Carson's Conspiracy by Michael Innes Read Free Book Online Page B

Robin’s supposed arrival casually to Humphry Lely had been harmless enough, but announcing it to Punter, who, unlike the painter, was permanently on the premises, was different. It would never do if it was one of the Punters who first announced the fallacious fact to Cynthia. Carson had thus, in a sense, jumped his own gun. If he mentioned the imaginary cable, his wife would want to see it. If he didn’t, it might be mentioned in her presence on some further casual encounter with Lely. Reflecting on this, Carson roundly cursed the cable. In inventing it he had violated that Law of Parsimony which has become known to logicians as Occam’s razor. Being no logician, Carson didn’t actually call it this. He just told himself that one ought to be sparing with one’s fibs. This trifling one had unexpectedly proved distinctly awkward. Then he remembered that cables, like inland telegrams when such things still were, frequently arrived by telephone. Perhaps he could get away with that. But there was something ominous about this small difficulty. It suggested that other difficulties, large as well as small, were bound to be on the way. The way was the way to freedom, nevertheless. He must simply drive ahead.
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    In the event, it didn’t go too badly. It went rather well. It went rather too well, indeed, to be quite reassuring. This last feeling in himself Carson would have found it difficult to explain. It was partly a matter of Cynthia’s having taken his news so very much in her stride. Of course she had lately been expecting Robin to turn up. Her conversation, both with her husband and others, had frequently been turning on the fact. At times it had been distinctly gushing conversation, as if the mere prospect of the event might at any moment induce a transport of excitement. But now she received what her husband had to announce much as if Robin were a regular weekend visitor. She asked no questions, whether about that cable or anything else. She had simply put down her knitting (she had never lost an early habit of knitting socks) and rung a bell.
    Except in hotels and places, ringing a bell was an action Carson tended to avoid. He had a vague feeling that it was an archaic practice no longer followed except in classes of society in which it was easy to go wrong. If he wanted Punter, he would stick his head into the man’s pantry, or even just give a shout, rather than tug at a rope or push a button. So only Cynthia ever rang a bell, and only Mrs Punter ever answered it. She did so now.
    â€˜Mrs Punter, dear,’ Cynthia said, ‘my son is coming on a visit. We must have a nice room ready for him. Perhaps the one with the big bow window.’
    â€˜Yes, madam. The blue room.’
    â€˜The blue room?’ Cynthia repeated doubtfully. She could never remember that she had a blue room – perhaps because she associated the adjective not with the sky, the sea and the eyes of new-born babes, but with pills, nasty music, improper movies and dismal states of mind. ‘But, yes – of course. I’m sure it’s not dusty, or anything of that sort. But do remember soap. It can be so awkward without soap. And I’ll speak to Lockett about some nice flowers.’
    â€˜Very good, madam. Will it be tomorrow that Mr Carson arrives?’
    â€˜Mr Carson?’ Suddenly Cynthia was at her most completely vague – and then, equally abruptly, decisive. ‘Thursday,’ she said. ‘You will so like dear Robin.’
    â€˜Thank you, madam.’ And Mrs Punter went away.
    Carson had said nothing about Thursday, and he ventured to point this out now.
    â€˜Oh, it’s sure to be Thursday,’ Cynthia said calmly. ‘Thursday has been my lucky day ever since the tombola.’
    Like so many of his wife’s remarks, this one was meaningless to Carson. Perhaps the tombola had been some nonsense at a church fête or Women’s Institute jamboree. Cynthia