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Spider’s Web
Agatha Christie
Charles Osborne
A full-length novel by Charles Osborne adapted from Agatha Christie’s stage play, in which a diplomat’s wife finds a body that mustn’t be discovered…Following BLACK COFFEE and THE UNEXPECTED GUEST comes the final Agatha Christie play novelisation, bringing her superb storytelling to a new legion of fans.Clarissa, the wife of a Foreign Office diplomat, is given to daydreaming. ‘Supposing I were to come down one morning and find a dead body in the library, what should I do?’ she muses.Clarissa has her chance to find out when she discovers a body in the drawing-room of her house in Kent. Desperate to dispose of the body before her husband comes home with an important foreign politician, Clarissa persuades her three house guests to become accessories and accomplices. It seems that the murdered man was not unknown to certain members of the house party (but which ones?), and the search begins for the murderer and the motive, while at the same time trying to persuade a police inspector that there has been no murder at all…







Copyright (#u4057f20b-c314-52b4-88b5-341c4c9964a1)
Harper
an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2000
Spider’s Web™ is a trade mark of Agatha Christie Limited and Agatha Christie
and the Agatha Christie Signature are registered trade marks of Agatha Christie Limited in the UK and elsewhere.
Copyright © 2000 Agatha Christie Limited. All rights reserved.
www.agathachristie.com (http://www.agathachristie.com)
Cover by crushed.co.uk (http://www.crushed.co.uk) © HarperCollins/Agatha Christie Ltd 2017
Agatha Christie asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008196660
Ebook Edition © May 2017 ISBN: 9780007423071
Version: 2017-03-30
Contents
Cover (#ubf700acc-c1c6-5f29-b7fd-15f5ea4d401c)
Title Page (#ud8178d04-744b-5400-b4e6-02f1cdc4b6dd)
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
The Plays of Agatha Christie
Also by Agatha Christie
About the Publisher

CHAPTER 1 (#u4057f20b-c314-52b4-88b5-341c4c9964a1)
Copplestone Court, the elegant, eighteenth-century country home of Henry and Clarissa Hailsham-Brown, set in gently undulating hilly country in Kent, looked handsome even at the close of a rainy March afternoon. In the tastefully furnished ground-floor drawing-room, with French windows onto the garden, two men stood near a console table on which there was a tray with three glasses of port, each marked with a sticky label, one, two and three. Also on the table was a pencil and sheet of paper.
Sir Rowland Delahaye, a distinguished-looking man in his early fifties with a charming and cultivated manner, seated himself on the arm of a comfortable chair and allowed his companion to blindfold him. Hugo Birch, a man of about sixty and inclined to be somewhat irascible in manner, then placed in Sir Rowland’s hand one of the glasses from the table. Sir Rowland sipped, considered for a moment, and then said, ‘I should think—yes—definitely—yes, this is the Dow ’forty-two.’
Hugo replaced the glass on the table, murmuring ‘Dow ’forty-two’, made a note on the paper, and handed over the next glass. Again Sir Rowland sipped the wine. He paused, took another sip, and then nodded affirmatively. ‘Ah, yes,’ he declared with conviction. ‘Now, this is a very fine port indeed.’ He took another sip. ‘No doubt about it. Cockburn ’twenty-seven.’
He handed the glass back to Hugo as he continued, ‘Fancy Clarissa wasting a bottle of Cockburn ’twenty-seven on a silly experiment like this. It’s positively sacrilegious. But then women just don’t understand port at all.’
Hugo took the glass from him, noted his verdict on the piece of paper on the table, and handed him the third glass. After a quick sip, Sir Rowland’s reaction was immediate and violent. ‘Ugh!’ he exclaimed in disgust. ‘Rich Ruby port-type wine. I can’t imagine why Clarissa has such a thing in the house.’
His opinion duly noted, he removed the blindfold. ‘Now it’s your turn,’ he told Hugo.
Taking off his horn-rimmed spectacles, Hugo allowed Sir Rowland to blindfold him. ‘Well, I imagine she uses the cheap port for jugged hare or for flavouring soup,’ he suggested. ‘I don’t imagine Henry would allow her to offer it to guests.’
