The School of English Murder

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Authors: Ruth Dudley Edwards
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me.’
    ‘Foreign Office, actually. Loved the parties and all that. Afraid I got dumped for not taking all the backroom stuff seriously enough. So here I am ready and waiting to be your right-hand man. Game for anything, as they say,’ and both of them broke into a ‘har . . har . . har’ in chorus. Amiss fancied that Rich’s was a trifle forced.
    ‘Good Lord, is that the time? I must rush. She’s an awful tartar if she’s kept waiting. Let me know tomorrow, yah?’ And Amiss rushed from the room and the house calling loudly for a taxi.
    Although Amiss still refused to let Rachel buy him a ticket to Paris, he had put up only a token fight to stop her funding their calls. The phone was ringing as he got through the door, and he took great pleasure in bragging about his démarche .
    ‘I never knew you had it in you,’ said Rachel.
    ‘Neither did I. Haven’t gone in for amateur theatricals since primary school.’
    ‘How did you work up the characterisation?’
    ‘Played it as a cross between Prince Andrew and one of the new breed of Tory MPs.’
    ‘Pretty sudden swing from vilifying Mrs Thatcher to poor old Ned.’
    ‘I hope it’s equally effective. Hard to tell. Anyway, if the worst comes to the worst, I’ve enjoyed it.’
    ‘What’s that gobbling sound?’
    ‘I’m eating fish and chips.’
    ‘Well, if the BPs live up to their reputation, it’ll presumably be quails’ eggs and champagne from now on.’
    ‘I should bloody well think so. Now, have I told you lately that I love you?’
    And they fell to discussing matters of more pressing interest.

----
    10
    « ^ »
    It worked. When Amiss came in the following morning, Rich was waiting for him. ‘Enjoy the opera?’
    ‘Awful. Walked out at half-time. Remind me never to go to modern English stuff again. Give me the Eyeties every time.’
    ‘When do you finish today, Bob?’
    ‘After the night-shift supposedly.’
    ‘Well, I’ll ask Jenn to take that class for you. Why don’t you join us tonight? Some of us are going out on the town. Dinner, dancing. It’ll be black tie. Meeting up at the champagne bar round the corner at eight. Hope you’ll have more fun than you did with your mater.’ They guffawed heartily.
    ‘And the rest of the week?’
    ‘We’ll talk about that tomorrow. Let’s see how you get on tonight.’
    ‘What’s your collar size?’
    ‘Fifteen.’
    ‘Excellent. Yes, I can let you have a dress shirt. Come round at six. In fact you’d better come again in the next few days and choose at leisure from my wardrobe. I’ve got a lot of stuff I rarely wear that should be perfect for squiring contessas. There was a stage when my mother used to take me shopping every time she came to town.’ There was a pause and Amiss heard Pooley say, ‘Yes, sir. Immediately, sir.’
    He replaced the receiver.
    At seven, just as Rich had retied his bow for the fifth time, the telephone rang and he had another of those arguments. ‘No,’ he said firmly, ‘I don’t know why you can’t accept what I’m telling you.’
    ‘But the offer that I am making to you is excellent.’
    ‘I know that, Sven, but it remains out of the question. My partner will not tolerate it.’
    ‘I think that you are losing a great opportunity. There is much money and tiny risk.’
    ‘I know that, but he is quite adamant. I’m sorry, but there is nothing I can do. Goodbye.’
    It was midnight and Rich was in expansive form. Sophie, Galina, Ingrid, Davina, Fabrice and Marcello seemed to be having a whale of a time. Amiss was working furiously to charm the whole pestilential brood while avoiding up-staging his boss. He seemed to be succeeding. He had managed to make a virtue out of his inability to dance: there were squeals and giggles as the women tried in turn to teach him and his exaggerated helplessness underlined the prowess on the floor of Rich and Fabrice, both of whom could have made a living at it.
    If nothing else, he was beginning to understand the

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