Read Online Hand in Glove by Ngaio Marsh - Free Book Online Page B

remembered hearing rumours of some of Lady Bantling’s parties, felt relieved.
    “What I thought,” Andrew continued, “I’ll drop you wherever you live and you can nip into your Number One ceremonials and then I’ll pick up my dinner jacket. I have a car of sorts and we’ll dine somewhere and then we’ll drive down to Bayneshelme.”
    “What about the cocktail party you’re all dressed up for?”
    “Forget it, completely. Do come, Nicola. Will you?”
    “Thank you, Andrew. How sweet of your mum to ask me. I’d love to.”
    “Thank you, Nicola.”
    For the rest of the journey Andrew talked to Nicola about himself. He said he wanted to paint more than anything else in life and that he’d been having lessons and was “meant to be not too bad,” but bad or not he had to go on with it. He said that if he could take the Grantham Gallery over, there was a studio at the back where he could paint and manage the Gallery at the same time. Then he described his unproductive and bad-tempered meeting that morning with his guardian and stepfather, Mr. Cartell.
    “It was a snorter,” Andrew said thoughtfully. “He treated the whole thing as if it were a sort of adolescent whim. I’d brought down all the figures of the turnover and he wouldn’t look at them, damn him. I gave him the names of jolly good people who would supply an expert opinion, and he wouldn’t listen. All he would say was that my father wouldn’t have wanted me to resign my commission. What the hell,” Andrew shouted and then pulled himself up. “It’s not so much the practical side that infuriates me — I could, after all, I imagine, borrow the money and insure my life or whatever one does. It’s his bloody pontificating philistinism. What I believe I most resented,” he said, “was having to talk about my painting. I said things that are private to me and he came back at me with the sort of remarks that made them sound phony. Can you understand that?”
    “I think I can. And I suppose in the end you began to wonder if, after all, you were any good.”
    “You do understand, don’t you? Does everybody off-load their difficulties on you, or…No,” Andrew said, “I’d better not say that — yet. Thank you, anyway, for listening.”
    “Do you admire Agatha Troy’s painting?”
    He stared at her. “Well, of course. Why?”
    “I know her. She’s married to Roderick Alleyn in the C.I.D. I go there quite often. As a matter of fact, I’m paying them a visit tomorrow evening.”
    “What’s she like? I know what she looks like. Lovely bone. Kind of gallant. Is she alarming?”
    “Not at all. She’s rather shy. She’s jolly good about being interested in younger people’s work,” Nicola added. She hesitated and then said: “You may not care for the idea at all, but if you liked I could show her one of your things.”
    He turned very red and Nicola wondered if she had offended him.
    He said at last, “Do you know, I don’t think I’d dare.”
    “So Mr. Cartell really has downed you, I see.”
    “No, he hasn’t, you low-cunning girl.”
    “If you’d rather not I shan’t take umbrage. On the other hand I’ll be delighted if you say: ‘Thank you, Nicola. How sweet of you to ask me. I’d love to.’ ”
    Andrew grinned and for an appreciable interval was silent.
    “You win,” he said at last. “I’ll say that same small thing.”
    The rest of the journey passed quickly for both of them, and in London they followed the plan proposed by Andrew.
    At half past eight they were in his car on their way back into Kent. The night was warm for early April, the lights sailed past and there was a young moon in the sky. Nicola knew that she was beginning to fall in love.
    “I tell you what, Mrs. M.,” Alfred said as he prepared to set the dinner table. “The weather in this household has deteriorated and the forecast is for atmospheric disturbances followed by severe storms.”
    “Go on!” Mrs. Mitchell said eagerly.