‘There you are, Hugo,’ Sir Rowland declared as he finished tying the blindfold over his companion’s eyes. ‘Perhaps I ought to turn you around three times like they do in Blind Man’s Buff,’ he added as he led Hugo to the armchair and turned him around to sit in it.
‘Here, steady on,’ Hugo protested. He felt behind him for the chair.
‘Got it?’ asked Sir Rowland.
‘Yes.’
‘Then I’ll swivel the glasses around instead,’ Sir Rowland said as he moved the glasses on the table slightly.
‘There’s no need to,’ Hugo told him. ‘Do you think I’m likely to be influenced by what you said? I’m as good a judge of port as you are any day, Roly, my boy.’
‘Don’t be too sure of that. In any case, one can’t be too careful,’ Sir Rowland insisted.
Just as he was about to take one of the glasses across to Hugo, the third of the Hailsham-Browns’ guests came in from the garden. Jeremy Warrender, an attractive young man in his twenties, was wearing a raincoat over his suit. Panting, and obviously out of breath, he headed for the sofa and was about to flop into it when he noticed what was going on. ‘What on earth are you two up to?’ he asked, as he removed his raincoat and jacket. ‘The three-card trick with glasses?’
‘What’s that?’ the blindfolded Hugo wanted to know. ‘It sounds as though someone’s brought a dog into the room.’
‘It’s only young Warrender,’ Sir Rowland assured him. ‘Behave yourself.’
‘Oh, I thought it sounded like a dog that’s been chasing a rabbit,’ Hugo declared.
‘I’ve been three times to the lodge gates and back, wearing a mackintosh over my clothes,’ Jeremy explained as he fell heavily onto the sofa. ‘Apparently the Herzoslovakian Minister did it in four minutes fifty-three seconds, weighed down by his mackintosh. I went all out, but I couldn’t do any better than six minutes ten seconds. And I don’t believe he did, either. Only Chris Chataway himself could do it in that time, with or without a mackintosh.’
‘Who told you that about the Herzoslovakian Minister?’ Sir Rowland enquired.
‘Clarissa.’
‘Clarissa!’ exclaimed Sir Rowland, chuckling.
‘Oh, Clarissa.’ Hugo snorted. ‘You shouldn’t pay any attention to what Clarissa tells you.’
Still chuckling, Sir Rowland continued, ‘I’m afraid you don’t know your hostess very well, Warrender. She’s a young lady with a very vivid imagination.’
Jeremy rose to his feet. ‘Do you mean she made the whole thing up?’ he asked, indignantly.
‘Well, I wouldn’t put it past her,’ Sir Rowland answered as he handed one of the three glasses to the still blindfolded Hugo. ‘And it certainly sounds like her idea of a joke.’
‘Does it, indeed? You just wait till I see that young woman,’ Jeremy promised. ‘I’ll certainly have something to say to her. Gosh, I’m exhausted.’ He stalked out to the hall carrying his raincoat.
‘Stop puffing like a walrus,’ Hugo complained. ‘I’m trying to concentrate. There’s a fiver at stake. Roly and I have got a bet on.’
‘Oh, what is it?’ Jeremy enquired, returning to perch on an arm of the sofa.
‘It’s to decide who’s the best judge of port,’ Hugo told him. ‘We’ve got Cockburn ’twenty-seven, Dow ’forty-two, and the local grocer’s special. Quiet now. This is important.’ He sipped from the glass he was holding, and then murmured rather non-committally, ‘Mmm-ah.’
‘Well?’ Sir Roland queried. ‘Have you decided what the first one is?’
‘Don’t hustle me, Roly,’ Hugo exclaimed. ‘I’m not going to rush my fences. Where’s the next one?’
He held on to the glass as he was handed another. He sipped and then announced, ‘Yes, I’m pretty sure about those two.’ He sniffed at both glasses again. ‘This first one’s the Dow,’ he decided as he held out one glass. ‘The second was the Cockburn,’ he continued, handing the other glass back as Sir Rowland repeated, ‘Number three glass the Dow, number one the Cockburn’, writing as he spoke.
‘Well, it’s hardly necessary to taste the third,’ Hugo declared, ‘but I suppose I’d better go through with it.’
‘Here you are,’ said Sir Rowland, handing over the final glass.
