Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 105, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 640 & 641, March 1995

There came a time when she began to recognise telltale envelopes. Esme neither allowed their mere arrival to spoil breakfast nor postponed opening them. That wasn’t her style. But bank and building society statements earned her farsighted concern. It wasn’t a crisis, not even a problem yet. It never would be, were she prepared to sell the house and retrench to a studio flat. All the same...

At that stage a solution presented itself. Esme attended a midweek gathering of the Civic Society, enjoying a slides-illustrated talk on Georgian buildings, rare as unicorns in her outer-London suburb. It was such a nice afternoon that she took the long way home, glancing idly into the shops along Normandy Parade. Then she retraced her steps. The newsagent displayed handwritten advertisements in a corner of his window.

“LODGINGS FOR SINGLE WOMAN, £70 P.W.” “ROOM, BUSINESS LADY ONLY, £75 P.W.” “CLEAN, NEAT (underlined) NONSMOKING (underlined twice) LODGER INVITED, TWO MINS STATION AND BUSES, TERMS BY AGREEMENT.” “THIRD WOMAN FOR SMALL BUT LOVELY HOUSE, SALON-GRADE HAIR DRYER AND SATELLITE TV, £250 PER MONTH.” Esme raised her eyebrows and — she retained a shred of the tomboy — whistled softly.

Her house had three bedrooms. By rearranging furniture and selling one bed, she could produce a bedroom and a private sitting room. Priced at... no call to be greedy, say £85 a week, throw in cooked breakfast and high tea. Fiver a week discount for cash, then accountant Goodbody and the Inland Revenue need not bother their heads over the matter. Some four thousand pounds a year, off the books, untaxed. It bore thinking about.

Her lodger must not be female. They could be worse than men under your roof — more territorial, given to hatching grievances, chattering, and she could envisage clammy tights left to dry in the bathroom. Esme’s paying guest would be a man.

Actually she wouldn’t mind a bit of company. In moderation, on her terms. Men might be, indeed were, men, but a lodger seemed different. More manageable; neutered, somehow.

David Shale could have been created by order for Esme Huddle.

Not timid, she couldn’t abide wishy-washy men, and not the other way; she had no time for those who were overbearing or aspired to be. Mr. Shale, fortyish, sandyish, plumply unthreatening as the dormouse which his round, liquid eyes evoked, satisfied her. He was a bookkeeper at a plastics factory only a mile from Chinnery Gardens, and proved almost embarrassingly grateful to get “my own little corner in such a nice, quiet house — parlour to myself, right across the landing. I have struck lucky.”

That gave Esme pause. In her experience, or rather, received knowledge from her dad, and he’d been no fool, effusive strangers had to be watched. But it was just David Shale’s way, he could not help being appreciative.

Further, although Esme believed that no man could be sensitive, Mr. Shale was quick on the uptake, receptive to hints. The second evening, finishing tea, he cleared his throat, showed signs of confiding in her, and began, “I’m divorced, you know—”

“I expect so,” she countered sharply, forbiddingly. Changing tack to say that it had smelled of a frost on his way home, he never revived the subject. Really, Esme congratulated herself, apart from the cooking, which she would have done for herself in any case, he was no trouble. Yet she did have a minor reservation about the paying guest.

For someone avowedly admiring a nice quiet house, his voice eroded the quietness a fraction more than Esme liked. But then, she admitted smugly, she brought that on herself. She was a good cook, a good plain cook. Roast and three veg (she soon invited him to share Saturday and Sunday lunches, at no extra charge), egg-and-bacon breakfasts, unless it was two boiled eggs, toast, and marmalade. Variations on meat pasty, a chop, fish of some sort, for his tea. Mr. Shale couldn’t get over it. “Delicious!” most times, before and after the repast. Sometimes he chortled, “Ledicious,” which, since he wasn’t drunk, Esme took to be a joke. She wasn’t good at jokes.

How he rang the changes, lauding the most pedestrian menus... Uncalled for, she considered; he was getting what she made for herself. It didn’t cost that much more than catering for one.

“Scrumptious.” “My goodness, a bloater. We had these at home, haven’t seen one in years, hadn’t thought of them. With bread and butter, just the ticket!” He might have been espying caviar.

“Compliments to the chef.” “After a spread like that, you must let me help with the washing-up.” And so forth and on, all of it patently sincere.