Coral Glynn

by Peter Cameron

  “I had it brought back from Egypt. It’s fifth century B.C., used for ritual human sacrifices. Poor blokes were lashed to it and buggered to death.”

  “Really?” was all she could find to say.

  “Course not,” said Robin, laughing. “For decorative purposes only, I assure you.”

  “Of course,” Coral said, oddly relieved.

  * * *

  The interior of Eustacia Villa was an odd warren of many little rooms, all of them crowded with furniture, objets d’art, ferns in cauldrons, and assorted bric-a-brac. Many of the rooms had mirrors on several walls, which lent them a dizzying fun-house effect. And they all seemed to be on slightly different levels as well. Dolly and a trio of Pekingese, who had been introduced in the entry hall as Yin, Yang, and Mabel, led them through several of these rooms, all of which appeared to be some variation of sitting room, although what differentiated one from the next, except for steps and arched doorways, was a mystery. Dolly stopped abruptly in one room that claustrophobically contained two sofas and a grand piano. The sofas faced one another, and into the little space between, a low gold-painted rattan table was jammed, and on this table was a tray of canapés that looked as though they might have been waiting there for a very long time. A drinks cart was pushed up against the piano. The room was apparently deep within the interior of the house, for it had no windows, only a door at either of two ends and mirrors above both sofas.

  Dolly and the dogs claimed one of the sofas. The Major indicated the facing sofa to Coral and then sat down beside her. Robin stood beside the drinks cart and rubbed his hands together.

  “What would you like, Coral?” Dolly said. “Robin can mix you a cocktail if you fancy one. He’s quite good at it.”

  “Oh,” said Coral. “Nothing for me, thank you.”

  “A Nothing? That must be a new one,” said Robin. “Never heard of it before.” He turned to his wife. “What was that one we all liked so much with the crème de menthe, darling?”

  “A Grasshopper!”

  “That’s right. You’re sure to like it, Coral. You’ll have one, darling, won’t you?”

  “Course I will,” said Dolly. “I’ll have two!”

  “And you, old man? Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

  “Just a whiskey, please,” said the Major.

  “Oh, don’t be such a chappy chap, Clement! Make us all Grasshoppers, darling!” said Dolly.

  Robin busied himself at the little drinks cart. Dolly fed each of the dogs one of the canapés and then held the tray out towards her guests. “I’m practically positive it’s anchovy paste,” she said, “but the label’s come off the tube.” Coral and the Major both took a canapé. The Major chucked his into his mouth and appeared to swallow it whole. Coral held hers delicately between her thumb and forefinger. She tried to find a place to set it down, but the table beside her was crowded with an odd community of porcelain figurines ranging from Nubian princes to Tyrolean goatherds, so she placed it on the opened palm of her other hand and held it on her lap. Perhaps she could feed it to one of the dogs when no one was looking.

  Robin handed the drinks around and lifted his in the air. “To the happy couple,” he said, “Coral and Clement.”

  “Coral and Clement!” echoed Dolly. “Oh, it’s scrumptious, darling—like melted ice cream!”

  Robin pushed the dogs off the sofa and sat beside his wife. He helped himself to a canapé and offered the tray across the table. The Major took one and disposed of it as abruptly as he had his first. Coral indicated the canapé in her palm by way of refusal.

  Dolly took another sip of her drink and snuggled back into the sofa. She wore a little pale-green moustache. “Now you must tell us all about yourself, Coral. You must tell us everything.”

  But Coral could not think of a single thing to say. “It’s very kind of you to ask us to dinner,” she finally managed.

  “Well, I am sure we will be the dearest of friends,” said Dolly, “so you must tell us all about yourself.”

  “I can’t think of what to say,” said Coral. “There isn’t much to tell.” She turned to the Major, as if he might know the story of her life better than she, but he was staring with fixated horror at his Grasshopper.

  “Nonsense!” said Dolly. “I’m sure there’s oodles and oodles! How long have you been nursing? And what’s your middle name and what’s your favourite colour and where are you from?”

  “Two years,” said Coral, electing to answer only the first question.

  “And where you’re from?”

