Heroically, he had carried Edith downstairs—there was a strange awkwardness to her shape, it was like carrying a small camel or a giraffe. On Nellie’s instructions he carried her through to the mews garage where the Bentley （and Hawker） lived. The bleary-eyed chauffeur was woken and helped to shuffle Edith into the back of the Bentley, Niven’s car having been deemed unsuitable by Nellie, for which Niven was thankful as Edith began to vomit extravagantly. Nellie dismissed him and she alone accompanied Edith on her journey to the hospital in Kensington. It was a place where Nellie knew that, for a high price, medical skill was almost as important as discretion.
* * *
—
Shirley had brought a box of Turkish Delight for the invalid, but now, as Edith was clearly not going to be eating Turkish Delight for some time to come, if ever again, she placed the fancy box on the bedspread on top of Edith’s immobile legs and they all helped themselves.
Nellie, more practical, had brought a cashmere shawl and a box of French lavender soaps.
“Should have brought some knitting,” Shirley said.
“You don’t know how to knit.”
“Chance to learn.”
“So, Ma,” Betty said, “that woman…”
“Gwendolen,” Kitty said.
“Yes,” Nellie said. “Miss Gwendolen Kelling. She’s going to be helping me out.”
“Helping you out?” a startled Betty asked. “Helping you out how?”
“She’s going to run the Crystal Cup for me.”
“What?”
Betty and Shirley spluttered their protests; even the torpid Edith seemed to moan a quiet objection.
“Well, I think it’s a good idea,” Kitty said.
“Shut up,” Betty said fiercely. “You know nothing.”
“We don’t need anyone else,” Shirley said to Nellie. “You have us. Betty and I can run the Cup.”
“She’s not family,” Betty added. “In fact, she’s a complete stranger to us. She might be a Trojan horse, for all we know.”
“What’s that?” Kitty asked. She was intending to own a string of Arabian racehorses one day. Like the Aga Khan. She had met him when he came to the Amethyst. He had given her a liquorice chew and was thus in her good books for ever. You didn’t expect someone like the Aga Khan to be carrying liquorice chews in his pocket.
“You’re such an ignoramus, Kitty,” Betty said.
“Am not!” Kitty protested, under the misapprehension that an ignoramus and a hippopotamus were close relatives.
“It’s deception,” Shirley said. “It’s getting inside the walls of the enemy under false pretences and then destroying everything within. For all we know, Gwendolen Kelling could be working for the police. A spy.”
“Frobisher,” Betty said and gave a little shiver. “That man is as cold as a dead cod. She could be his minion, sent to destroy us all.”
“The Fall of the House of Coker,” Shirley said.
“What? Don’t be so dramatic, all of you,” Nellie said brusquely. “She’s a librarian.”
“A what?”
Nellie stoutly ignored this chorus of dismay.
Out in the corridor someone began to walk up and down, ringing a handbell to signal the end of the visiting hour. “Send not to know for whom the bell tolls,” Shirley said. Sometimes her education was glimpsed. Edith twitched in her sleep and murmured something indecipherable.
“Oh, look, Edith’s back from the dead,” Kitty said.
Pastoral
Frobisher arrived early at Bow Street to take stock for the coming week. He was so early, in fact, that the night shift was still on duty, the amiable desk sergeant winding up the night’s activities.
“Here’s one for you, Chief Inspector,” he said, obviously highly amused.
“And what would that be, Sergeant?”
“Part of the night’s haul—a drowned Pierrot!”
“A what?” Frobisher thought he had said “parrot” （the man had a slight speech impediment）。 It made him think of the unfinished parrots on Lottie’s tapestry.
“Pierrot,” the sergeant said, enunciating more carefully. “You know—end-of-the-pier performers.”
“Yes, I know what a Pierrot is, thank you, Sergeant. Where is he? Here?”
“No, still in the Dead Man’s Hole.” （Not again, Frobisher thought.） “Didn’t drown though, sir.”
“You just said that he did, Sergeant.”