“You see, you’re a born salesperson! I’ll take a standing order, whether or not there’s a discount for buying in bulk.” Vivian slackened his pace. Despite the clouds blanketing the sky, it was not chilly enough to make their walk unpleasant. “I have a couple of elderly female relatives whom I never know what to give for birthdays and Christmas, and I’m sure they would appreciate some relief from the usual bottles of lavender water and jars of bath salts. But let’s get back to the matter of Aunt Mabel. Why don’t you let me talk to her?”
“Because I refuse to hide behind your trousers.” Flora stuck out her chin. “She might have trouble saying ‘no’ to you and that wouldn’t be fair. I have to approach this in a businesslike manner and hope that she doesn’t want too much rent.”
“Then let’s suppose that all works out,” Vivian responded cheerfully, “how are you going to set up stocking The Silver Teapot? I know you said you have a little money from your grandfather, but will that be enough?”
“Have you ever been in a secondhand shop?”
“Of course!”
“We’re not talking about classy antique places,” Flora informed him crisply. “More on the lines of Oxfam, with the difference being that instead of the proceeds going to charity, I will be the lucky beneficiary in this case. What I’ll do is talk to people like George and find out the names of suppliers of cheap but cheerful stuff—like oil lamps and china dogs. That will keep me going until I can get into what I really like.”
“Such as silver?”
“That would be the ultimate.” Flora bent to pat Nolly who was suddenly tugging on his lead in an attempt at going in the opposite direction. “Oh, dear, do you think he’s homesick already? What’s a mother to do?”
“Ask him if he’d like to stop for fish-and-chips.”
“I don’t think it’s right to make empty promises.”
“Flora, he’s a dog. But if you must be so sensitive to his feelings I’m prepared to follow through, although you don’t suppose he would prefer a curry?”
Nolly, having taken another sideways lunge, growled, and Vivian hastily said, “Fish-and-chips it will be.”
“Oh, good!” Flora beamed at them both. “Because all this talk of high finance has me starving and I remember you didn’t finish your omelet, Vivian. Do you want to go in there?” She pointed to a fish-and-chip shop three doors down. “Or would you rather wait until we get back to Bethnal Green and go to Mr. Singhh’s place?”
“This is fine.” Vivian disappeared inside the door, leaving Flora waiting on the pavement with Nolly. “What’ll it be?” He stuck his head back out. “Haddock or cod?”
“Haddock, please.”
“Why not? Considering you can write the meal off as a business expense. Vinegar on your chips?”
“Uhhmm!” Flora thought this one over.
“Don’t tell me you have to ask Nolly or I’ll start pulling out my hair.”
“Vinegar, please.”
Seconds later Vivian was back out on the pavement, handing over one of the two newspaper-wrapped bundles. “Is something wrong?” he asked as they walked, with Nolly doing a sideways trot, toward a bench screened by a tree overhanging a wall adjacent to the bus stop. “Come on, I can tell there’s something wrong,” he persisted as they sat down. “That’s a frown masquerading as a smile on your face.”
“It’s not the food.” Flora began unwrapping her package and inhaling the delicious hot oily smell of battered fish and chunky chips with crispy golden bits from previous fryings sticking to them. “This is going
to be wonderful!” She broke off a piece of haddock, blew on it to cool it down, and handed it to Nolly who gobbled it down with the sort of show-off bad manners that would induce a man to tuck his serviette into his neck at an ultra-posh restaurant. Then Nolly went back to looking over his shoulder and Flora followed his gaze, while saying to Vivian that he was going to think her stupid.
“About the shop?”
“No, not about that, although I know you would be justified. It’s just that I don’t think what’s unsettling Nolly is that he wants to go scurrying back to the flea market and George. I know this sounds boastful, but I really do think he has taken to me in a big way.”
“Who could blame him?” Vivian handed her a chip. “But I don’t understand. What do you think is wrong with Nolly?”
“I think his protective instincts are up.”
“Meaning?”
“He’s got this silly idea,” Flora offered Nolly another piece of fish, “that someone is following us. You don’t have a jealous girlfriend, do you, Vivian? I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have said that.”
“Forget it.” Vivian sounded decidedly curt, because now
his
protective instincts were aroused as he looked up and down the street. “Why would you take any notice of a dog? Especially one that looks as if he has fluff for brains.”
