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  ‘If you like, darling. What shall we talk about – carburettors? No, Hector, it’s meant to be a joke, like the double whisky.’

  Hector didn’t talk about carburettors. He told them he’d spent another good day at the Victoria & Albert Museum, where his refrigerator was being demonstrated at the Britain Can Make It exhibition. Crowds had formed every day around the stand and there was tremendous interest from retailers.

  ‘How thrilling for you! I must come and see it.’

  His chestnut eyes suddenly shone again. ‘You tell me when. I can get you in complimentary.’

  Antonia studied her fingernails. ‘Don’t get carried away, Rosie. Just about everything in that tinpot exhibition is marked “For export only”, including his precious fridge.’

  Hector glared at her.

  The minestrone made a timely arrival. Rose took a first spoonful, watched by Antonia.

  ‘Good?’

  ‘This wasn’t out of a tin.’

  ‘Did your parents come up for the funeral?’

  ‘Yes. They asked me to go home with them.’

  ‘Why? Do they need looking after?’

  ‘They were thinking of me.’

  ‘You’re lucky. They must be fond of you. My mother’s impossible. Even Hector can’t stand her.’

  ‘Not true, Antonia.’

  ‘Oh, get away with you, Hec. You complained of a headache last time and we had to leave early.’ She picked up a slice of bread and started picking it to pieces. Rose, as she listened, quickly sensed that Antonia was at it again, manipulating people, but this time Hector seemed to be the target. ‘This is fearfully boring for you, Rosie, but now that the subject of Ma has come up, I’ve got something to ask my husband. I had a letter from home this morning, dearest. It’s about Lucky.’

  Hector frowned. ‘Lucky?’

  ‘The dog, you chump.’ She sighed and turned to Rose. ‘If ever an animal was misnamed, it’s this one. Ma collected it from the dogs’ home when I was still a schoolgirl, that’s how old it is. It was blind in one eye and she felt sorry for it. A cross between a bull terrier and a Bedlington, if you can imagine that. Pink eyes and white woolly hair. It’s been run over twice and has a metal splint in one leg. One of its ears was torn off in a fight and it went deaf in the air raids. Lucky!’

  Hector nodded. ‘First time I met this Lucky, he make water on my new shoes.’

  ‘Thank you, dear heart. The dog has an unreliable bladder to add to its miseries and Ma’s, but I wasn’t going to speak of it over dinner. The latest bulletin is that it’s developed a chronic case of mange. The woolly coat is dropping like snow all over the house. Ma says she must face the inevitable.’

  ‘He must go?’

  ‘Poor old thing, yes. What’s that song of Gracie Fields? – “Wish Me Luck as You Wave Me Goodbye”. – The thing is, she can’t bear the thought of taking the old dog to the vet, so she wants me to go up there and do the necessary.’

  Hector’s eyebrows pricked up. ‘Kill it?’

  ‘Pass it over to the vet. She’s in a frightful state about it.’

  He lifted his shoulders and spread his hands. ‘You’d better go, then.’

  ‘But it’s bound to mean two or three days away. Apart from all that travelling, I’m going to have a distraught mother to deal with.’ She hesitated before asking Hector in a voice pitched on a tragic note, ‘I suppose you won’t come with me?’

  Rose sipped her soup and looked into the mid-distance. She wished Antonia had saved this conversation for later.

  Hector shook his head. ‘Britain Can Make It.’

  ‘So Hector obviously can’t. No, I don’t mean to be rude. I shall just have to go on my own. You do understand that the doggie has to be dealt with, Hec, my pet?’

  Antonia’s concern for her husband was as warming as it was unexpected. A pity she called him her ‘pet’ in the circumstances, but he seemed not to take it badly.

  He leaned towards Rose. ‘My wife, she is highly suitable for such a sad duty. No nerves. No panics.’

  ‘I can believe it.’

  The matter still wasn’t settled to Antonia’s satisfaction, even though Hector had given his blessing. There was the problem of his eating arrangements. ‘How can I go up to Manchester knowing you won’t eat a thing? It’s no good looking at me like that, Hector. You’re too proud to eat in a restaurant alone.’

