them, only you’re so unprovocative they never know where they are, and end by taking you at your own valuation. The Seacliff and Pilgrim arrive tomorrow. I’ve seen Miss Phillida Lee. She’s very would-be Slade. Wears hand-printed clothes with high necks, and shudders and burbles alternately. She comes on the 9th, and so does Ormerin, who writes from Paris and sounds very depressed. Nice bloke. I don’t know whether it’s struck you what a rum brew the class will be this term. It’s impossible to keep Sonia in her place, wherever a model’s place may be. Garcia, if he’s here, will either be in full cry after her, which will be unpleasant, or else sick of her, which will be worse. Valmai Seacliff will naturally expect every male on the premises to be hot on her trail, and if that comes off, Sonia will get the pip. Perhaps with Basil Pilgrim on the tapis, the Seacliff will be less catholic, but I doubt it. Oh, well, you know your own business best, and I suppose will float through on the good old recipe of not noticing. You are such a bloody aristocrat. Your capacity for ignoring the unpleasant is a bit irritating to a plebeian like myself.
The servants are all right. The two Hipkins and Sadie Welsh from the village. They only tolerate me and are thrilled over your return. So am I, actually. I want your advice over the big thing of Sonia, and I’m longing to see your own stuff. You say don’t forward any more letters, so I won’t. Your allusions to a detective are quite incomprehensible, but if he interrupted you in your work, you had every right to bite his head off. What had you been up to, anyway?—Well, so long until the 3rd—Katti. PS.—Garcia has just sent a case of clay and a lot of material—carriage forward, of course—so I suppose I may expect to be honoured with his company any time now. We’ll probably get a bill for the clay.
PPS.—Plumber’s Queen yourself.
PPPS.—The bill for Garcia’s material has come.
Chief Detective-Inspector Roderick Alleyn, CID., to Mr Nigel Bathgate, journalist:
S.S. Niagara (At Sea). August 6th
Dear Bathgate,
How is it with Benedict, the married man? I was extremely sorry to be away for the wedding, and thought of you both on my mountain fastness in New Zealand. What a perfect place that would have been for a honeymoon. A primitive but friendly back-country pub, a lovely lake, tall mountains and nothing else for fifty miles. But I suppose you and your Angela were fashionably on the Riviera or somewhere. You’re a lucky young devil, and I wish you both all the happiness in the world, and send you my blessing. I’m glad my offering met with Mrs Angela’s approval.
We get to Vancouver in no time now, and leave the same day on the C.P.R. Most of the passengers are going on. I am breaking my journey at Quebec, a place I have always wanted to see. That will still give me fifteen days in England before I climb back into the saddle. My mother expects me to spend a fortnight with her, and if I may, I’ll come on to you about the 21st?
The passengers on this ship are much like all passengers on all ships. Sea voyages seem to act as rather searching re-agents on character. The essential components appear in alarming isolation. There is the usual ship’s belle, this time a perfectly terrific American cinema lady who throws me into a fever of diffidence and alarm, but who exhibits the closeup type of loveliness to the nth degree of unreality. There is the usual sprinkling of pleasant globetrotters, bounders, and avid women. The most interesting person is Miss Agatha Troy, the painter. Do you remember her one-man show? She has done a miraculous painting of the wharf at Suva. I long to ask what the price will be, but am prevented by the circumstances of her not liking me very much. She bridles like a hedgehog (yes, they do) whenever I approach her, and as I don’t believe I suffer from any of those things in the strip advertisements, I’m rather at a loss to know why. Natural antipathy, perhaps. I don’t share it. Oddly enough, she suddenly asked me in a very gruff stand-offish voice if she might paint my head. I’ve never been took a likeness of before—it’s a rum sensation when they get to the eyes; such a searching impersonal sort of glare they give you. She even comes close sometimes and peers into the pupils. Rather humiliating, it is. I try to return a stare every bit as impersonal, and find it tricky. The painting seems to me to be quite brilliant, but alarming.
Fox has written regularly. He seems to have done damn well over that arson case. I rather dread getting back into the groove, but suppose it won’t be so bad when it comes. Hope I don’t have to start off with anything big—if Mrs Angela thinks of putting rat’s-bane in your Ovaltine, ask her to do it out of my division.
I look forward to seeing you both, my dear Bathgate, and send you my salutations the most distinguished.
Yours ever,
Roderick Alleyn
Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn to Lady Alleyn, Danes Lodge, Bossicote, Bucks:
C.P.R. August 15th.
My Dearest Mamma,
Your letter found me at Vancouver. Yes, please—I should like to come straight to you. We arrive at Liverpool on the 7th, and I’ll make for Bucks as fast as may be. The garden sounds very attractive, but don’t go doing too much yourself, bless you. No, darling, I did not lose my heart in the Antipodes. Would you have been delighted to welcome a strapping black Fijian lady? I might have got one to regard me with favour at Suva, perhaps, but they smell of coconut oil, which you would not have found particularly delicious. I expect if I ever do get it in the neck, she’ll think me no end of a dull dog and turn icy. Talking of Suva, which I was not, do you know of a place called Tatler’s End House, somewhere near Bossicote? Agatha Troy, who painted that picture we both liked so much, lives there. She joined this ship at Suva, and did a lovely thing of the wharf. Look here, Mamma, if ever a Virginia Van Maes writes and asks you to receive her, you must be away, or suffering from smallpox. She’s an American beauty who looks people up in Kelly’s and collects scalps. She looked me up and—Heaven knows why—she seemed inclined to collect ours. It’s the title, I suppose. Talking of titles, how’s the blasted Baronet? She was on to him like a shot. ‘Gee, Mr Alleyn, I never knew your detective force was recruited from your aristocracy. I’m crazy to know if this Sir George Alleyn is your only brother.’ You see? She threatens to come to England and has already said she’s sure you must be the cutest old-world mother. She’s quite capable of muscling in on the strength of being my dearest girlfriend. So you look out, darling, I’ve told her you’re a horrid woman, but I don’t think she cares. You’ll be 65 on or about the day this arrives. In 30 years I shall be nearly 10 years older than you are now, and you’ll still be trying to bully me. Do you remember how I found out your real age on your thirty-fifth birthday? My first really good bit of investigation, nasty little trick that I was. Well, little mum, don’t flirt with the vicar, and be sure to have the red carpet out on the 7th.
Your dutiful and devoted son,
Roderick
PS.—Miss Troy has done a sketch of your son which he will purchase for your birthday if it’s not too expensive.
From Lady Alleyn, Danes Lodge, Bossicote, to Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn, Château Frontenac, Quebec:
Dear Roderick,
Your ingenuous little letter reached me on my birthday, and I was delighted to receive it. Thank you, my dear. It will be a great joy to have you for nearly a fortnight, greedily to myself. I trust I am not one of those avaricious mammas—clutch, clutch, clutch—which, after all, is only a form of cluck, cluck, cluck. It will be delightful to have a Troy version of you, and I hope it was not too expensive—if it was, perhaps you would let me join you, my dear. I should like to do that, but have no doubt you will ruin yourself and lie to your mother about the price. I shall call on
