Last Ditch by Ngaio Marsh Read Free Book Online Page B

muttered.
    Made cross by having been startled, Troy said: ‘My dear boy, do for pity’s sake speak out. You make me feel as if I were giving an imitation of a woman talking to herself. Stick them up there where I can see them.’
    With unsteady hands he put them up, one by one, changing them when she nodded. The first was the large painting Ricky had decided was an abstraction of Leda and the Swan. The second was a kaleidoscopic arrangement of shapes in hot browns and raucous blues. The third was a landscape, more nearly representational than the others. Rows of perceptible houses with black, staring windows stood above dark water. There was some suggestion of tactile awareness but no real respect, Troy thought, for the medium.
    She said: ‘I think I know where we are with this one. Is it St Pierre-des-Roches on the coast of Normandy?’
    ‘Yar,’ he said.
    ‘It’s the nearest French port to your island, isn’t it? Do you often go across?’
    ‘Aw – yar,’ he said, fidgeting. ‘It turns me on. Or did. I’ve worked that vein out, as a matter of fact.’
    ‘Really,’ said Troy. There was a longish pause. ‘Do you mind putting up the first one again. The Leda.’
    He did so. Another silence. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘do you want me to say what I think? Or not?’
    ‘I don’t mind,’ he mumbled, and yawned extensively.
    ‘Here goes, then. I find it impossible to say whether I think you’ll develop into a good painter or not. These three things are all derivative. That doesn’t matter while you’re young: if you’ve got something of your own, with great pain and infinite determination you will finally prove it. I don’t think you’ve done that so far. I do get something from the Leda thing – a suggestion that you’ve got a strong sense of rhythm, but it is no more than a suggestion. I don’tthink you’re very self-critical.’ She looked hard at him. ‘You don’t fool about with drugs, do you?’ asked Troy.
    There was a very long pause before he answered quite loudly, ‘No.’
    ‘Good. I only asked because your hands are unsteady and your behaviour erratic, and –’ She broke off. ‘Look here,’ she said, ‘you’re not well, are you? Sit down. No, don’t be silly, sit down.’
    He did sit down. He was shaking, sweat had started out under the line of his hair and he was the colour of a peeled banana. He gaped and ran a dreadful tongue round his mouth. She fetched him a glass of water. The dark glasses were askew. He put up his trembling hand to them and they fell off, disclosing a pair of pale ineffectual eyes. Gone was the mysterious Mr Jones.
    ‘I’m all right,’ he said.
    ‘I don’t think you are.’
    ‘Party. Last night.’
    ‘What sort of party?’
    ‘Aw. A fun thing.’
    ‘I see.’
    ‘I’ll be OK.’
    Troy made some black coffee and left him to drink it while she returned to her work. The spirit trees began to enclose their absolute inner tree more firmly.
    When, at a quarter past one, Alleyn walked into the studio, it was to find his wife at work and an enfeebled young man avidly watching her from an armchair.
    ‘Oh,’ said Troy, grandly waving her brush and staring fixedly at Alleyn. ‘Hullo, darling. Syd, this is my husband. This is Rick’s friend, Syd Jones, Rory. He’s shown me some of his work and he’s going to stay for luncheon.’
    ‘Well!’ Alleyn said, shaking hands. ‘This is an unexpected pleasure. How are you?’
II
    Three days after Ricky’s jaunt to Montjoy Julia Pharamond rang him up at lunch-time. He had some difficulty in pulling himself together and attending to what she said.
    ‘You do ride, don’t you?’ she asked.
    ‘Not at all well.’
    ‘At least you don’t fall off?’
    ‘Not very often.’
    ‘There you are, then. Super. All settled.’
    ‘What,’ he asked, ‘is settled?’
    ‘My plan for tomorrow. We get some Harkness hacks and ride to Bon Accord.’
    ‘I haven’t any riding things.’
    ‘No problem. Jasper will lend you