Julia did her best to
respond with conviction and enthusiasm. She managed to divert the conversation:
‘And what of Miss Vane’s latest?’
‘Haven’t read it.
Haven’t even heard much about it—which makes me wonder whether she
might not be taking refuge in this magazine idea. We all know what the Muse
does to writers at times, don’t we?’ Julia felt a quiet pinching at the
stomach, a reminder of her own fallibility. Had he in fact swallowed whole her
excuse for a plot? She tried not to think about that.
‘I can at least say you are interested in
knowing more?’ Williams looked almost pleadingly at her. Julia dutifully
undertook to write something and made her exit gratefully. If only she could
escape London now with equal ease.
She was about to
cross the street when she felt a friendly pat on her shoulder and turned to
find somebody in the same sort of anonymous cloche hat and long straight coat
as she was wearing.
‘Hello, May,’ she
said, still in chirpy frame of mind from her meeting. ‘They’ve let you out for
half an hour, then?’
May chuckled. ‘Oh it’s
not that bad. Listen, why don’t we catch up—are you free for tea at Lyons’?’
The teahouse was a
little full, but they managed to squeeze in between the crowded, clinking,
murmuring tables, and caught up with each other’s news while they waited to be
served. May was sympathetic about the editor’s meeting, even if she had little
experience of the process. She was a dispenser and in her spare time an avid
reader of crime fiction. Julia often had recourse to her when a visit to the
Poison Section in the Library proved too far. They had met at a house party,
where a case of petty pilfering within the household had caused them to apply their
wits—successfully, as it turned out—and they had become close friends. When not
engaged in deciphering motive and means, they often exchanged occasionally
biting comments on the latest detective novel.
‘So, are you brimming
with ideas?’
‘In a sort of a way,
I think I am. But it’s not awfully clear yet—I need more material. Sounds dull,
I know. But I have been feeling a trifle dull recently.’
‘You are looking a
trifle peaky. Sounds to me like going to the country would do you good.’
Tea arrived and talk
turned to reminiscence: ‘Do you remember that business about Mrs Clyssum’s
necklace? I was just reminded of it the other day at Gracie’s; she had one just
like it, very convincing. Why did she do it, really?’
‘Panic. She’d pawned
the originals, remember.’
‘I do. But even so .
. . poor thing. Still, it was fun, working it out, and I am glad we stopped the
maid losing her job.’
‘That must have been
the first time we actually put our heads together. Wonder what they’ve got up
to since then . . .’
‘What have you been reading lately?’ Julia
asked. May pulled a wry face and rummaged in her bag, producing a slim volume
depicting on its cover a man peering out from under the lid of a wooden crate
or box, with another man’s shadow falling across it. Emblazoned across the top
half of the cover was the title ‘The Red House Mystery.’
‘I read it ages ago.
Think I enjoyed it more the first time round. Wish you’d hurry up and get your
next one finished. I’m running out of favourite authors.’
‘We were just talking
about that. Apparently Miss Vane considers it a distinctly uninspiring time for
crime fiction in general.’
‘I’m not surprised.
Even Mrs Christie’s last one fell a bit flat.’
‘Yes, my editor
mentioned her too. I wonder if there is some contagious detective ‘flu going
around, which reduces the creative flow to pulp. I certainly think I have been
infected.’
‘That doesn’t sound
like you. Definitely in need of a change of scene, I should say. We both could
do with something to wake us up a bit. Wish we had another mystery of our own
to work out, like the Clyssum business.’
Julia looked at her. ‘So
do I. Easier than writing the wretched things. We could set up an agency:
Warren and Downe—Domestic Panic and Hysteria our speciality.’
‘Yes—likewise,
Purloined Pearls and Pawnbrokers.’
‘Purses and
Pusillanimity.’
‘Peripatetic Parrots
and Peevish Pomeranians.’
The banter was
briefly interrupted just as it threatened to become hysterical by the arrival
of the waitress with laden tray.
They both tried to
pick up where they had left off, but somehow today their usual flow of
conversation slowed to a halt. Julia briefly allowed herself to be swamped by
the voices from the surrounding tables instead—and soon wished she hadn’t:
‘I thought those
emeralds were paste, I still do. As for her taste in art . . .’
‘More Art Nasty than
Art Nouveau! Mind you, I suspect they would be worth something at auction . .
.’
‘Did you read about
her niece in the Tatler? Hardly surprising though, the poor girl must have been
only too glad to escape, even if it was with the son of a greengrocer.’
‘A very wealthy
greengrocer. It’s all money, after all . . .’
Julia enjoyed May’s
company, and gossip did often supply a lot of material. But, stuck in the
middle of the crowded room with its jarring sounds and cheap chatter, she now
felt the tawdriness of smoky, grimy London.
There were gladioli
in Aunt Izzy’s garden, and they would be coming into bloom soon: she could
picture the late afternoon sun falling across them, turning them a soft apricot
gold, and she wanted to be transported back to it at that moment, that very
second. She was pulled back from her brief reverie by a squawk from May.
‘Look at the time! I
must dash—now don’t forget, I want to know the minute you have decided who the
villain is, and if there is poison involved . . . well, you know where I am !’
There was a hurried
dispute over the bill, which Julia insisted on paying, then May scuttled off,
leaving Julia on the pavement outside with promises of another get-together
before long.
The brilliant blue
sky prompted her to return home by tram. She climbed to the upper deck just so
she could sit away from crowds and enjoy the trees lining the avenue. She
craned her neck up and gazed at the leafy branches, and for a moment imagined
herself back at home. Finally all those little scraps of dreams that had been
hiding away all day returned tenfold to delight her, butterfly-like, with
colours and warmth—the walks, the glades, the running hare and cheeky sparrow,
the slow-witted blackbirds, sunning themselves in the middle of the lanes; all
the whirling memories of the past crowded into her mind and she decided she had
stayed away too long. What had seemed a pretext now became necessity. London
was stifling her with its relentless gaiety, misery and recklessness.
Book Trailer: http://youtu.be/oWDByK6_Djs
Author Bio for B. Lloyd:
A Bustle attached to a keyboard, occasionally to be seen floating on a canal ...
After studying Early Music in Italy followed by a brief career in concert performance, the Bustle exchanged vocal parts for less vocal arts i.e. a Diploma from the Accademia di Belle Arti di Venezia. Her inky mess, both graphic and verbal, can be found in various regions of the Web, and appendaged to good people's works (for no visible reason that she can understand).
At present exploring the mysteries of Northumberland, although if there is a place she could call true home, it would be Venice…while the fields of Waterloo hold a certain resonance for her as well…
More here:
http://about.me/B.Lloyd
and here:
http://lloydanon.wordpress.com
For those who enjoy Twittery:
Do drop by @AuthorsAnon as she enjoys a chat
(Warning: Please expect occasional bouts of nonsense).
Finding the Book:
