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Authors: Magdalen Nabb
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in a loud falsetto with the Italian receptionist. Her face was plaster white with powder and she wore an alice band and a long black cloak. Her hair was grey but it was impossible to guess her age.
'But I need these books for my work!' She pronounced it 'may wark'.
'Signora, six months! You have to come and renew them …'
'Who is she?' asked the Chief Inspector.
'Miss Iris Peece.'
'She doesn't seem to be too popular.'
'Oh, she's all right. Quite a nice old bag in many ways. She's a sort of writer …'
'What, novels, that sort of thing?'
'Well, that's the thing about Iris Peece … in fact … nobody knows. Whatever it is, she's been writing it for the last twenty-odd years, according to local legend. She spends her spare time giving absolutely gruesome little dinner-parties for anybody she thinks might be able to get her whatever-it-is published. They never can, of course. The chap they used to know in publishing has always either retired or died. The rest of the guests are the usual spongers whose private incomes aren't what they were since inflation.'
'Twenty-odd years …'
'At least. She even invited me once, when I first came out, but I don't know any publishers so I didn't get asked again.'
'Any chance she might have known Langley-Smythe?'
'No, I think he avoided the poor old bat.'
'What about the other members? Did he have any friends that you know of? Acquaintances even?'
'Nobody. Absolutely. Read the paper and took out science fiction books.'
'Well, if anything occurs to you, anything at all, concerning Mr Langley-Smythe, perhaps you'd give us a ring. We're at the English vicarage just round the corner—give him the phone number, will you, Jeffreys?' The Chief Inspector moved away, looking about him and listening in on the shrieking Miss Peece.
'I cannot be expected to interrupt may wark to come round here every other day!'
'Once a month, Signora, once a month …'
'Here you are.' Jeffreys copied the number on to a scrap of paper. The young man seemed ill at ease. 'Is there something wrong?'
'Mm … well … yes, in fact … his library books.'
'What?'
'Well, he must have had two out, he always did. I'm responsible for them … mm …' The pink fingers were working nervously, 'The thing is, we close tomorrow for Christmas …'
'I see. Well, the Italian police are in charge but I'll see if I can get them for you. If I don't get a chance to drop them off here I'll leave them at the vicarage.' This didn't seem to suit him. 'You never go there?'
'Absolutely not! All those ridiculous old bags with their homemade cakes … you'd think it was an English village, you wonder why they live here.'
'Why do you?'
'Live here? Well … I have a friend … Actually, I'm doing some writing; a monograph on an almost unknown Tuscan painter. I've been working on it for some time … I might develop it into something bigger …'
'You'll be looking for a publisher yourself, then.'
'Mmm … Very possibly I'll meet someone here …'
'You don't find it … depressing?' Even the new books piled on the table were beginning to bend in response to the damp. 'I mean, your customers all seem to be a bit … strange.'
The young man looked away, clenching and unclenching his thin fingers. 'I suppose so … yes. But then,' he added tolerantly, 'I'm quite strange myself …'
'Are you ready, Inspector Jeffreys?'
'Quite ready, sir.' They walked out briskly and went downstairs to the street.
'Depressing sort of place,' remarked the Chief Inspector.
'Yes, sir, very.' Inspector Jeffreys thought he could smell the mould on his mackintosh. 'We ought to be getting along to the Carabinieri place. We'd best get a taxi. What about a coffee in that bar opposite the Christmas trees? I could phone for one from there.'
'Good idea.'
A woman with a tiny child in a woolly red hat was looking at the largest trees. The child's jumping and shouting, coupled with the warmth of the bar with its Christmas decorations and smells of fresh
'But I need these books for my work!' She pronounced it 'may wark'.
'Signora, six months! You have to come and renew them …'
'Who is she?' asked the Chief Inspector.
'Miss Iris Peece.'
'She doesn't seem to be too popular.'
'Oh, she's all right. Quite a nice old bag in many ways. She's a sort of writer …'
'What, novels, that sort of thing?'
'Well, that's the thing about Iris Peece … in fact … nobody knows. Whatever it is, she's been writing it for the last twenty-odd years, according to local legend. She spends her spare time giving absolutely gruesome little dinner-parties for anybody she thinks might be able to get her whatever-it-is published. They never can, of course. The chap they used to know in publishing has always either retired or died. The rest of the guests are the usual spongers whose private incomes aren't what they were since inflation.'
'Twenty-odd years …'
'At least. She even invited me once, when I first came out, but I don't know any publishers so I didn't get asked again.'
'Any chance she might have known Langley-Smythe?'
'No, I think he avoided the poor old bat.'
'What about the other members? Did he have any friends that you know of? Acquaintances even?'
'Nobody. Absolutely. Read the paper and took out science fiction books.'
'Well, if anything occurs to you, anything at all, concerning Mr Langley-Smythe, perhaps you'd give us a ring. We're at the English vicarage just round the corner—give him the phone number, will you, Jeffreys?' The Chief Inspector moved away, looking about him and listening in on the shrieking Miss Peece.
'I cannot be expected to interrupt may wark to come round here every other day!'
'Once a month, Signora, once a month …'
'Here you are.' Jeffreys copied the number on to a scrap of paper. The young man seemed ill at ease. 'Is there something wrong?'
'Mm … well … yes, in fact … his library books.'
'What?'
'Well, he must have had two out, he always did. I'm responsible for them … mm …' The pink fingers were working nervously, 'The thing is, we close tomorrow for Christmas …'
'I see. Well, the Italian police are in charge but I'll see if I can get them for you. If I don't get a chance to drop them off here I'll leave them at the vicarage.' This didn't seem to suit him. 'You never go there?'
'Absolutely not! All those ridiculous old bags with their homemade cakes … you'd think it was an English village, you wonder why they live here.'
'Why do you?'
'Live here? Well … I have a friend … Actually, I'm doing some writing; a monograph on an almost unknown Tuscan painter. I've been working on it for some time … I might develop it into something bigger …'
'You'll be looking for a publisher yourself, then.'
'Mmm … Very possibly I'll meet someone here …'
'You don't find it … depressing?' Even the new books piled on the table were beginning to bend in response to the damp. 'I mean, your customers all seem to be a bit … strange.'
The young man looked away, clenching and unclenching his thin fingers. 'I suppose so … yes. But then,' he added tolerantly, 'I'm quite strange myself …'
'Are you ready, Inspector Jeffreys?'
'Quite ready, sir.' They walked out briskly and went downstairs to the street.
'Depressing sort of place,' remarked the Chief Inspector.
'Yes, sir, very.' Inspector Jeffreys thought he could smell the mould on his mackintosh. 'We ought to be getting along to the Carabinieri place. We'd best get a taxi. What about a coffee in that bar opposite the Christmas trees? I could phone for one from there.'
'Good idea.'
A woman with a tiny child in a woolly red hat was looking at the largest trees. The child's jumping and shouting, coupled with the warmth of the bar with its Christmas decorations and smells of fresh
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