he said quietly. “They asked me about it and I told them I sincerely doubted Mildred had any intention of killing herself. It’s not a very sensible way, is it? Drowning in front of a half-dozen people, several of whom are good swimmers.” I was surprised at his coolness.If he was upset by her death, he certainly didn’t show it. A little chilled, I joined the others by the fireplace.
Dinner was not gala. Because Brexton was with us we didn’t know quite what to talk about. Everybody was thinking about the same thing yet it would’ve been bad form to talk about Mildred in front of her husband; he of course was the most relaxed of the lot.
It was interesting to note how the different guests reacted to the situation.
Mary Western Lung was deliberately cheery, full of “Book-Chat,” discussing at some length a visit she’d once paid Francine Karpin Lock, another noted penwoman, in the latter’s New Orleans’ house. “The spirit of graciousness. And her table! Ah, what viands she offers the humblest guest!” This was followed by a close new-critical analysis of her works as compared to those of another great authoress, Taylor Caldwell. I gathered they were neck and neck, artistically speaking, that is.
Mrs. Veering spoke of the Hamptons, of local gossip, of who was leaving her husband for what other man: the sort of thing which, next to children and servant troubles, most occupies the conversation of Easthamptoners.
Fletcher Claypoole said not a word; he was pale and intense and I could see his sister was anxious. She watched him intently all through dinner and though she and I and Brexton carried on a triangular conversation about painting, her attention was uneasily focused on her brother.
Out of deference to the situation, Mrs. Veering decided against bridge though why I’ll never know. I should’ve thought any diversion would have been better than this glum company. I began to study the clock over the mantel. I decided that at exactly ten o’clock I’d excuse myself; go upstairs; change, sneak back down and walk the half mile to the Club and Liz and a night of sexual bliss as Marie C. Stopes would say.
My sexual bliss was postponed, however, by the rude arrival of the police.
The butler, quite shaken, ushered a sloppy small man, a detective Greaves, and two plain-clothes men into the drawing room.
Consternation would be a mild word to describe the effect they made.
“Mrs. Veering?” Greaves looked at Miss Lung.
“I am Rose Clayton Veering,” said herself, rising shakily from an armchair and crossing the room with marvelous control: I’d counted her drinks that evening: she was not only loaded but primed.
“I’m detective Greaves, ma’am. Bureau of Criminal Investigation.”
Miss Lung squeaked disconcertingly; it sounded like a mouse and startled us all. I glanced at Brexton and saw him shut his eyes with resignation.
“Pray, follow me in here, Mr. Graves.”
“Greaves.” He followed her into the alcove; his two men withdrew to the hall. The guests, myself included, sat in a stunned circle. No one said anything. Claypoole poured himself a drink. Miss Lung looked as though she were strangling. Allie watched her brother as usual and Brexton remained motionless in his chair, his face without expression, his eyes shut.
From the alcove there was a murmur
“I was glad to.”
“I’m afraid I wasn’t in any shape to talk to them. Were they pretty bad?”
I wondered what he meant by that, what he wanted to know. I shook my head. “Just routine questions.”
“I hope there wasn’t any talk of … of suicide.” He looked at me sharply.
“No, it wasn’t mentioned. They accepted the fact it was an accident.” I paused: then I decided to let him in on Miss Lung’s dereliction.
He nodded grimly when I told him what she’d said to the police. “I already know,” he said quietly. “They asked me about it and I told them I sincerely doubted Mildred had any intention of killing herself. It’s not a very sensible way, is it? Drowning in front of a half-dozen people, several of whom are good swimmers.” I was surprised at his coolness.If he was upset by her death, he certainly didn’t show it. A little chilled, I joined the others by the fireplace.
Dinner was not gala. Because Brexton was with us we didn’t know quite what to talk about. Everybody was thinking about the same thing yet it would’ve been bad form to talk about Mildred in front of her husband; he of course was the most relaxed of the lot.
It was interesting to note how the different guests reacted to the situation.
Mary Western Lung was deliberately cheery, full of “Book-Chat,” discussing at some length a visit she’d once paid Francine Karpin Lock, another noted penwoman, in the latter’s New Orleans’ house. “The spirit of graciousness. And her table! Ah, what viands she offers the humblest guest!” This was followed by a close new-critical analysis of her works as compared to those of another great authoress, Taylor Caldwell. I gathered they were neck and neck, artistically speaking, that is.
Mrs. Veering spoke of the Hamptons, of local gossip, of who was leaving her husband for what other man: the sort of thing which, next to children and servant troubles, most occupies the conversation of Easthamptoners.
Fletcher Claypoole said not a word; he was pale and intense and I could see his sister was anxious. She watched him intently all through dinner and though she and I and Brexton carried on a triangular conversation about painting, her attention was uneasily focused on her brother.
Out of deference to the situation, Mrs. Veering decided against bridge though why I’ll never know. I should’ve thought any diversion would have been better than this glum company. I began to study the clock over the mantel. I decided that at exactly ten o’clock I’d excuse myself; go upstairs; change, sneak back down and walk the half mile to the Club and Liz and a night of sexual bliss as Marie C. Stopes would say.
My sexual bliss was postponed, however, by the rude arrival of the police.
The butler, quite shaken, ushered a sloppy small man, a detective Greaves, and two plain-clothes men into the drawing room.
Consternation would be a mild word to describe the effect they made.
“Mrs. Veering?” Greaves looked at Miss Lung.
“I am Rose Clayton Veering,” said herself, rising shakily from an armchair and crossing the room with marvelous control: I’d counted her drinks that evening: she was not only loaded but primed.
“I’m detective Greaves, ma’am. Bureau of Criminal Investigation.”
Miss Lung squeaked disconcertingly; it sounded like a mouse and startled us all. I glanced at Brexton and saw him shut his eyes with resignation.
“Pray, follow me in here, Mr. Graves.”
“Greaves.” He followed her into the alcove; his two men withdrew to the hall. The guests, myself included, sat in a stunned circle. No one said anything. Claypoole poured himself a drink. Miss Lung looked as though she were strangling. Allie watched her brother as usual and Brexton remained motionless in his chair, his face without expression, his eyes shut.
From the alcove there was a murmur
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