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Authors: Ruth Rendell
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a sulky flounce.
Teal stared out at the cemetery, his head slightly on one side. ‘I’m badly hung-up about it, aren’t I? Shall I tell you a joke? It’s quite proper, though you might not think so from the way it starts.’ He turned his pale grey insolent eyes full on Wexford’s face. ‘Three men, an Englishman, a Frenchman and a Russian. Each tells the others what gives him the greatest pleasure. The Englishman says cricket on the village green on a fine Saturday afternoon in June. A bowl of bouillabaisse made by une vraie Marseillaise , says the Frenchman. It is night, says the Russian, I am in my flat. There comes a knock at my door, the secret police are outside, soft hats, raincoats concealing guns. And my greatest pleasure comes when they ask for Ivan Ivanovitch and I can tell them that Ivan Ivanovitch lives next door.’
Wexford laughed.
‘But you see, my friend, I wasn’t able to say that, for Ivan lived here. And on two occasions I had to go with them.’ His voice changed and he said lightly. ‘Now my pleasure is to have policemen in for coffee. You know, one advantage the straight has over the gay is that he has a woman in the house and women are better at chores. That boy’s hopeless. Make yourself at home while I go and rescue him.’
The bookshelves contained Proust, Gide and Wilde, as he might have expected, and a lot more he didn’t expect. If Teal had read all these books Teal was well read. He reached for a calf-bound volume and, as he did so, its owner’s voice said at his elbow:
‘John Addington Symonds? Isn’t he rather old-hat? Poor fellow. Swinburne called him Mr Soddington Symonds, you know.’
‘I didn’t know,’ said Wexford, laughing, ‘and I don’t want Symonds. I see you’ve Robinson’s translation of Utopia .’
‘Borrow it.’ Teal took the book down and handed it to Wexford. ‘Do you take cream with your coffee? No? My friend has retired to the bedroom. I think he’s afraid I’m going to make all sorts of revelations to you.’
‘I hope you are, Mr Teal, though not of a kindthat would embarrass Mr Chell. I want you to talk to me about Loveday Morgan.’
Teal placed himself on the window-seat, restingone arm along the sill. Sitting down, Wexford couldn’t see the cemetery. Teal’s face, one of those polished brown faces, both youthless and ageless, was framed against the milky sky. ‘I knew her only very slightly,’ he said. ‘She was a strange repressed child. She had that look about her of a person who had been brought up by strict old-fashioned parents. Once or twice on Sunday mornings I saw her gooff to church, go creeping off as if she were doing something both wrong and irresistible.’
‘To church ?’ Suddenly he remembered the Bible. It had been hers then, after all.
‘Why not?’ exclaimed Teal, his voice loud and impatient. ‘Some people still go to church even in these enlightened times.’
‘Which church?’
‘That one up at the end of the street, of course. I wouldn’t have known she was going to church if she’d been trotting off to St Paul’s, would I?’
‘You needn’t get so heated,’ Wexford said mildly. ‘Is that place C of E? No, I shouldn’t think so.’
‘They call themselves the Children of the Revelation. They’re rather like Exclusives or Plymouth Brethren. There’s this chapel – temple, they call it – and another one up north somewhere and one in South London. Surely you as a policeman remember the fuss a year or two back when one of their ministers was up in court for some sort of indecency. Poor sod. It was in all the papers.’ He added reflectively, ‘It always is.’
‘Was Loveday a – er, Child of the Revelations?’
‘Hardly. She worked in a television shop, and to them television, newspapers and films are synonymous with sin. She probably went there because it was the nearest church and she wanted some comfort. I never discussed it with her.’
‘What did you discuss with her, Mr
Teal stared out at the cemetery, his head slightly on one side. ‘I’m badly hung-up about it, aren’t I? Shall I tell you a joke? It’s quite proper, though you might not think so from the way it starts.’ He turned his pale grey insolent eyes full on Wexford’s face. ‘Three men, an Englishman, a Frenchman and a Russian. Each tells the others what gives him the greatest pleasure. The Englishman says cricket on the village green on a fine Saturday afternoon in June. A bowl of bouillabaisse made by une vraie Marseillaise , says the Frenchman. It is night, says the Russian, I am in my flat. There comes a knock at my door, the secret police are outside, soft hats, raincoats concealing guns. And my greatest pleasure comes when they ask for Ivan Ivanovitch and I can tell them that Ivan Ivanovitch lives next door.’
Wexford laughed.
‘But you see, my friend, I wasn’t able to say that, for Ivan lived here. And on two occasions I had to go with them.’ His voice changed and he said lightly. ‘Now my pleasure is to have policemen in for coffee. You know, one advantage the straight has over the gay is that he has a woman in the house and women are better at chores. That boy’s hopeless. Make yourself at home while I go and rescue him.’
The bookshelves contained Proust, Gide and Wilde, as he might have expected, and a lot more he didn’t expect. If Teal had read all these books Teal was well read. He reached for a calf-bound volume and, as he did so, its owner’s voice said at his elbow:
‘John Addington Symonds? Isn’t he rather old-hat? Poor fellow. Swinburne called him Mr Soddington Symonds, you know.’
‘I didn’t know,’ said Wexford, laughing, ‘and I don’t want Symonds. I see you’ve Robinson’s translation of Utopia .’
‘Borrow it.’ Teal took the book down and handed it to Wexford. ‘Do you take cream with your coffee? No? My friend has retired to the bedroom. I think he’s afraid I’m going to make all sorts of revelations to you.’
‘I hope you are, Mr Teal, though not of a kindthat would embarrass Mr Chell. I want you to talk to me about Loveday Morgan.’
Teal placed himself on the window-seat, restingone arm along the sill. Sitting down, Wexford couldn’t see the cemetery. Teal’s face, one of those polished brown faces, both youthless and ageless, was framed against the milky sky. ‘I knew her only very slightly,’ he said. ‘She was a strange repressed child. She had that look about her of a person who had been brought up by strict old-fashioned parents. Once or twice on Sunday mornings I saw her gooff to church, go creeping off as if she were doing something both wrong and irresistible.’
‘To church ?’ Suddenly he remembered the Bible. It had been hers then, after all.
‘Why not?’ exclaimed Teal, his voice loud and impatient. ‘Some people still go to church even in these enlightened times.’
‘Which church?’
‘That one up at the end of the street, of course. I wouldn’t have known she was going to church if she’d been trotting off to St Paul’s, would I?’
‘You needn’t get so heated,’ Wexford said mildly. ‘Is that place C of E? No, I shouldn’t think so.’
‘They call themselves the Children of the Revelation. They’re rather like Exclusives or Plymouth Brethren. There’s this chapel – temple, they call it – and another one up north somewhere and one in South London. Surely you as a policeman remember the fuss a year or two back when one of their ministers was up in court for some sort of indecency. Poor sod. It was in all the papers.’ He added reflectively, ‘It always is.’
‘Was Loveday a – er, Child of the Revelations?’
‘Hardly. She worked in a television shop, and to them television, newspapers and films are synonymous with sin. She probably went there because it was the nearest church and she wanted some comfort. I never discussed it with her.’
‘What did you discuss with her, Mr
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