with Bethuen. He has definite opinions where the Irish are concerned.’
And unfortunately, none of them were good. Nicholas sighed and reached for the newspaper before the door was completely shut. With some distaste he delicately lifted a blob of rough-cut marmalade from it with the blade of his knife and flicked it at the portrait of his mother, which hung over the fireplace. It landed somewhere on the former countess’s scarlet gown, where it blended perfectly.
Turning to the page where the felon was featured, he chuckled. On consideration, far from being exposed by this poor likeness, Nicholas should feel insulted, since it was nothing like him.
Amused, he began to compose a letter to
The
Times
, drawing himself up to his full height and spitting out in a pompous manner:
Sirs,
Since when has
The
Times
indulged in such sensationalist journalism as to present a totally fictitious account of the supposed burglar? The sketch of said villain, which was presented as an eyewitness description, is so poor a likeness it is laughable to the extreme. It can only be compared to a caricature devised by the devious brain of the current editor of
Punch
, the excellent Edmund Knox.
Sirs, you are liars! Far from being the low, ape-like type of lout depicted on page two, observation in the bathroom mirror allows the felon to give you a more accurate and objective description. Handsome? Most definitely. His eyes are blue, his teeth straight and he stands at just over six feet – a prime specimen of British manhood in fact. As for the nose, it has never collided with the fist of a would-be pugilist, and its roman ancestors would abhor the very notion of insult being afforded to such a noble work of genetic nostrology.
Your faithful servant,
The right honourable. Anonymous.
Of course, he wouldn’t write a letter, or even send it, he thought, sinking into his chair and folding the paper into precise crossword-and-clues working mode. But the publicity
did
make it difficult to get rid of the accumulated loot.
The thought came again. He could hand it back to the owners. That would present a greater challenge than stealing it in the first place, since they would all have changed their locks. His almost photographic memory gave him an instant recall of what had been gathered from whom.
He could always use the post office for delivery. In fact he could be his own post office. He smiled to himself as the idea took hold . . . after all it was almost April Fools’ Day.
A maid came into the room and began to busy herself with the dishes on the buffet. She was square and solid, a middle-aged spinster with nobody to care for except her employer’s family.
Where did she go for her annual fortnight’s holiday? he wondered. Did she take the train down to Bournemouth to spend her time in a genteel, but dull hotel? There, she’d sit at a table for one in a conservatory that impersonated a dining room. It would have potted palms instead of curtains to give it a tropical look, and beach sand gritting the threadbare carpet. Would she hire a striped deckchair for tuppence, and breathe in enough sea air to last her another fifty weeks while she dreamed of retirement and read an Agatha Christie novel from behind a pair of sinister-looking smoked glasses?
The scrape of his knife against his plate brought the maid whirling round and she nearly dropped the dish she was holding. ‘Oh . . . I beg your pardon, sir. I didn’t see you when I came in. I’ll return later.’
He felt a sudden surge of pity for her. He had no intention of putting the routine of the household out so he could indulge in a few more flights of fantasy. ‘There’s no need, Anna. I’ll have another cup of coffee to drink while I’m doing the crossword. If I move to the fireside you can get on with whatever you want to do. Pass my compliments to the cook, if you would. My bacon and eggs were exactly as I like them.’
Her face turned pink with pleasure. ‘It’s the
And unfortunately, none of them were good. Nicholas sighed and reached for the newspaper before the door was completely shut. With some distaste he delicately lifted a blob of rough-cut marmalade from it with the blade of his knife and flicked it at the portrait of his mother, which hung over the fireplace. It landed somewhere on the former countess’s scarlet gown, where it blended perfectly.
Turning to the page where the felon was featured, he chuckled. On consideration, far from being exposed by this poor likeness, Nicholas should feel insulted, since it was nothing like him.
Amused, he began to compose a letter to
The
Times
, drawing himself up to his full height and spitting out in a pompous manner:
Sirs,
Since when has
The
Times
indulged in such sensationalist journalism as to present a totally fictitious account of the supposed burglar? The sketch of said villain, which was presented as an eyewitness description, is so poor a likeness it is laughable to the extreme. It can only be compared to a caricature devised by the devious brain of the current editor of
Punch
, the excellent Edmund Knox.
Sirs, you are liars! Far from being the low, ape-like type of lout depicted on page two, observation in the bathroom mirror allows the felon to give you a more accurate and objective description. Handsome? Most definitely. His eyes are blue, his teeth straight and he stands at just over six feet – a prime specimen of British manhood in fact. As for the nose, it has never collided with the fist of a would-be pugilist, and its roman ancestors would abhor the very notion of insult being afforded to such a noble work of genetic nostrology.
Your faithful servant,
The right honourable. Anonymous.
Of course, he wouldn’t write a letter, or even send it, he thought, sinking into his chair and folding the paper into precise crossword-and-clues working mode. But the publicity
did
make it difficult to get rid of the accumulated loot.
The thought came again. He could hand it back to the owners. That would present a greater challenge than stealing it in the first place, since they would all have changed their locks. His almost photographic memory gave him an instant recall of what had been gathered from whom.
He could always use the post office for delivery. In fact he could be his own post office. He smiled to himself as the idea took hold . . . after all it was almost April Fools’ Day.
A maid came into the room and began to busy herself with the dishes on the buffet. She was square and solid, a middle-aged spinster with nobody to care for except her employer’s family.
Where did she go for her annual fortnight’s holiday? he wondered. Did she take the train down to Bournemouth to spend her time in a genteel, but dull hotel? There, she’d sit at a table for one in a conservatory that impersonated a dining room. It would have potted palms instead of curtains to give it a tropical look, and beach sand gritting the threadbare carpet. Would she hire a striped deckchair for tuppence, and breathe in enough sea air to last her another fifty weeks while she dreamed of retirement and read an Agatha Christie novel from behind a pair of sinister-looking smoked glasses?
The scrape of his knife against his plate brought the maid whirling round and she nearly dropped the dish she was holding. ‘Oh . . . I beg your pardon, sir. I didn’t see you when I came in. I’ll return later.’
He felt a sudden surge of pity for her. He had no intention of putting the routine of the household out so he could indulge in a few more flights of fantasy. ‘There’s no need, Anna. I’ll have another cup of coffee to drink while I’m doing the crossword. If I move to the fireside you can get on with whatever you want to do. Pass my compliments to the cook, if you would. My bacon and eggs were exactly as I like them.’
Her face turned pink with pleasure. ‘It’s the
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