The Morning Gift

He spoke no less than the truth. It was after the débâcle in Janet’s flat that Mantella had sent for Ruth and confronted her with Zoltan Karkoly, a Hungarian journalist now working for the Daily Echo. Karkoly had explained that his article would be one of a series devoted to the more outstanding competitors in the Bootheby Piano Competition and the music they would play, and had drawn her out skilfully on her favourite topics. He thus found himself in possession of a great deal of information about the livestock favoured by Mozart: not only the starling bought for thirty-four kreutzers in the market, but a subsequent canary and the horse which the composer had ridden through the streets of Vienna. His questions about Ruth herself and her relationship with Heini were thrown in casually and answered trustingly. Yes, she worked in the Willow; yes, she loved Thameside – and yes, she would follow Heini to the ends of the earth, said Ruth who had left him in a tumbled bed and escaped down the fire escape. And yes, she would pose for photographs if it would help Heini’s career.

So they had adjourned to the Bechstein in the Wigmore Hall and Karkoly had taken several photographs, but printed only the last one in which she turned her head a little, asking if it was over, and her hair tumbled forward over Heini’s shoulder so that only an idiot would fail to catch the allusion to the painting By Love Surprised which hung in every other drawing room.

Ruth had not seen Mr Hoyle’s article about the Willow and she had not seen Karkoly’s piece in the Echo – no one had money for newspapers in Belsize Park. But Quin now, staring down at the fulsome words of adoration put into her mouth, found himself crushed by a jealousy so painful that it must have shown him, if nothing else had done, how utterly he was committed to this love.

‘We take it you will speak to her?’ said Lady Plackett.

‘Yes; I shall certainly do that.’

By the time he drove back over Waterloo Bridge, Quin was calm again. The article was certainly days old; he himself knew of the tricks and distortions practised by journalists, but the joy and wonder had gone from the day and, for the first time, he saw the unlikeliness of what had happened. A man who has known countless women marries a girl out of chivalry and finds in her his true and only love . . .

He let himself into the flat and found Lockwood back from his weekend.

‘There’s a message for you from Cavour and Stattersley,’ he said. ‘It was Mr Cavour what rung. You’re to ring him back when you get in; he’ll be there till 6.30. The number’s on the pad.’

‘Thank you.’

Now what? Surely they couldn’t have made a mistake – he’d been absolutely clear about Ruth’s address, and his instructions.

He went to the telephone. Dialled . . . sat down; a thing he didn’t generally do when he phoned.

‘Ah, Professor Somerville. I’m glad I’ve caught you. Something very strange has happened. The necklace has been returned to us.’

‘What?’

‘At lunchtime. Miss Berger came in herself and handed it back.’

‘For alterations? It’s too long?’

‘No, not for that, not to be exchanged. I thought she might prefer different stones. Green is considered unlucky by some people, you know. I had a client –’

‘Yes, yes. Just tell me what happened. What did she say?’

‘She appeared to be very angry. She said I was to tell you that she didn’t want it. She was only in the shop a moment. Very upset she seemed to be. We’ll keep it here, sir, awaiting your instructions. It can stay in our strong-room till then – only we’d appreciate hearing from you soon; something as valuable as that is best kept in the bank.’

‘Yes.’ One must be polite. One must thank Mr Cavour. One must eat the supper Lockwood had prepared.

Was it really that, then: that old, old story? Using an experienced man to teach you the arts of love so that you can return, unafraid, to your lover? Not such a bad idea, really. She had probably read it in a book.

No, that wasn’t true. It couldn’t be true. ‘I shall die if you leave me,’ she had said not twenty-four hours ago. But she had said other things too. She had said, ‘I would follow Heini to the ends of the earth.’

Resting his forehead against the glass of the window, he struggled for belief, for the conviction of her goodness which alone made life worth living. He would see her tomorrow. She would come to his lecture; there would be an explanation. It couldn’t be real, this descent into hell.

‘Oh, God – give me faith!’ begged Quin, reduced by this unfamiliar agony to the prayers of his childhood.

But God was silent and the Thames, as Ruth had bidden it, flowed on and on and on.

Ruth sat in the Underground and stared at the advertisement opposite.

Have you got chill spots?

Yes, a lot.

Have you got chill spots?

No.

Why not?

Cos Mr Therm is raving hot

And drives all chill spots from the spot.