  He shook his head. ‘Not too proud. I don’t enjoy it, that’s all.’

  ‘It comes down to the same thing.’ She swung round and addressed Rose. ‘You see how difficult he makes it?

  The silly man won’t have a hot dinner for as long as I’m gone.’

  ‘How does he manage for lunch?’

  ‘Never eats it. This is the only substantial meal he gets. He’s going to collapse if he doesn’t eat something.’

  The thought crossed Rose’s mind that if all Hector was lacking was a dining companion, she could easily volunteer. This thought was overtaken by another: this concern for Hector’s eating arrangements didn’t square with Antonia’s plans for him. No, she thought. Something lies behind this.

  She slipped in a suggestion. ‘Couldn’t you cook something like a stew before you go and leave it in the oven for Hector to warm up?’

  As if Hector hadn’t heard of anything so humble as stew, Antonia provided a rough translation. ‘Goulash.’

  He gave a shrug.

  ‘Darling, he’d like nothing better, but there are two little snags. First, I couldn’t make a stew to save my life, and second, Hector would blow up the house trying to light the gas.’

  ‘Could I do it?’

  ‘Light the gas?’

  ‘Prepare the evening meal.’ The suggestion came from Rose spontaneously, and immediately after making it she cursed herself for being so impetuous. Then she thought about the prospect more calmly and decided that if Antonia were away in Manchester there couldn’t be any harm in it. She’d do as much for any friend. It was a practical and agreeable way of dispensing at least a little of the obligation she had to Antonia. ‘I can easily cook up a stew, but I don’t know about goulash.’

  ‘It’s just extra seasoning, like curry. That’s a thought!’ Antonia smiled knowingly at Hector and he nodded back.

  Rose looked towards each of them in turn. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Could you make a curry for him? He’d adore that.’

  She liked the suggestion. It would be much more tempting to serve up to Hector than plain old stew. ‘Well, yes. I make quite a passable lamb curry.’

  ‘Darling, that’s awfully good of you. Let me buy the ingredients. The meat. Everything. It’ll keep in the fridge. We’ll give you a key and you can let yourself in whenever you want and do the cooking. Hector gets home about six from the exhibition. He won’t be a minute late if there’s a curry waiting. You’re an angel.’

  Hector raised his glass to her. ‘The lady who is about to save my life.’

  She felt herself go pink.

  At the door of Reggiori’s, Antonia was handed a box not unlike the cake-box she’d picked up at the Ritz. Rose asked what the cat was getting for supper and learned that it was salmon.

  They drove her back to Pimlico in the Bentley. She thanked them profusely for the meal and for bringing her home.

  While Hector was turning the car she stood waving from her front door.

  ‘Like some little girl who went to a birthday party.’

  ‘What?’ Antonia was staring out of the other window at the road safety poster.

  ‘Rosie. Such nice manners. I believe you’re wrong about her. She wouldn’t make trouble for us with the police. Didn’t you see how she really wants to cook dinner for me? She jumped at it. How can you think of this wicked thing?’

  ‘Don’t start up now, little man. I’m pooped.’

  ‘Pooped from telling so many lies.’

  Hector wasn’t used to getting the last word, so it was no surprise when Antonia pitched in as they were motoring up Park
Lane. ‘She really took you in, didn’t she? You’re a sucker for the little-girl-lost look. The timid smile and watery blue eyes.’

  ‘No wonder her eyes are sad when her husband just died. Don’t you have no pity?’

  Antonia shook with amusement, taking gusts of air through her nostrils. ‘You prize idiot! She isn’t suffering. Barry was no loss. She killed him.’

  He drew the car in to the kerb and switched off the engine. ‘Antonia, I do not believe this.’

  ‘He was a washout as a husband so she shoved him on to the Piccadilly Line and picked up five thousand in insurance. Don’t waste any sympathy on Rose Bell, my innocent. She’s a killer. You can ask her.’

  ‘How can I ask such a thing?’