After sipping from it, Hugo made an exclamation of extreme distaste. ‘Tschah! Ugh! What unspeakable muck.’ He returned the glass to Sir Rowland, then took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his lips to get rid of the offending taste. ‘It’ll take me an hour to get the taste of that stuff out of my mouth,’ he complained. ‘Get me out of this, Roly.’
‘Here, I’ll do it,’ Jeremy offered, rising and moving behind Hugo to remove his blindfold while Sir Rowland thoughtfully sipped the last of the three glasses before putting it back on the table.
‘So that’s what you think, Hugo, is it? Glass number two, grocer’s special?’ He shook his head. ‘Rubbish! That’s the Dow ’forty-two, not a doubt of it.’
Hugo put the blindfold in his pocket. ‘Pah! You’ve lost your palate, Roly,’ he declared.
‘Let me try,’ Jeremy suggested. Going to the table, he took a quick sip from each glass. He paused for a moment, sipped each of them again, and then admitted, ‘Well, they all taste the same to me.’
‘You young people!’ Hugo admonished him. ‘It’s all this confounded gin you keep on drinking. Completely ruins your palate. It’s not just women who don’t appreciate port. Nowadays, no man under forty does, either.’
Before Jeremy had a chance to reply to this, the door leading to the library opened, and Clarissa Hailsham-Brown, a beautiful dark-haired woman in her late twenties, entered. ‘Hello, my darlings,’ she greeted Sir Rowland and Hugo. ‘Have you settled it yet?’
‘Yes, Clarissa,’ Sir Rowland assured her. ‘We’re ready for you.’
‘I know I’m right,’ said Hugo. ‘Number one’s the Cockburn, number two’s the port-type stuff, and three’s the Dow. Right?’
‘Nonsense,’ Sir Rowland exclaimed before Clarissa could answer. ‘Number one’s the Dow, two’s the Cockburn, and three’s the port-type stuff. I’m right, aren’t I?’
‘Darlings!’ was Clarissa’s only immediate response. She kissed first Hugo and then Sir Rowland, and continued, ‘Now one of you take the tray back to the dining-room. You’ll find the decanter on the sideboard.’ Smiling to herself, she selected a chocolate from a box on an occasional table.
Sir Rowland had picked up the tray with the glasses on it, and was about to leave with them. He stopped. ‘The decanter?’ he asked, warily.
Clarissa sat on the sofa, tucking her feet up under her. ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘Just one decanter.’ She giggled. ‘It’s all the same port, you know.’

CHAPTER 2 (#u4057f20b-c314-52b4-88b5-341c4c9964a1)
Clarissa’s announcement produced a different reaction from each of her hearers. Jeremy burst into hoots of laughter, went across to his hostess and kissed her, while Sir Rowland stood gaping with astonishment, and Hugo seemed undecided what attitude to adopt to her having made fools of them both.
When Sir Rowland finally found words, they were, ‘Clarissa, you unprincipled humbug.’ But his tone was affectionate.
‘Well,’ Clarissa responded, ‘it’s been such a wet afternoon, and you weren’t able to play golf. You must have some fun, and you have had fun over this, darlings, haven’t you?’
‘Upon my soul,’ Sir Rowland exclaimed as he carried the tray to the door. ‘You ought to be ashamed of yourself, showing up your elders and betters. It turns out that only young Warrender here guessed they were all the same.’
Hugo, who by now was laughing, accompanied him to the door. ‘Who was it?’ he asked, putting an arm around Sir Rowland’s shoulder, ‘Who was it who said that he’d know Cockburn ’twenty-seven anywhere?’
‘Never mind, Hugo,’ Sir Rowland replied resignedly, ‘let’s have some more of it later, whatever it is.’ Talking as they went, the two men left by the door leading to the hall, Hugo closing the door behind them.
Jeremy confronted Clarissa on her sofa. ‘Now then, Clarissa,’ he said accusingly, ‘what’s all this about the Herzoslovakian Minister?’
Clarissa looked at him innocently. ‘What about him?’ she asked.
Pointing a finger at her, Jeremy spoke clearly and slowly. ‘Did he ever run to the lodge gates and back, in a mackintosh, three times in four minutes fifty-three seconds?’
