reminded me again of a hospital or some monastic cell. The bathroom, too, was severely plain with no special luxury fitting and no array of cosmetics. The kitchen was bare, spotlessly clean, and well equipped with labour-saving devices of a practical kind. Then we came to a door which Clemency opened, saying: ‘This is my husband’s special room.’
‘Come in,’ said Roger. ‘Come in.’
I drew a faint breath of relief. Something in the spotless austerity elsewhere had been getting me down. This was an intensely personal room. There was a large roll-top desk untidily covered with papers, old pipes, and tobacco ash. There were big shabby easy-chairs. Persian rugs covered the floor. On the walls were groups, their photography somewhat faded. School groups, cricket groups, military groups. Water-colour sketches of deserts and minarets, and of sailing-boats and sea effects and sunsets. It was, somehow, a pleasant room, the room of a lovable, friendly, companionable man.
Roger, clumsily, was pouring out[73] drinks from a tantalus[74], sweeping books and papers off one of the chairs.
‘Place is in a mess. I was turning out. Clearing up old papers. Say when.’ The inspector declined a drink. I accepted. ‘You must forgive me just now,’ went on Roger. He brought my drink over to me, turning his head to speak to Taverner as he did so. ‘My feelings ran away with me.’
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