  “Coral is from the South,” said the Major, as if it were important to keep her place of origin obscure.

  “Oh,” said Robin, “whereabouts?”

  “Huddlesford,” said Coral.

  “Huddlesford! That’s hardly the South!” shouted Dolly.

  “It’s south of here,” the Major declared.

  But Dorothy was nonplussed. “And your family? Are they all in Huddlesford?”

  “My parents were born in Huddlesford,” said Coral. “But they are dead.”

  “Both of them!” exclaimed Dolly. “I’m so sorry. I’ve still got my mother. And sister, too, for that matter.”

  “Coral had a brother as well,” explained the Major. “But he was killed in the war.”

  “So you’ve no family at all?” Dolly appeared to find this possibility thrilling.

  “An aunt,” said Coral. “But I haven’t seen her in years.”

  “Well, we shall be your family now.” Dolly leant across the low table and reached with both her hands to grasp Coral’s, but as Coral had not yet succeeded in feeding the canapé to one of the dogs, and still held it covertly in her left hand, she could only half return the affectionate gesture.

  * * *

  At the same time that Coral and Clement were visiting the Loftings, Mrs Prence was entertaining a visitor of her own. The bell at Hart House had rung not long after the taxi had collected Major Hart for his dinner engagement. Visitors at Hart House were rare, and so it was with both trepidation and curiosity that Mrs Prence climbed the stairs and answered the door. A man in a mackintosh and a Bavarian hat stood on the terrace, looking up at the jackdaws having their final panicked flight across the darkening sky. He turned towards the door after a second and said, “Ah—I am Inspector Hoke. I believe you must be Mary Prence. Or are you perhaps Miss Coral Glynn?”

  “I am Mrs Prence,” said Mrs Prence, who had long ago abandoned her Christian name.

  “Good evening, Mrs Prence. I know that visitors at this time of day are a terrible inconvenience, but I wonder if I might have a word with Major Hart?”

  “He is not at home at the moment,” said Mrs Prence.

  “Really? I thought I would be sure to find him here. Where is he?”

  “He is out,” said Mrs Prence.

  “I see,” said Inspector Hoke. “Well, in that case, I wonder if Miss Glynn is available?”

  “The nurse—Miss Glynn—is no longer here. Are you the police?”

  “Yes,” said Inspector Hoke, “in fact I am. Or a representative thereof. I wonder, Mrs Prence, if I might talk with you for just a moment.”

  “Talk about what?”

  “A little girl was killed in the Sap Green Forest recently, not at all far from here. Have you heard anything about it?”

  “Only what’s been in the newspaper,” said Mrs Prence. “It’s a horrible thing.”

  “It is. Just as you say: a horrible thing. And since Hart House is so near to the woods, it would help me very much to talk to you, just for a moment or two. May I come in?”

  Mrs Prence hesitated. The jackdaws had quit the sky and it was almost dark. It was dark inside the house, too: she had hurried upstairs from the kitchen when she heard the bell and had opened the door without turning on any of the lamps.

  “Pardon me, but have you got a badge or something? You could be anyone, couldn’t you?”

  “Of course, of course,” said the Inspector. “How very wise of
you to be so cautious. I should have shown it to you immediately. Here is my identification.” He pulled a wallet from a pocket inside his coat and opened it to reveal his identification. “I have aged a bit since this photograph was taken, but I believe a likeness remains.”

  He chuckled, but Mrs Prence did not seem amused. By way of reply, she stepped back and opened the door wider. The Inspector entered the dark house and said, “Where were you when the lights went out?”

  “Pardon?” Mrs Prence closed the door.

  “I was only attempting to be humorous. The dusk comes so suddenly, doesn’t it? How I long for our lingering summer evenings. They are one of the few benefits of inhabiting a northern clime.”

  “I couldn’t say,” said Mrs Prence, having lost the train of Inspector Hoke’s thoughts.

  “Is there someplace we might sit for a moment? I should just like to ask you a few very simple questions.”

  Mrs Prence could not imagine entertaining the Inspector in either the drawing room or the library, so she suggested he follow her down into the kitchen, where she invited him to have a seat at the table.