  ‘Ask her if she really misses him. You’ll see the guilt in her face.’

  17

  Rose used a key Antonia had given her to enter the house in Park Crescent early on Tuesday afternoon. Antonia had phoned that morning to say she was catching the 11.25 from Euston, adding that she’d stocked up at Fortnum’s and a little place she knew that didn’t bother with ration books and she’d left heaps of things in the fridge and Rose was to use whatever she wanted and to hell with austerity.

  Until the moment the latch clicked behind her, Rose hadn’t foreseen the unease she would feel letting herself into someone else’s house. All five doors leading off from the hall were closed. She wished she’d been more observant of the layout when Antonia had brought her here before, instead of goggling at it all like a GI in Piccadilly Circus. She did remember that the blue and white sitting room looked on to the street, so presumably that was the first door, but which was the kitchen? Somewhere ahead. She stepped forward, grasped a handle, turned it and found herself staring into darkness. Judging by the musty smell, it was the route to the cellar.

  She closed that door and tried another. Second time lucky. Hector’s enormous fridge gave a welcoming throb. She slipped off her coat and hung it on a hook behind the door.

  There was a folded note on the kitchen table with her name on it. Antonia’s writing was huge. It ran to several sheets.

  Rose Darling,

  You’re one in a million.

  Meat in the fridge. Also butter and as many fresh veggies as I could carry home. Onions on the windowsill. Raisins and sultanas in the canisters on the dresser (second shelf) next to all the spices. Be generous with the curry powder – Hec doesn’t believe it’s the real thing unless he breathes fire after it. Oh, and if you want to go to the trouble of rice, there’s a packet beside the breadbin. Hope I haven’t forgotten anything essential. Found the ingredients in the New World cookery book, which I’m sure you won’t need to use – I’ve never used it either!

  Hec says he will be in about six each night and for once he definitely means it.

  Raffles will finish any trimmings from the meat. Did I mention that he’s the cat?

  I’m counting on being back by Saturday. Let’s all have another meal at Reggiori’s. By God, you deserve it!

  Love,

  Antonia

  It was a good thing that Raffles was mentioned, because before Rose had finished reading the note she felt a movement against her leg. A second or two earlier and neither she nor the cat would have got much pleasure from the contact. She picked him up and faced the scrutiny of his large orange eyes.

  ‘So you’re Raffles, are you? Shall we see if we can crack this safe together? Oh, my word, look at this!’

  A family could have fed from that fridge for a month. She put Raffles down and collected butter and lard by the armful just to find a way through to the milk.

  Having filled the cat’s saucer she went back to the fridge. Presently she located the meat – beautiful boned lamb and heaps more than she needed for a single curry, whatever the capacity of Hector’s appetite. She picked a large piece that must have weighed two pounds or so, then looked round for a knife and chopping board. She was going to need extra time for working in a strange kitchen.

  Everything she required was somewhere nearby, only had to be found first. It took the best part of an hour to collect all the ingredients, chop the meat and onion and take it through the frying stage, but she got engrossed in the cooking and didn’t fret about the time.

  She hadn’t felt so pleased to be preparing food for months. Cooking lost its appeal when your husband told you frankly that he regarded eating as ‘stoking up’. Barry would have cheerfully stoked up every day with baked beans if they were put in front of him. It wasn’t as if Rose hadn’t tried to educate his taste. Time and again, notwithstanding rationing and shortages, she’d put some special dish on the table after queuing and cooking most of the day only to see him bolt it without looking up from the evening paper.

  She stirred in two tablespoonfuls of curry powder, enough, she decided, to produce the strong curry Hector expected without altogether masking the other spices, for she’d found ginger, garlic and paprika lined up on the dresser. Raisins, sliced celery and chopped apple and tomato went into the pot to simmer with the meat until it was tender. Reggiori’s had better watch out!

  By then it was getting on for half past four. She washed up and thought about setting the table. It ought to be ready for when he came in. Where was the dining room, she wondered. She didn’t want her famous curry to be eaten off the kitchen table.

  She dried her hands and went to explore. She felt she’d earned the right to try those doors in the hall.