“Because I had that same feeling, just before we got to the fish-and-chip shop. You know how sometimes you’ll see a shadow out of the corner of your eye, and the moment you look round, it darts the other way. Nothing as solid as a real shape, but just enough to make you think someone is there....”
Nolly gave a woof of agreement, but Vivian couldn’t bring himself to sound as though he put much stock in Flora’s feeling of unease. He hadn’t sensed anything
wrong, not since that morning at Oxford Circus, and he now made up his mind that he had been programmed by his concern for Flora’s safety to imagine things. Why on earth would Aunt Mabel—even if she had murdered Hutchins—stalk Flora across London? No, it made no sense.
“You think I’m in an overwrought emotional state, prone to all sort of weird thinking. And I suppose you’re right,” Flora said and dug back into her fish-and-chips, making sure that Nolly got his fair share.
“I’m glad to see you haven’t lost your appetite,” Vivian said and they munched companionably for several minutes until a bus turned the corner. Getting hastily to his feet, he balled up their wrapping paper and tossed it into a conveniently placed bin before saying, “This is ours. It’ll take us to within a few minutes’ walk of Wishbone Street.”
“I hope Nolly likes buses.” Flora scooped up the dog and almost tripped over the trailing lead when climbing aboard the bus. “Shall we sit at the front so we can get off quickly if he gets sick?”
“I could ask the bus driver if they have any of those little bags that you get on planes in case of emergency.” Vivian sat down beside her and lowered his voice. “But he didn’t look like an animal lover to me.” This lack was more than made up for by the woman with half a dozen shopping bags piled between her knees and her chin, who managed despite these restrictions to make cooing noises at Nolly. The dog promptly buried his face in Flora’s skirts.
“We”—the plural just slipped out—“only got him today,” Flora told the woman as she stroked him, “so it’s understandable that he’s a bit shy.”
“They always are when you first get them,” came the kindly reply. “I’ve had dogs all my married life and you’d think butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths the first few days. But once they’re sure you’re going to
keep them, the honeymoon’s over, and they’ll start testing your patience just like children. Do you have any little ones at home?”
“No.” Flora didn’t dare meet Vivian’s eyes.
“I was just picturing happy little faces and eyes getting all big with excitement when you walked in the door with your surprise.”
“We’re not ...” The bus swung wide around a corner, in danger of mowing down several cars; Flora had to make a grab for Nolly before he went flying off her lap.
“We’re not,” Vivian completed the sentence for her, “expecting our first child for a few months, and we can hardly wait. So we thought we’d get the dog to break ourselves in, isn’t that right, dear?”
“A baby, how lovely!” exclaimed the woman, readjusting her parcels.
“I was surprised, too,” was all Flora could manage.
“No one ever told her where babies come from,” Vivian said cheerily. This got a laugh from the woman and a scowl from the supposed mother-to-be as Vivian got to his feet. “Hold on to me, Flora.” He extended a hand to her. “We don’t want you falling if the bus gives a lurch before it comes to a stop.”
“You really are the limit,” she told him when they were back on firm ground and Nolly was woofing to get down. “Fancy telling a bunch of lies to that nice woman; look, she’s waving at us out the window.”
“She wanted us to be a couple with dreams for the future, so why disappoint her? I expect if there had been more time she would have asked for our address and sent us some hand-knitted bootees.”
Flora tugged on the lead and marched ahead, nose in the air. “Come on, Nolly. Now we’ll never be able to believe a word Mr. Gossinger says, and it is a terrible thing when trust is broken between people.”
“In other words, the pregnancy is off?”
“Definitely.” It was impossible to repress a smile as Vivian fell in step beside her. They had just passed the block of council flats where Edna Smith and her grandson Boris lived when a man’s voice spoke suddenly from behind them.
“Excuse me,” the voice was as soft as a tap on the shoulder, “but would it offend if I had a word with you?”
“With me or the lady?” Vivian pounced around on the speaker, which was strictly speaking Nolly’s job, but the wretched dog actually wagged his tail in greeting.