  “My mother always said that the kitchen was the heart of the home,” said the Inspector. “Would you agree, Mrs Prence?”

  “I couldn’t say,” said Mrs Prence, since the phrase was ready.

  “Well, it is a very cosy sanctuary you have here,” said Inspector Hoke.

  “Would you like some tea?” Mrs Prence asked.

  “Some tea might be very nice indeed, if it is not too much trouble.”

  “It is no trouble at all,” said Mrs Prence, and lit the flame beneath the kettle.

  “Very cosy indeed,” said the Inspector.

  Mrs Prence opened a cabinet and dropped two iced buns thunkingly upon a plate. Then she waited for the kettle to boil and filled the teapot, and when this little repast was prepared, she carried it to the table upon a tray. “Have a bun,” she said, “if you’d like. Currant.” She sat and filled a cup with tea and slid it across the table. Then she filled another for herself.

  “Is my hunger so apparent?”

  Mrs Prence was about to resort to her now standard line but stopped herself and said, “I think a bun is always nice.”

  “A truer word was never spoken.” If the Inspector believed this, he did not act according to his principles, for he ignored the buns. He spooned sugar into his tea and then dribbled it with milk. “Now, about this horrible business in the forest. I wonder, Mrs Prence, if you have seen anyone in the area in recent weeks?”

  “I stay out of the forest,” said Mrs Prence. “There’s nothing in there that interests me.”

  “I see,” said Inspector Hoke. “What about around the house, or on the road? Any strangers lurking about?”

  “Not that I’ve seen,” said Mrs Prence. “Except for Miss Glynn, of course. The nurse.”

  “But she is not a stranger. You have seen no one else? The little girl herself, perhaps?”

  “I’ve seen nothing,” said Mrs Prence. “I’m too busy in the house to be gazing out the windows. There was a stray dog hanging about a while ago, but I didn’t feed it, so it’s gone. It’s always a mistake to feed wild creatures—it upsets them.” She nodded her head at the plate of buns that sat on the table between them. “If you think they’re nasty store-bought buns, they’re not. I baked them myself.”

  “Did you?”

  “Yes. I don’t believe in buying what you can make yourself. People have gotten too good for themselves.”

  “I’m sure there is something in what you say,” said Inspector Hoke.

  Mrs Prence moved the plate with the buns closer to him and kept her hand on it, making it clear she would not release it until he had taken one of the buns. He selected the smaller one and tried to place it upon his saucer, but it was too large to fit. He brought it to his mouth and took a bite, which took him a moment to process successfully. “Delicious,” he said when he had finally swallowed and was able to fit the now reduced bun upon the saucer.

  “Miss Glynn walks in the woods,” said Mrs Prence. “She’s very keen on it.”

  “Is she?” asked the Inspector. “Perhaps she has seen something, then. I’ll have to have a word with her.”

  “She’s staying at the Swan,” said Mrs Prence. “They’re getting married, you know.”

  “Yes,” said the Inspector, “I had heard something about that.”

  “It’s all rather odd, if you ask me,” said Mrs Prence.

  “Odd? In what way?”

  “She’s odd. There’s something not right about her, if you ask me. And why are they getting married? I’d like to know. Major Hart’s never been interested in that kind of business. I suppose it’s because he’s lost his mother and feels alone. Thinks he needs someone to take care of him. But he’s in for a nasty surprise, I’ve no doubt.”

  “Oh, really? What sort of surprise?”

  “That girl is as likely to take care of him as she is to skin a rabbit. She’ll take care of his money, perhaps, but not him.”

  “It seems that you have a low opinion of Miss Glynn.”

  “I have no opinion of her whatsoever,” said Mrs Prence. “I just know what I see.”

  “And what have you seen?”

  “It’s not so much what I’ve seen as the feeling I’ve got. You only have to look at her to know she isn’t to be trusted.”

  “Did she not take good care of Mrs Hart?”

  “If you call killing your patient good care, then I suppose she did.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean what I said, although perhaps I shouldn’t have said it.”

  “You think Miss Glynn killed Mrs Hart?”

