But I didn’t, of course. I am not a barbarian.
Once the dance was over, Nell blew kisses to the crowd and, reclaiming her clothes, exited the stage, reappearing shortly thereafter in her school uniform to mingle. Her gaze found me and her face lit up.
“Rupert,” she cried, cantering to me on her clear stilettos and planting a kiss upon my forehead. “Did you see my dance?”
“Indeed I did. I didn’t know you were a dancer.”
“I took ballet lessons as a child and I’ve been attending dancercise classes at the gym for years, but I never thought about exotic dancing until I found your membership card in your wallet. I rang the club, and they auditioned me the next day.”
“You went through my wallet?” said I, a little miffed.
“I was looking for the key to the handcuffs.”
“Oh, I see.”
“I knew you wouldn’t mind,” she said, pouting. “After all, you are a member.”
“Well…” I began.
“Everybody’s been so kind,” she continued. “I’ve made six hundred pounds in the last week, and some of the girls make even more. And of course, working evenings, I’ll have time to study to become a mortician.”
“Yes, well…”
Before I could voice an objection, we were joined by Clara, Urban-Smith’s liaison from the previous month. She was clad in only the scantest of undergarments, and I admired her shapely form and all-hearing apple tattoo.
Clara slipped her arm around Nell’s waist. “Hiya, Nell. Who’s your friend?”
“This is my boyfriend, Rupert. Rupert, this is Clara. She’s been showing me the ropes.”
“Are we still on for tonight?” asked Clara, rubbing Nell’s thigh through her skirt.
“Of course,” giggled Nell. “This bum isn’t going to spank itself.”
Clara winked at me and sashayed back towards the stage.
“Isn’t she adorable?” Nell sighed. “She’s going to show me some new dance moves when our shift is finished.”
Nell threw her arms about my neck and gave me a lingering kiss. Her lips tasted of cherries and baby oil. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I have to get back to work, but call me tomorrow, okay?”
“Okay,” I muttered huffily as she tottered away. “I suppose I’ll just have to sit on my own face then.”
As I watched Nell entertain the other club members, sitting on laps and pecking on cheeks, I suddenly felt weary, so I finished my drink and quietly vacated the premises, arriving back at number sixteen, Chuffnell Mews at a quarter to twelve.
Urban-Smith was drinking coffee in the kitchen. “What-ho, Rupert.” He raised an eyebrow. “It’s a little early. Something on your mind?”
“I am perturbed.” I explained my unscheduled meeting with Nell at The Blue Belvoir.
“How do you feel about it?”
“Conflicted.” I pulled out a chair and took a seat at the table. “I know that I should feel possessive and jealous, but I don’t. When I saw Nell on stage, I felt protective and nervous but also excited and impressed. Though I must say,” I added with a sigh, “I was a little put out that she chose to go home with Clara instead of me.”
“Clara, eh? She’s in for a treat.”
I rubbed my eyes wearily. “I don’t know how comfortable I feel about this turn of events. Should I voice my concerns, or just keep a stiff upper?”
Urban-Smith nodded sympathetically. “It is obvious that she has not yet developed a taste for monogamy.”
“We’ve never really discussed furniture.”
“Not mahogany, Rupert; monogamy.”
“Oh. I see.”
Urban-Smith set aside his beverage and wagged his finger at me. “As soon as I met her, I knew that Nell was a force of nature, a free spirit. She will run where she chooses, and you must run alongside her or lose her.”
“But how do I decide?” I protested.
“I suggest that you sleep on it, Rupert. Go to work, spend the day amongst the cold and the dead, then come back here and decide whether you would rather continue to sleep alone.”
“Or sit on my own face,” I muttered, with not a little resentment.
Urban-Smith’s expression softened. “Come now, Rupert. Things can’t be all that bad. What of the fifty thousand pounds from the Colonel? Why not treat yourself to a motor car? Perhaps something small and economical; not unlike your good self.”
“Rather than something gangly and irritating; not unlike your good self,” I responded.
“Ha!” Urban-Smith roared with laughter and I could not help but join in.
Maybe it was the tension of the last few weeks venting itself, but the pair of us guffawed and gibbered like loons, stirring Mrs Denford to such an extent that the poor woman was driven to hammer upon her bedroom floor until we desisted.
◆◆◆
27. URBAN-SMITH RECEIVES AN INTRIGUING TELEPHONE CALL
Though blustery and wet, the start of the year 2007 was uncharacteristically temperate. I had elected to take a week’s break from my duties at the London Metropolitan Forensic Pathology Unit, and this particular afternoon found me in the living room of number sixteen, Chuffnell Mews, catching up on some private reading. I was supine upon the sofa, perusing the British Amateur Journal of Female Anatomy when Urban-Smith entered, clutching his mobile telephone.
“I have just received the most intriguing telephone call,” said he.
◆◆◆
Urban-Smith will return in, 'the werewolf of wottenham wood.'
Laugh Out Dead Page 21
