“And the eldest son, Niven? What of him?”
“Oh, I’ve hardly met him,” she said casually. “Gosh, it’s hot in here, isn’t it?” she said, fanning herself with her hand.
“Is it? I run rather cold myself, I’m afraid,” he said, without irony. “And the Amethyst, the engine that drives the machinery of empire?”
The Amethyst defied description, she said, or at least it defied being summed up in one word. “Exuberant,” if she must find one, she said. Frobisher questioned the word, it seemed too complimentary. The Amethyst was the only club she had experienced as a guest, she said （“at your behest, I should remind you”）， and that had afforded her a quite different perspective. “Fun—you know?” she said. （He didn’t, in her view, clearly.）
“A man was shot,” Frobisher reminded her. “Not much fun for him.”
“Fun up until that point, then,” she conceded. “Have you asked around the hospitals? Did you find him? Aldo?”
“No, but these gangs often have a doctor on their payroll. One that’s been struck off usually. And what of Nellie Coker? Have you had a hint of anything yet that might put her back in Holloway where she belongs?”
“Sorry, nothing. But I shall persist. You, in turn, of course, must continue to look for Freda and Florence.” That had been their agreement, she said. Frobisher objected that he had no memory of any such agreement, and she said, “You must have a terrible memory, then.” So not flattery but coercion.
“You haven’t eaten your half of the bun,” she said. “May I have it?”
* * *
—
“And what about the girls?” he asked.
“The dance hostesses? They seem happy enough, certainly the ones who work in the Crystal Cup are. Nice girls, no funny business that I’ve seen. They’re paid quite well, but really they’re working for tips, which are substantial.”
“And what about you, Miss Kelling, are you working for tips?” Frobisher asked, watching her polish off the Chelsea bun.
“No,” she said. “I’m working for you. Remember?”
“Again, my memory seems to be at fault. You give every impression of working for yourself.”
* * *
—
Frobisher couldn’t help but compare Gwendolen’s energy to Lottie’s lassitude. As usual, his wife had remained in bed this morning when he got up. What did she do after he had left the house for work? Did she stay in bed all day, only getting up just before he returned home at night? Once or twice, she had still been in her nightclothes when he came in the door. He had not commented. He had searched the house looking for syringes and dope, but had found none. He knew that didn’t mean there weren’t any. Lottie, he had learnt over the years, was more than capable of subterfuge.
He sighed and Gwendolen said, “Inspector? Is something wrong?”
“Not at all, Miss Kelling.”
“Gwendolen,” she reminded him.
“Gwendolen,” Frobisher echoed with some hesitation. Her name lingered awkwardly on his tongue, but she didn’t seem to notice. He had equivocated long enough, he thought. What did Shakespeare say? Screw your courage to the sticking place. But it was Lady Macbeth who said that, wasn’t it? And she was hardly a woman you should take advice from about the fairer sex.
He sighed again, took a deep breath and said, “Gwendolen?”
“Yes, Inspector?”
He persisted with difficulty. “I have something to ask you.”
“Ask away, Inspector. I am all ears.”
“I would like to extend an invitation to you.”
“Extend away,” she said.
He told her of his recent purchase of a motor car and asked if she would like to go on an outing with him.
“Absolutely,” she said.
“You will?”
“Of course. Were you expecting me to say no?”
“I suppose I was. When would be convenient?”
“Well, today’s my day off, or perhaps I should say night off. I won’t have another one for a week. But, of course, you can hardly play truant from your work at such short notice.”
He hesitated before saying, “My truancy won’t be a problem.” And then, “Carpe diem, Miss Kelling!”
“Gwendolen.”
“Gwendolen!”
He had sparkled. At last.
* * *
—
When they departed Paddington, he told her to go first and said he would follow separately.