‘Surely it’s just a matter of aesthetics?’ Mr Huff snaps, plainly riled. ‘Sensitive writerly eyes are naturally charmed by the same qualities in a home: the layout, the seclusion, the sense of quiet …’

‘Possibly.’ I shrug.

Hang on, though … Hang on. Shelf the negativity for a moment, Carla. Maybe he thinks Sage is of an older generation? Dryer, fustier, careworn? It makes a strange kind of … Can he mean that? I furtively glance over.

No.

No.

He is staring at my cheek again.

‘Are they fours, or are they little, primitive crosses with a diagonal line going from the top to the—’

‘Charming as the widow Sage undoubtedly is,’ I quickly interrupt, ‘I’m hazarding a guess that it was her former connection to Dr Meadows that initially drew you to her.’

‘I hear Dr Meadows kept extensive private diaries,’ he twinkles (infuriatingly).

‘And did Mrs Meadows show you the diaries?’ I wonder.

‘Nope.’

‘Why ever not?’

‘Because I didn’t presume to ask, Miss Hahn.’

He checks his watch and then reaches for his jacket. Did he take off his jacket? I have no memory of that. But I like his cream shirt and his thin tweed tie and his old-fashioned corduroy waistcoat. I suppose – to all intents and purposes – he’s quite dressed up.

‘Well I’d hate to keep you.’ I smile.

‘I got a lift in with Mr Barrow.’ Mr Huff casually returns to one of my earlier enquiries. ‘An interesting man. No conversation. Watery eyes. Like he’s always teetering on the verge of bursting into tears.’

‘I’ve always felt as though Mr Barrow’s superficially unprepossessing exterior actually conceals hidden depths,’ I murmur. ‘Like he’s … I don’t know … an old soul.’

I have no idea why I feel this (there’s no physical or anecdotal evidence), but I always have.

‘Really?’ Mr Huff demands.

I nod.

‘Because I’ve often found myself thinking the exact same thing!’ he announces, apparently utterly astonished by the parity in our thinking.

‘Oh,’ I say.

Just ‘Oh.’

‘I do believe that’s the first subject we’ve ever actually agreed upon, Miss Hahn!’ he exclaims, rising to his feet.

I desperately try and think of another (another thing we’ve agreed upon), but I can’t. No. There’s nothing. Simply nothing.

‘That’s very possibly true,’ I grudgingly concede.

‘And there’s number two!’ Mr Huff holds up his arms in a gesture of sporting celebration. ‘We’re on a roll, Miss Hahn! Dios de ni Vida!’

Then off he saunters.

Urgh. I stab into the yolk of my poached egg with my fork. So irritating. So … so irritating. He is. Him. That awful man. That awful, awful man. Mr Huff.

17

Mr Franklin D. Huff

It was what I was actually thinking as she did it that shocked me. Sorry – I’m running ahead of myself. ‘She’ (aka the Cat’s Mother) aka Mrs Sage Meadows, widow; and what she did: pressing my thudding head into her (perfectly) ample bosom. And what I was actually thinking, meanwhile? I was thinking: Oh our dear Miss Hahn would have a field day with this! I can just imagine her expression. Or her signal lack of expression. Those careful, bleached green eyes with their strange, dark grey surround full of a complete absence of malice which is actually a profound expression of malice. Yes. It’s all in the brows, I suppose. A tiny movement of one brow. Yes. I can just imagine how …