beautiful voice. He is truly an artist.’
Staffe reaches down the side of a Regency framed couch and hefts a large stack of loose papers. ‘The play?’ he says, reading the title page: A Russian Doll.
‘It will be performed soon,’ says Tatiana, pride writ large across her face.
‘As yet unfinished.’
‘Sing for us all, Maurice,’ says Tatiana.
Everybody looks at Maurice, awaiting his excuse, but without hesitation, he places a hand on his heart, sings a refrain from ‘Tears Dry on Their Own’. Staffe and Josie look at each other as the words soar and swoon. In the sepia, fading study of this Victorian room, surrounded by musty leather volumes of Byron and Brooke, Staffe thinks for a moment that anything is possible. Maurice’s voice shimmers to a close.
‘I love you, Maurice,’ says Tatiana, flopping down onto the threadbare divan settee and clapping her hands.
‘Very nice, Maurice, but I don’t think you’re signed with CBS or EMI, are you? So, you’re going to have to tell us where your money comes from,’ says Staffe.
‘If that is the law, it’s a strange one. I think I will not comply.’
‘Because you have something to hide.’
‘I have my privacy to maintain. That is all.’ He gazes at Tatiana and she leans all the way back on the divan, her little skirt ruching up in her lap, legs slightly apart.
Staffe spots two tulip-shaped shot glasses in a glass-fronted secretaire. He turns an evidence bag inside out, using it as a mitten to pick up the glasses, but the moment he lifts them, he realises they are no help to him. They leave two perfectly clear circles in the dust of the shelf, have clearly been there, unused, for several months, if not years. ‘Jacobo has some of these,’ says Staffe, riffing with what he thinks might be the truth. ‘They are from Murano. I think Carmelo must have given them to all his favourite people. Your Jacobo must be one of them.’
‘ My Jacobo?’
‘Tell me about Jacobo, Maurice. He is missing, too. His wife is afraid.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Her spirit is broken, Maurice. She’s a lonely old lady. Have a heart.’
‘He has a heart,’ says Tatiana, standing. She wraps her arms around him and they kiss, long and deep, leaving Staffe and Josie to look at each other, nonplussed – there being no law against it. When she is done‚ Tatiana says‚ ‘A good heart.’
*
Rimmer takes a sip of his pint and asks the landlord of the Crooked Billet if Attilio frequents the place.
‘Lord Snooty? Nah.’
Attilio wasn’t at Ockingham Manor earlier, when Rimmer had finished taking the statements. Typically, Staffe doesn’t fancy Attilio for this. He never fancies the obvious, which gives Rimmer a position to adopt. ‘Will you join me?’
It is quiet, the pub, and the landlord says, ‘No harm, while we’re quiet. I’m Rodney.’ He thrusts his hand at Rimmer and they shake.
Rodney pretty much fills the whole of the space behind the bar and he rests his foot up on a keg of Old Rosie cider, pulls off a half for himself.
‘Powerful stuff,’ says Rimmer, recognising the drinker’s glint too well. ‘I know it of old.’ He mimes the tightening of a noose around a hanged man’s neck. They both laugh, and idly chitchat, but all the time, Rimmer is thinking about how Pennington said he wanted Rimmer’s intuition brought to bear. Pennington had tapped the side of his nose when he said ‘intuition’: ‘Like your old man, hey?’
He gets Rodney another half of Old Rosie , says, ‘Bloody awful business, though – at the Manor.’
‘You a journalist?’
Rimmer proudly pulls the lapel of his jacket to one side, revealing his warrant card.
‘The real deal,’ says Rodney, clearly impressed, and he refuses the money for the round. ‘You know, her last husband, Lord Dominic, was a real gentleman. And handsome? He could knock ’em for six. Mind you—’
‘Yes?’
‘I can’t say.’
‘You’d be amazed how the smallest detail can
Staffe reaches down the side of a Regency framed couch and hefts a large stack of loose papers. ‘The play?’ he says, reading the title page: A Russian Doll.
‘It will be performed soon,’ says Tatiana, pride writ large across her face.
‘As yet unfinished.’
‘Sing for us all, Maurice,’ says Tatiana.
Everybody looks at Maurice, awaiting his excuse, but without hesitation, he places a hand on his heart, sings a refrain from ‘Tears Dry on Their Own’. Staffe and Josie look at each other as the words soar and swoon. In the sepia, fading study of this Victorian room, surrounded by musty leather volumes of Byron and Brooke, Staffe thinks for a moment that anything is possible. Maurice’s voice shimmers to a close.
‘I love you, Maurice,’ says Tatiana, flopping down onto the threadbare divan settee and clapping her hands.
‘Very nice, Maurice, but I don’t think you’re signed with CBS or EMI, are you? So, you’re going to have to tell us where your money comes from,’ says Staffe.
‘If that is the law, it’s a strange one. I think I will not comply.’
‘Because you have something to hide.’
‘I have my privacy to maintain. That is all.’ He gazes at Tatiana and she leans all the way back on the divan, her little skirt ruching up in her lap, legs slightly apart.
Staffe spots two tulip-shaped shot glasses in a glass-fronted secretaire. He turns an evidence bag inside out, using it as a mitten to pick up the glasses, but the moment he lifts them, he realises they are no help to him. They leave two perfectly clear circles in the dust of the shelf, have clearly been there, unused, for several months, if not years. ‘Jacobo has some of these,’ says Staffe, riffing with what he thinks might be the truth. ‘They are from Murano. I think Carmelo must have given them to all his favourite people. Your Jacobo must be one of them.’
‘ My Jacobo?’
‘Tell me about Jacobo, Maurice. He is missing, too. His wife is afraid.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Her spirit is broken, Maurice. She’s a lonely old lady. Have a heart.’
‘He has a heart,’ says Tatiana, standing. She wraps her arms around him and they kiss, long and deep, leaving Staffe and Josie to look at each other, nonplussed – there being no law against it. When she is done‚ Tatiana says‚ ‘A good heart.’
*
Rimmer takes a sip of his pint and asks the landlord of the Crooked Billet if Attilio frequents the place.
‘Lord Snooty? Nah.’
Attilio wasn’t at Ockingham Manor earlier, when Rimmer had finished taking the statements. Typically, Staffe doesn’t fancy Attilio for this. He never fancies the obvious, which gives Rimmer a position to adopt. ‘Will you join me?’
It is quiet, the pub, and the landlord says, ‘No harm, while we’re quiet. I’m Rodney.’ He thrusts his hand at Rimmer and they shake.
Rodney pretty much fills the whole of the space behind the bar and he rests his foot up on a keg of Old Rosie cider, pulls off a half for himself.
‘Powerful stuff,’ says Rimmer, recognising the drinker’s glint too well. ‘I know it of old.’ He mimes the tightening of a noose around a hanged man’s neck. They both laugh, and idly chitchat, but all the time, Rimmer is thinking about how Pennington said he wanted Rimmer’s intuition brought to bear. Pennington had tapped the side of his nose when he said ‘intuition’: ‘Like your old man, hey?’
He gets Rodney another half of Old Rosie , says, ‘Bloody awful business, though – at the Manor.’
‘You a journalist?’
Rimmer proudly pulls the lapel of his jacket to one side, revealing his warrant card.
‘The real deal,’ says Rodney, clearly impressed, and he refuses the money for the round. ‘You know, her last husband, Lord Dominic, was a real gentleman. And handsome? He could knock ’em for six. Mind you—’
‘Yes?’
‘I can’t say.’
‘You’d be amazed how the smallest detail can
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