“Darling,” she wrote, “since I finished this, rather an odd thing has happened. I’ve had a policeman here—a sergeant, asking questions about Gandhi!—sheep-killing, of all things, as if the poor lamb would even so much as give a sniff at a loathsome great sheep. Of course I told him it was all nonsense, and then he started asking me about dates and things, and one of them was Friday. So, of course, I told him about our heavenly ride on the Downs that day, and how Gandhi was with us every minute of the time, and then—darling, you’ll think me a perfect idiot—but he asked me who you were and whether you could back up Gandhi’s alibi or whatever you call it, and then before I knew what I was doing I started telling him all about you and how we found we could get married ages sooner than we thought we could and—oh, angel! I do feel such a complete worm to have gone and talked about our private selves to a great red-faced policeman! As if it mattered to a soul except just us! Do forgive me for being such an absolute fool. I feel so beastly about it because, you see, I must tell you now, I have been a bit worried in my mind ever since you told me about the money. It is marvellous having it and all that it means, but, darling, why are you so mysterious about it? Honestly, it makes me frightened sometimes. I hate to feel there’s something about you I’m not supposed to know. And then when a great fat sergeant starts asking questions about you—he wasn’t a bit like an ordinary sergeant, really, much more polite and educated—I suppose that’s why I talked to him so much more than I meant. Dearest, do tell me, really, is there anything about this money which—you know what I mean, which the police oughtn’t to know about? I don’t mind what it is—honestly, I don’t—it’s only you I care about. Do write soon, if it’s only to tell me I’m a nervous little fool. I get these silly frights simply because I love you so much. . . .”

The rest of the letter is irrelevant.

“That sergeant talked a lot,” remarked the general at dinner. “I hate a talkative man.” He took a spoonful of soup. “Now where all these politicians go wrong about India. . . .”

India lasted well into the savoury.

18
EVIDENCE IN MOUNT STREET

Sunday, November 22nd