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Authors: Ellis Peters
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better. They took some surprising, these days, but at least he could try.
‘Did you take your Vespa out earlier on Thursday afternoon? A trial run, maybe, if you’d been working on her? Say – round through Abbot’s Bale to the track at the back of the Hallowmount?’
If Miles didn’t know what it was all about now, at least he knew the appropriate role for himself. He had drawn down over his countenance the polite, wooden, patient face of the senior schoolboy. It fitted rather tightly these days, but he could still wear it. Ours not to reason why; they’re all mad, anyhow. Ours but to come up with: ‘Yes, sir!’ or: ‘No, sir!’ as required. The mask had an additional merit, or from Tom’s point of view an additional menace; from within its bland and innocent eye-holes you could watch very narrowly indeed without yourself giving anything away.
‘No, sir, I didn’t. I had her all ready the night before, there was no need to try her out.’
‘And you weren’t round there yesterday, either? Before you got home?’
‘No, sir.’
He waited, quite still but not now quite easy; he was too intelligent for that. And something subtle had happened to the mask; the young man – not even the young man-of-the-world – was looking through it very intently indeed. Tom got up from his chair and turned a shoulder on him, to be rid of the probing glance, but it followed him thoughtfully to the window.
‘I take it sir, I’m not allowed to ask why? Why I might have been there?’ The voice had changed, too, frankly abandoning the schoolboy monotone, and far too intent now to be bothered with the experimental graces of sophistication that were its natural sequel.
‘Let’s say, not encouraged. But if you’ve told me the truth, then in any case it doesn’t matter, does it? All right, thanks, Mallindine, that’s all.’
He kept his head turned away from the boy, watching the dubious sunlight of noon scintillating from the thread of river below the bridge. He waited for the door to open and close again. Miles had turned to move away, but nothing further happened.
After a moment the new voice asked, with deliberation and dignity: ‘May I ask one thing that does matter?’ No ‘sir’ this time, Tom noted; this was suddenly on a different level altogether.
‘If you must.’
‘Has anything happened to Annet?’
It hit him so hard that the shock showed, even from this oblique view. He felt the blood scald his cheeks, and knew it must be seen, and felt all too surely that it was not misunderstood. This boy was dangerous, he used words like explosives, only half-realising the force of the charge he put into them. Has anything happened to Annet! My God, if only we knew! But the simpler implication was what he wanted answered, and surely he was owed that, at least. Even if he was the partner of her defection, lying like a trooper by pre-arrangement, and sworn to persist in his lies, that appeal for reassurance might well be genuine enough, and deserved an answer.
‘I hope not,’ said Tom with careful mildness. ‘I certainly left her fit and well when I came out this morning.’
He had his face more or less under control by then, the blush had subsided, and he would not be surprised into renewing it. He turned and gave Miles a quizzical and knowing look, calculated to suggest benevolently that his preoccupation with Annet, in the light of history, was wholly understandable, but in this case inappropriate, not to say naïve. But the minute he met the levelled golden-brown eyes that were so like Eve’s, he knew that if anyone was involuntarily giving anything away in this encounter, it wasn’t Miles. He knew what he was saying, and he’d thought before he said it. Fobbing him off with an amused look and an indulgent smile wouldn’t do. Shutting the door he’d just gone to the trouble to open wasn’t going to do anyone any good.
Tom came back to his table, and sat down glumly on a corner of it. ‘You may as
‘Did you take your Vespa out earlier on Thursday afternoon? A trial run, maybe, if you’d been working on her? Say – round through Abbot’s Bale to the track at the back of the Hallowmount?’
If Miles didn’t know what it was all about now, at least he knew the appropriate role for himself. He had drawn down over his countenance the polite, wooden, patient face of the senior schoolboy. It fitted rather tightly these days, but he could still wear it. Ours not to reason why; they’re all mad, anyhow. Ours but to come up with: ‘Yes, sir!’ or: ‘No, sir!’ as required. The mask had an additional merit, or from Tom’s point of view an additional menace; from within its bland and innocent eye-holes you could watch very narrowly indeed without yourself giving anything away.
‘No, sir, I didn’t. I had her all ready the night before, there was no need to try her out.’
‘And you weren’t round there yesterday, either? Before you got home?’
‘No, sir.’
He waited, quite still but not now quite easy; he was too intelligent for that. And something subtle had happened to the mask; the young man – not even the young man-of-the-world – was looking through it very intently indeed. Tom got up from his chair and turned a shoulder on him, to be rid of the probing glance, but it followed him thoughtfully to the window.
‘I take it sir, I’m not allowed to ask why? Why I might have been there?’ The voice had changed, too, frankly abandoning the schoolboy monotone, and far too intent now to be bothered with the experimental graces of sophistication that were its natural sequel.
‘Let’s say, not encouraged. But if you’ve told me the truth, then in any case it doesn’t matter, does it? All right, thanks, Mallindine, that’s all.’
He kept his head turned away from the boy, watching the dubious sunlight of noon scintillating from the thread of river below the bridge. He waited for the door to open and close again. Miles had turned to move away, but nothing further happened.
After a moment the new voice asked, with deliberation and dignity: ‘May I ask one thing that does matter?’ No ‘sir’ this time, Tom noted; this was suddenly on a different level altogether.
‘If you must.’
‘Has anything happened to Annet?’
It hit him so hard that the shock showed, even from this oblique view. He felt the blood scald his cheeks, and knew it must be seen, and felt all too surely that it was not misunderstood. This boy was dangerous, he used words like explosives, only half-realising the force of the charge he put into them. Has anything happened to Annet! My God, if only we knew! But the simpler implication was what he wanted answered, and surely he was owed that, at least. Even if he was the partner of her defection, lying like a trooper by pre-arrangement, and sworn to persist in his lies, that appeal for reassurance might well be genuine enough, and deserved an answer.
‘I hope not,’ said Tom with careful mildness. ‘I certainly left her fit and well when I came out this morning.’
He had his face more or less under control by then, the blush had subsided, and he would not be surprised into renewing it. He turned and gave Miles a quizzical and knowing look, calculated to suggest benevolently that his preoccupation with Annet, in the light of history, was wholly understandable, but in this case inappropriate, not to say naïve. But the minute he met the levelled golden-brown eyes that were so like Eve’s, he knew that if anyone was involuntarily giving anything away in this encounter, it wasn’t Miles. He knew what he was saying, and he’d thought before he said it. Fobbing him off with an amused look and an indulgent smile wouldn’t do. Shutting the door he’d just gone to the trouble to open wasn’t going to do anyone any good.
Tom came back to his table, and sat down glumly on a corner of it. ‘You may as
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