Clarissa smiled sweetly as she replied, ‘The Herzoslovakian Minister is a dear, but he’s well over sixty, and I doubt very much if he’s run anywhere for years.’
‘So you did make the whole thing up. They told me you probably did. But why?’
‘Well,’ Clarissa suggested, her smile even sweeter than before, ‘you’d been complaining all day about not getting enough exercise. So I thought the only friendly thing to do was to help you get some. It would have been no good ordering you to go for a brisk run through the woods, but I knew you’d respond to a challenge. So I invented someone for you to challenge.’
Jeremy gave a comical groan of exasperation. ‘Clarissa,’ he asked her, ‘do you ever speak the truth?’
‘Of course I do—sometimes,’ Clarissa admitted. ‘But when I am speaking the truth, nobody ever seems to believe me. It’s very odd.’ She thought for a moment, and then continued. ‘I suppose when you’re making things up, you get carried away and that makes it sound more convincing.’ She drifted over to the French windows.
‘I might have broken a blood vessel,’ Jeremy complained. ‘A fat lot you’d have cared about that.’
Clarissa laughed. Opening the window she observed, ‘I do believe it’s cleared up. It’s going to be a lovely evening. How delicious the garden smells after rain.’ She leaned out and sniffed. ‘Narcissus.’
As she closed the window again, Jeremy came over to join her. ‘Do you really like living down here in the country?’ he asked.
‘I love it.’
‘But you must get bored to death,’ he exclaimed. ‘It’s all so incongruous for you, Clarissa. You must miss the theatre terribly. I hear you were passionate about it when you were younger.’
‘Yes, I was. But I manage to create my own theatre right here,’ said Clarissa with a laugh.
‘But you ought to be leading an exciting life in London.’
Clarissa laughed again. ‘What—parties and night clubs?’ she asked.
‘Parties, yes. You’d make a brilliant hostess,’ Jeremy told her, laughing.
She turned to face him. ‘It sounds like an Edwardian novel,’ she said. ‘Anyway, diplomatic parties are terribly dull.’
‘But it’s such a waste, your being tucked away down here,’ he persisted, moving close to her and attempting to take her hand.
‘A waste—of me?’ asked Clarissa, withdrawing her hand.
‘Yes,’ Jeremy responded fervently. ‘Then there’s Henry.’
‘What about Henry?’ Clarissa busied herself patting a cushion on an easy chair.
Jeremy looked at her steadily. ‘I can’t imagine why you ever married him,’ he replied, plucking up his courage. ‘He’s years older than you, with a daughter who’s a school-kid.’ He leaned on the armchair, still observing her closely. ‘He’s an excellent man, I have no doubt, but really, of all the pompous stuffed shirts. Going about looking like a boiled owl.’ He paused, waiting for a reaction. When none came, he continued, ‘He’s as dull as ditchwater.’
Still she said nothing. Jeremy tried again. ‘And he has no sense of humour,’ he muttered somewhat petulantly.
Clarissa looked at him, smiled, but said nothing.
‘I suppose you think I oughtn’t to say these things,’ Jeremy exclaimed.
Clarissa sat on one end of a long stool. ‘Oh, I don’t mind,’ she told him. ‘Say anything you like.’
Jeremy went over to sit beside her. ‘So you do realize that you’ve made a mistake?’ he asked, eagerly.
‘But I haven’t made a mistake,’ was Clarissa’s softly uttered response. Then, teasingly, she added, ‘Are you making immoral advances to me, Jeremy?’
‘Definitely,’ was his prompt reply.
‘How lovely,’ exclaimed Clarissa. She nudged him with her elbow. ‘Do go on.’
‘I think you know how I feel about you, Clarissa,’ Jeremy responded somewhat moodily. ‘But you’re just playing with me, aren’t you? Flirting. It’s another one of your games. Darling, can’t you be serious just for once?’
‘Serious? What’s so good about “serious”?’ Clarissa replied. ‘There’s enough seriousness in the world already. I like to enjoy myself, and I like everyone around me to enjoy themselves as well.’
Jeremy smiled ruefully. ‘I’d be enjoying myself a great deal more at this moment if you were serious about me,’ he observed.
