Death is a Word by Hazel Holt Read Free Book Online Page A

see.’ I hesitated for a minute. ‘Well, he did say he’d help.’
    ‘Any excuse.’
    ‘Oh, come on, Rosemary,’ I said coaxingly. ‘Is it so very bad? He seems a nice enough chap and they do get on very well; they’ve got a lot in common, after all.’
    ‘I suppose so,’ she said reluctantly. ‘Perhaps I’ve been a bit unfair. But it’s only been a short time since Alan died …’
    ‘Nearly a year. And Eva’s so much happier since she’s been seeing Donald. I’m sure Alan would want her to be happy.’
    ‘Yes, you’re right. I’m probably making a fuss about nothing. It’s just that he’s so
charming
!’
    ‘I know what you mean, but it’s not fair to condemn him for being nice to people.’
     
    Rosemary told me that Dan and Patrick were coming to stay for a few days. Dan was doing an article about new (and expensive) restaurants in the West Country and they were calling in on Eva on their way down to Cornwall where, apparently, the most glamorous ones were to be found.
    ‘I’d really like to see Dan again,’ Rosemary said, ‘so I’ve invited them to supper, and Eva, of course, and I hope you’ll come too.’
    ‘I’d love to. I’ve always wanted to meet Dan and Patrick. But isn’t it brave of you to invite them to a
meal
?’
    ‘Oh, I specifically said supper and not dinner. And, actually, Dan is very tolerant of what he calls “proper cooking” – not a bit what you’d expect from his reviews.’
    ‘What will you give him?’
    ‘Sausages and mash, by special request – he’s very keen on our local sausages. Eva once took him some as a present. And apple crumble.’
    ‘It sounds delicious.’
    ‘I did think of asking Donald Webster too, but I thought perhaps Eva would rather introduce him to Dan separately, if you see what I mean.’
     
    Dan, tall and shambling, was wearing jeans and a T-shirt with the legend ‘Most Cooks Spoil the Broth’. His dark hair flopped over his forehead, almost obscuring the gold-rimmed spectacles he wore balanced halfway down his large nose – Alan’s nose. Patrick, on the other hand, was small and neat, with smoothed-down fair hair. He wore a well-cut dark suit and a very handsome silk tie.
    ‘So you haven’t found any suitable restaurants in this part of the West Country?’ I asked Dan.
    He shook his head. ‘No, thank goodness. It remains pure and unsullied. Like these delicious sausages.’ He smiled at Rosemary. ‘No, I’m delighted to say that the tradition of proper cooking still holds sway. The occasional gastropub pops up from time to time, butthey never last long. But, please, don’t let’s spoil this splendid occasion by talking about such things.’ He turned to me. ‘I greatly enjoyed your book on Mrs Gaskell and there’s so much I want to ask you about the novels of the period. Where, for instance, would you place Mrs Oliphant? Personally I found
Salem
Chapel
a quite remarkable book.’
    He then embarked on a survey of the Victorian novel, obviously based on such an extensive knowledge of the genre that I found I had to dig deep to match it. We disagreed over some authors (‘You must admit that Mrs Cholmondley’s
Red Pottage
is exceptional’) but came together over a mutual passion for Charlotte Yonge (‘A complete page-turner if ever there was one’). We parted reluctantly at the end of the evening with a promise on my part to send him a spare edition I had of
The Monthly Packet.
     
    ‘You and Dan certainly got on well,’ Rosemary said.
    ‘Oh well, when you get two people obsessed with the same author …’ I replied.
    ‘He’s a very kind person underneath that rather peculiar manner. He’s devoted to Eva – he was wonderful when Alan died. I don’t think she could have coped without him and Patrick.’
    ‘I didn’t have a chance, really, to talk to Patrick. What’s he like? He didn’t say very much.’
    ‘He never does, but
when
he does it’s always something to the point. He sits there taking