  “All I know is that she’s fine in the morning and Miss Glynn disappears for an afternoon and before you can say Jack Sprat, Mrs Hart is dead.”

  “I was under the impression that Mrs Hart was very ill.”

  “Ill, yes, but dead’s something else entirely! And who’s to stop her from doing the same to Major Hart? Marry him first and kill him just the same as his mother, and who’ll be sitting pretty then? I’ll be afraid for my own life when she comes back here.”

  “Why? She has nothing to gain from you.”

  “Nothing but peace of mind. She knows I don’t like her. I knew what she was up to from the start, and made things difficult. The night Mrs Hart died, she gave me a look that froze my blood. And I wonder now—now that you come asking these questions—what she was doing in the woods? Walking, she said, but in those nasty dark woods in all sorts of horrible weather? I think somehow that poor little girl must be tied in to it all. Perhaps she saw something—the little girl, I mean—or Miss Glynn told her something. People talk to children so freely, and regret it. They think they’re not listening, don’t understand, but they are. They do. They’ve got minds like traps, children. Perhaps you think this is all nonsense, but you asked me what I think, so I’ve told you.”

  “On the contrary,” said the Inspector. “You seem to have given this a great deal of thought, Mrs Prence, and your mind seems quite keen.”

  “Well, I only know what I see, which is what I said. There can be no harm in telling the truth.”

  “Did you ever see Miss Glynn talk to the little girl?”

  “Not exactly,” said Mrs Prence. “Not with my own eyes.”

  “Does Major Hart walk in the woods?”

  “Goodness, no. He’s lame, you know. He can walk all right for a bit, but not to go traipsing through the woods. Not like her. Like an explorer, she was.”

  “Do you plan to stay on here, Mrs Prence, when Miss Glynn returns as Mrs Hart?”

  “I don’t know. I really don’t know. I’m thinking I might go live with my sister in Hovenden, but there’s some bad feeling between us, so it might be unwise. So I shall probably stay, for as long as I am wanted. I know Major Hart wants me to, he said as much directly to me—you’ll always have a home here, Mary, he said. But Miss Glynn is a different kettle of fish.”


  “But you have no plans to leave immediately, do you?”

  “No,” said Mrs Prence. “I’m debating it all, I suppose you could say. I’ve been here a very long time, and I always thought I’d take care of the Major after Mrs Hart died—because, as I said, he never seemed to be the marrying kind—but it appears as though I was wrong about that. Or perhaps he’s wrong about it, I don’t know.”

  “Wrong about what?”

  “Marrying. She’s made him think somehow he’s the marrying kind. Are you married, Inspector Hoke?”

  “I am not, Mrs Prence. I suppose I am not the marrying kind, either.”

  “Well, there’s no knowing these things,” said Mrs Prence.

  “And you, Mrs Prence—are you married?”

  “I am a widow,” said Mrs Prence. “My husband died in the first war. I was married young, and widowed young.”

  “I’m very sad to hear it,” said Inspector Hoke.

  “His name was Arthur Gordon Prence. I had a child as well. She died in her infancy.”

  “How very sad. I’m very sorry for you.”

  “Her name was June,” said Mrs Prence. “It is hard to remember these things. It has been a long time, but it is still hard.”

  “Indeed it is,” said Inspector Hoke.

  “You might think it would get easier, or that you’d forget, but you don’t. At least, I do not.” Mrs Prence reached out and felt the teapot. “Would you like more tea, Inspector? It is still warm.”

  “No, thank you,” said the Inspector. “But I wonder if I might ask you for something else?”

  “What?”

  “To do something for me. What you have told me about Miss Glynn is most interesting, and I would like to know more about her. I wonder if I could trouble you to befriend her, and then she might tell you more, perhaps even confide in you.”

  “She will think it odd if I act friendly all of a sudden,” said Mrs Prence. “She knows that I do not like her. I have made it plain.”

  “I don’t mean anything unnatural or extraordinary,” said the Inspector. “Nothing that would seem false to her. Just a bit of simple kindness, which, as she is all alone here, would mean a great deal to her. She could very well be desperate for someone to confide in. If she is, indeed, guilty of any wrongdoing.”