The Complete Short Stories

by Muriel Spark

  Sir Sullivan said, ‘Which of those tables did George Forrester occupy?’

  ‘The third on the right under the window if I’m not mistaken. And poor Mrs Crathie’s was the next table to his, second on the right. Of course, we hold receptions, and so on. We use the supplementary dining-room.’

  ‘The table by the window looks delightful,’ said Sir Sullivan with an air of decided nonchalance. ‘Nice outlook.’

  The proprietor, somewhat puzzled that the old Judge would actually prefer to sir in the murderer’s chair, nevertheless made haste to assure the Judge that that particular table was not occupied by permanent pensionnaires at that moment.

  So Sir Sullivan Stanley made an agreeable arrangement with the hotel and moved in the following Monday. He came down to dinner at quarter to eight to find the dining-room three-quarters full and some of the diners already nearing the end of the meal.

  A middle-aged woman with a long neck sat at the table next to his. She had reached the coffee stage.

  ‘Good evening,’ said the Justice.

  She responded with a kind of extra warmth, as if she approved of this gentleman, it being somewhat of a lottery who one got at the next table.

  The waiter brought Sir Sullivan’s soup.

  The Justice turned to his neighbour, ‘Are you by any chance,’ he said, ‘Mrs Crathie?’

  ‘No, my name is Mrs Morton. Do I resemble a friend of yours?’

  ‘No — no friend. Just a person.

  Sir Sullivan felt happy in her company. There was a small fire at the end of the dining-room. Cosy. He thought of the schoolgirls who had been playing tennis outside, so encouraging to look at. He thought then of Mary Spike, his part-time mistress of so many years ago, and remembered how one afternoon when he had failed to come up to scratch she had cruelly laughed at him. ‘What an antique pendant you’ve got there. Talk about hanging judge! You’re the hanging judge!’

  Justice Stanley, seated at the late George Forrester’s table, where the man had once sat wearing that bright brown Harris tweed coat, looked at and partook of his mulligatawny soup. Then he looked across at Mrs Morton with the greatest surprise — transfixed in a dreamy joy, as if he had seen a welcome ghost.

  Mrs Morton sipped her coffee and looked at him.