“Do I know you?” Flora looked into the man’s face. A faint sense of recognition stirred, before slipping away. The gentleman—for he had yet to prove himself otherwise—wore a tweed cap and a sporting sort of jacket with a mustard tie. As for the rest of him, there wasn’t much to say; he was in every way quite ordinary.
That’s the only way I could describe him to the police,
she thought, gathering Nolly into her arms,
if he should suddenly pull out a knife or a gun and Vivian and I had to fight for our lives to get away.
She was wishing rather desperately that she was wearing one of her 1920’s cloche hats so she could yank out a hat pin, preferably one of the rusty ones, should he try any funny stuff.
“Look here,” Vivian stepped in front of her, fists clenched at the ready as he addressed the man, “have you been following us for most of the day?”
“Heaven forbid!” The response came in quite a jolly voice. “If you won’t take offense—that is to say any more than you clearly have done already—I’ve had better things to do with my time. I’ve been putting in an honest day’s work at the races. Made a bundle, by the way, and to celebrate my good fortune I’d like to invite Miss Hutchins to the pub—there’s quite a decent one nearby—for a drink and a chat.”
“Then we have met before?” asked Flora.
“On two occasions, as I am happy to remember.”
The gentleman smiled broadly, showing teeth that certainly didn’t look as though they belonged to the big bad wolf.
“I’m sorry ... you’ll have to remind me of where and when I made your acquaintance.”
“Flora,” Vivian took hold of her arm and tried to draw her on down the street, “he’s feeding you the oldest line in the book.”
“But he does know my name,” Flora protested.
“Which of course means nothing,” the man interjected smoothly before Vivian could do so. “I could have found out who you are, Miss Hutchins, from a neighbor or shopkeeper. Easiest thing in the world.”
“Now he’s trying to con you with apparent sincerity that he’s on the level, but I’m not buying it.”
“But this has to do with me,” said Flora, “and I don’t see any harm in going to the pub with him. There’s usually safety in numbers, and I do admit I’m curious....”
“He hasn’t even told you his name.” Vivian resented having to come off like a heavy-handed father.
“I know, and I understand why you’re worried,” Flora moved closer to him, “but you see I
do
have this feeling that I’ve met him before—
“Then why can’t he say who he is, right this minute?” Vivian glowered at the man. “Instead of making a mystery of it in order to lure you off to some pub? If in fact that’s where he intends taking you.”
“Because what I have to tell Miss Hutchins doesn’t just involve ourselves, but a third party,” the man said. “And she may find the situation calls for a drink.”
“Is that so?” The ugly suspicion that had haunted Vivian ever since Hutchins’s death now had him by the throat. Could this man be a plainclothes policeman? Come to probe Flora for information that would assist him in his inquiries? Vivian now cursed himself for not preparing her by voicing his own concerns. Instead,
he’d played the knight in shining armor. Damn! He was worse than a fatuous fool, he was a heel! And Flora would hate him forever once she got past the horror of what she was about to learn about Aunt Mabel’s reaction to Uncle Henry’s will.
“You will come too, won’t you?” She was looking at him with an appealing light in her smoky blue eyes as she hugged Nolly to her chin.
“What do
you
think?” he said, wishing he could kiss her right there on the street with people passing by and the copper—for that’s what he surely was—taking notes.
“I’d really prefer to talk to Miss Hutchins alone,” put in the other man. “Seeing that what I have to say to her is of a highly confidential nature.”
“Well, that’s too bad.” Flora stood up as tall as was possible for her without wearing a hat. “Because if Mr. Vivian Gossinger doesn’t come, neither do I. And that’s final! There is nothing on earth you can’t tell me in front of him, Mr. Question Mark.”
“The lady always gets to choose.” The man spread his hands in a gesture of capitulation and a few minutes later they were walking into the Blue Anchor, where the atmosphere was three parts slopped beer and two parts stubbed-out cigarettes. There was only room to inch sideways through the noisy throng and hope you didn’t get jostled into the Ladies or Gents and get trapped inside until closing time. So there wasn’t any opportunity to focus on the decor, but Flora didn’t have the feeling of being transported back to the Boy and Fish where she had sometimes gone with her grandfather for a glass of cider on Sunday afternoons.
“Why don’t the two of you find us a table,” said the man, “and I’ll get the drinks. What will it be?”