‘Oh, come on,’ she ordered him playfully. ‘Of course you’re enjoying yourself. Here you are, our house-guest for the weekend, along with my lovely godfather Roly. And sweet old Hugo’s here for drinks this evening as well. He and Roly are so funny together. You can’t say you’re not enjoying yourself.’
‘Of course I’m enjoying myself,’ Jeremy admitted. ‘But you won’t let me say what I really want to say to you.’
‘Don’t be silly, darling,’ she replied. ‘You know you can say anything you like to me.’
‘Really? You mean that?’ he asked her.
‘Of course.’
‘Very well, then,’ said Jeremy. He rose from the stool and turned to face her. ‘I love you,’ he declared.
‘I’m so glad,’ replied Clarissa, cheerfully.
‘That’s entirely the wrong answer,’ Jeremy complained. ‘You ought to say, “I’m so sorry” in a deep, sympathetic voice.’
‘But I’m not sorry,’ Clarissa insisted. ‘I’m delighted. I like people to be in love with me.’
Jeremy sat down beside her again, but turned away from her. Now he seemed deeply upset. Looking at him for a moment, Clarissa asked, ‘Would you do anything in the world for me?’
Turning to her, Jeremy responded eagerly. ‘You know I would. Anything. Anything in the world,’ he declared.
‘Really?’ said Clarissa. ‘Supposing, for instance, that I murdered someone, would you help—no, I must stop.’ She rose and walked away a few paces.
Jeremy turned to face Clarissa. ‘No, go on,’ he urged her.
She paused for a moment and then began to speak. ‘You asked me just now if I ever got bored, down here in the country.’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I suppose in a way, I do,’ she admitted. ‘Or, rather, I might, if it wasn’t for my private hobby.’
Jeremy looked puzzled. ‘Private hobby? What is that?’ he asked her.
Clarissa took a deep breath. ‘You see, Jeremy,’ she said, ‘my life has always been peaceful and happy. Nothing exciting ever happened to me, so I began to play my little game. I call it “supposing”.’
Jeremy looked perplexed. ‘Supposing?’
‘Yes,’ said Clarissa, beginning to pace about the room. ‘For example, I might say to myself, “Supposing I were to come down one morning and find a dead body in the library, what should I do?” Or “Supposing a woman were to be shown in here one day and told me that she and Henry had been secretly married in Constantinople, and that our marriage was bigamous, what should I say to her?” Or “Supposing I’d followed my instincts and become a famous actress.” Or “Supposing I had to choose between betraying my country and seeing Henry shot before my eyes?” Do you see what I mean?’ She smiled suddenly at Jeremy. ‘Or even—’ She settled into the armchair. ‘“Supposing I were to run away with Jeremy, what would happen next?”’
Jeremy went and knelt beside her. ‘I feel flattered,’ he told her. ‘But have you ever really imagined that particular situation?’
‘Oh yes,’ Clarissa replied with a smile.
‘Well? What did happen?’ He clasped her hand.
Again she withdrew it. ‘Well, the last time I played, we were on the Riviera at Juan les Pins, and Henry came after us. He had a revolver with him.’
Jeremy looked startled. ‘My God!’ he exclaimed. ‘Did he shoot me?’
Clarissa smiled reminiscently. ‘I seem to remember,’ she told Jeremy, ‘that he said—’ She paused, and then, adopting a highly dramatic delivery, continued, ‘“Clarissa, either you come back with me, or I kill myself.”’
Jeremy rose and moved away. ‘Jolly decent of him,’ he said, sounding unconvinced. ‘I can’t imagine anything more unlike Henry. But, anyway, what did you say to that?’
Clarissa was still smiling complacently. ‘Actually, I’ve played it both ways,’ she admitted. ‘On one occasion I told Henry that I was terribly sorry. I didn’t really want him to kill himself, but I was very deeply in love with Jeremy, and there was nothing I could do about it. Henry flung himself at my feet, sobbing, but I was adamant. “I am fond of you, Henry,” I told him, “but I can’t live without Jeremy. This is goodbye.” Then I rushed out of the house and into the garden where you were waiting for me. As we ran down the garden path to the front gate, we heard a shot ring out in the house, but we went on running.’