  As she switched on a light she gave a cry, half admiring, half envious. A spacious, beautifully proportioned room, cream and pale green, with an oval table that could have seated a dozen easily and still didn’t dominate. A fire had been laid in the grate, so she put a match to it and watched it take. Then she went to the windows and drew the curtains. They were ivory-coloured velvet and they skimmed the floor.

  She found silver cutlery, placemats and napkins in the top drawer of a mahogany sideboard opposite the fireplace. Like the cooking implements, they’d not been given much use.

  It was while she was setting the place for Hector that she had a paralysing thought: why was she putting out a dessert spoon? There was nothing to follow. She’d been so absorbed in preparing the curry that she hadn’t given a thought to the rest of the meal.

  There had to be some form of dessert, but what? There wasn’t much time. What would be acceptable after a piping hot curry? Something moist. Fruit? After all the trouble she’d taken with the first course it would be a dreadful letdown just to open a tin of peaches.

  A fresh fruit salad would be better. Coming out of Regent’s Park tube station on the way to Antonia’s she’d passed a stall selling apples and pears and there had been hardly any queue to speak of.

  She looked at the time, shovelled some more coal on the fire and collected her coat.

  On the way she thought of something better. There was a story her mother delighted in telling about the evening Daddy had thrown his annual dinner party at the rectory for the church wardens and their wives. It had always been a staid affair. That year Mummy had found a recipe for pears poached in red wine which proved to be such a success that two or three of the guests had become merry after second helpings. When they’d all tottered out at the end of the evening, Daddy had asked what the recipe was called. Mummy had given an innocent smile and said, ‘Wardens in Wine’. A warden, she’d discovered, was an old English name for a pear used in cooking.

  She’d noticed several bottles of Burgundy lying on their sides on the floor of the larder. If there were any pears left on the greengrocer’s stall, her problem would be solved.

  Although it was almost dark, the man was still there, working under an electric light bulb. Rose bought three large Comice pears. Twenty-five past five. Ten minutes’ preparation and twenty for the poaching. She could just get everything done in time.

  The simmering curry was giving off a rich aroma when Rose got back to the house. She checked that the fire was burning well in the dining room and then set to work in the k
itchen. While she was peeling and coring the pears, her thoughts returned to Antonia. How odd that any woman equipped with this dream of a kitchen could take no interest in cooking. Terribly sad, really, that Hector devoted his working life to manufacturing labour-saving machines for women and was married to someone who didn’t appreciate them in the slightest. Perhaps Antonia should have employed a cook. Well, she has, in a way, Rose thought, smiling. I’m in service here. I’m not doing it from altruism. I’m under an obligation to her; she killed my husband, so I cook for hers when she goes away. Not a bad division of responsibility from my point of view.

  In fact, I’m enjoying it. It must be years since I had such a satisfying afternoon.

  It was too bad that oranges were still blue books only. A few thin strips of peel would have completed the dish. At least there was spice. She added sugar and a few cloves. Then she brought it all to the boil and let it simmer.

  Time to heat some water for the rice.

  I wonder if Antonia has any idea what a treat this is for me. Or, come to that, what a treat is in store for Hector. To be fair, she provided all the ingredients. That meat is superb. It smells delicious.

  She’s so inconsistent, talking to me about wanting to do away with Hector, and then going to no end of trouble to see that he’s properly fed.

  Unless . . .

  Unless I’ve totally misunderstood what’s going on.

  Please God, no!

  She’s capable of it.

  She knows I’d refuse point blank if she asked me to administer poison to her husband. But what if I’m unaware of what I’m doing?

  ‘Be generous with the curry powder.’

  Curry will mask the taste of arsenic or strychnine or whatever she managed to obtain from her boyfriend Vic, the chemistry lecturer. The plan is horribly clear. She went to her mother to give herself an alibi. In my ignorance I’m about to serve up a poisoned curry for Hector and kill him. When she comes back from Manchester she’ll fill in the blank death certificate and have him cremated.

  Or am I imagining this?

  He’ll be here any minute.