Chapter 6 An Unanswerable Predicament #3
They were standing on the putty-colored paving stones that extended around eight feet from the house.
This patio area gave way to a rectangle of lawn, flanked by neglected flower beds and partly sacrificed to the vegetable patches that afflicted Robbie’s conscience.
An old Anderson shelter abutted the stone wall to their left.
Lately used as a shed, it was almost hidden by dense ivy.
“So,” said Saul in a brisk tone of changing the subject, “as a war veteran yourself, what do you make of Mr. Sullivan’s claim to have failed his army medical exam? Mina seems to think it very unlikely. She’s convinced Mr. Sullivan is lying to conceal some sort of disgrace.”
Robbie was perplexed by Saul’s interest. Why on earth did he care? “Maybe he is. But aren’t we all entitled to our secrets? In any case, Mr. Sullivan is only here temporarily, isn’t he? It’s not very polite of us to poke around in his affairs.”
Saul smiled, and his smile said, Oh, you English and your politeness. “Did he tell you the same story, then, about being unfit for active duty?”
“As a matter of fact, it didn’t come up. We talked about other things.”
“Such as?”
After a fretful pause, Robbie said, “Um, he said he hasn’t got a girlfriend.
I told him I was separated from Pamela. We talked a bit about law and order, prisons, that sort of thing.
I don’t know how we got on the subject. Oh yes, I said I thought Derek Bentley—you know, that feebleminded young fellow found guilty of the murder of a policeman—I said he ought not to have been hanged.
Mr. Sullivan had a different view.” He drew hungrily on his cigarette.
“Does Mina have any insight into the nature of his supposed disgrace?”
Saul looked at him with seeming hostility—perhaps, thought Robbie, because his question sounded sarcastic toward Mina. “Mr. Sullivan is of the opinion, then, that all murderers ought to be hanged?”
“I suppose that was the logical extension of his… but look here, I’m only—”
Saul interrupted: “Whereas you, you are against capital punishment in all cases? Or only in some cases?”
“Have I said something to offend you? I mean to say, the Nuremberg executions were certainly—”
Saul patted his shoulder. “My dear fellow, you’ve said nothing to offend me, nothing at all.
All it is… Well, I suppose I feel that you and I, as the men of the house, ought to know if there’s anything untoward about Mr. Sullivan.
Honor can be a little too… a little too willing to only see the best in people. ”
Doesn’t sound like the Honor I know, thought Robbie. “Yes, I see what you mean,” he said, stamping out his cigarette under his shoe.
“Sit down, darling,” said Honor to George, who had at last appeared. “Have some breakfast.”
“I’ll have a cup of tea; then I must dash. I’m already fearfully late. Mina was supposed to wake me. I’m due in the West End at ten.”
“What on earth for?” Honor stirred an extra spoonful of sugar from her secret supply into George’s tea.
“Oh,” said George evasively. “You won’t approve, I don’t suppose.”
“Well, try me.”
“I answered an advertisement for some evening work at the Camera Club in Manchester Square. They pay models a guinea an hour. I’m going for an interview.”
Honor tried to keep the disapproval out of her voice. “And what, pray, might you be expected to do for this princely sum?”
“You know. Pose in a swimsuit, or what have you.” The advert had stated “nude but artistic poses.”
“In front of grubby blokes who fancy themselves photographers?”
George laughed. “That’s the idea, yes. I don’t see that it’s any different from posing for grubby blokes who consider themselves artists, do you?”
Honor frowned skeptically.
“Honestly, it’s all perfectly decent and above board!” George drank some tea. A wave of nausea stirred her stomach. Oh hell, she thought, already? “Anyway, it’s only an interview. They might not accept me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Good heavens, they’ll bite your arm off. I’m only worried they’ll move the goalposts. First it’s posing in a swimsuit, then in underwear, then nude, then it’s—”
“Being sold into white slavery?”
“You shouldn’t joke about such things. Surely you won’t want all those dirty old men owning photographs of you? They might sell them, publish them. Think of your future.”
But that’s precisely what I’m doing, thought George.
“Well,” sighed Honor, “I’m not your mother. I can’t tell you what to do. I do worry, though. I can’t help it.”
George remembered Mina’s words. “Golly. Honor being motherly. Will wonders never cease!” It was true; there was something fundamentally unmaternal about Honor.
It was connected to her strange androgyny.
Her svelteness. George contemplated, as she occasionally did, the household lore that Honor and Saul were once lovers.
Her predecessor at Tregunter Road, Sadie, had told Mina, who had told George.
Honor could certainly do a lot worse. Saul was rather desirable, with his jet-black hair and foreign accent.
Quite the epitome of the distinguished older man.
But the notion of those two at it—no, it was simply unimaginable.