‘Good heavens!’ Jeremy gasped. ‘Well, that was certainly telling him, wasn’t it? Poor Henry.’ He thought for a moment, and then continued, ‘But you say you’ve played it both ways. What happened the other time?’
‘Oh, Henry was so miserable, and pleaded so pitifully that I didn’t have the heart to leave him. I decided to give you up, and devote my life to making Henry happy.’
Jeremy now looked absolutely desolate. ‘Well, darling,’ he declared ruefully, ‘you certainly do have fun. But please, please be serious for a moment. I’m very serious when I say I love you. I’ve loved you for a long time. You must have realized that. Are you sure there’s no hope for me? Do you really want to spend the rest of your life with boring old Henry?’
Clarissa was spared from answering by the arrival of a thin, tallish child of twelve, wearing school uniform and carrying a satchel. She called out ‘Hello, Clarissa’ by way of greeting as she came into the room.
‘Hullo, Pippa,’ her stepmother replied. ‘You’re late.’
Pippa put her hat and satchel on an easy chair. ‘Music lesson,’ she explained, laconically.
‘Oh, yes,’ Clarissa remembered. ‘It’s your piano day, isn’t it? Was it interesting?’
‘No. Ghastly. Awful exercises I had to repeat and repeat. Miss Farrow said it was to improve my fingering. She wouldn’t let me play the nice solo piece I’d been practising. Is there any food about? I’m starving.’
Clarissa got to her feet. ‘Didn’t you get the usual buns to eat in the bus?’ she asked.
‘Oh yes,’ Pippa admitted, ‘but that was half an hour ago.’ She gave Clarissa a pleading look that was almost comical. ‘Can’t I have some cake or something to last me till supper?’
Taking her hand, Clarissa led Pippa to the hall door, laughing. ‘We’ll see what we can find,’ she promised. As they left, Pippa asked excitedly, ‘Is there any of that cake left—the one with the cherries on top?’
‘No,’ Clarissa told her. ‘You finished that off yesterday.’
Jeremy shook his head, smiling, as he heard their voices trailing away down the hall. As soon as they were out of earshot, he moved quickly to the desk and hurriedly opened one or two of the drawers. But suddenly hearing a hearty female voice calling from the garden, ‘Ahoy there!’, he gave a start, and hastily closed the drawers. He turned towards the French windows in time to see a big, jolly-looking woman of about forty, in tweeds and gumboots, opening the French windows. She paused as she saw Jeremy. Standing on the window step, she asked, brusquely, ‘Mrs Hailsham-Brown about?’
Jeremy moved casually away from the desk, and ambled across to the sofa as he replied, ‘Yes, Miss Peake. She’s just gone to the kitchen with Pippa to get her something to eat. You know what a ravenous appetite Pippa always has.’
‘Children shouldn’t eat between meals,’ was the response, delivered in ringing, almost masculine tones.
‘Will you come in, Miss Peake?’ Jeremy asked.
‘No, I won’t come in because of my boots,’ she explained, with a hearty laugh. ‘I’d bring half the garden with me if I did.’ Again she laughed. ‘I was just going to ask her what veggies she wanted for tomorrow’s lunch.’
‘Well, I’m afraid I—’ Jeremy began, when Miss Peake interrupted him. ‘Tell you what,’ she boomed, ‘I’ll come back.’
She began to go, but then turned back to Jeremy. ‘Oh, you will be careful of that desk, won’t you, Mr Warrender?’ she said, peremptorily.
‘Yes, of course I will,’ replied Jeremy.
‘It’s a valuable antique, you see,’ Miss Peake explained. ‘You really shouldn’t wrench the drawers out like that.’
Jeremy looked bemused. ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ he apologized. ‘I was only looking for notepaper.’
‘Middle pigeon-hole,’ Miss Peake barked, pointing at it as she spoke.
Jeremy turned to the desk, opened the middle pigeon-hole, and extracted a sheet of writing-paper.
‘That’s right,’ Miss Peake continued brusquely. ‘Curious how often people can’t see what’s right in front of their eyes.’ She chortled heartily as she strode away, back to the garden. Jeremy joined in her laughter, but stopped abruptly as soon as she had gone. He was about to return to the desk when Pippa came back munching a bun.

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