The Saint Zita Society by Ruth Rendell Read Free Book Online

was a matter of taste and would Khalid like to start on the planting of the nursery window boxes. An argument over which was the nursery, this room or his place of work, ensued. Having refused his offer of squirrel pot guards with a toughness Thea had been unable to achieve, Montserrat decided to leave him to it. She went downstairs to the basement flat where she called her mother on her new iPhone, bought with gratuities from Lucy and Rad Sothern, to tell her she’d like to come to Barcelona for a couple of days before driving up to the Jura. Montserrat’s mother was Spanish, her father an Englishman living in Doncaster. Señora Vega Garcia sounded less than pleased to hear from her daughter, but when Montserrat made no request for a loan or even indicated that she might be short of money, she softened and they had the pleasantest conversation they had had for months.
    The ‘couple of days’ would be at the beginning of December or a little later, depending on the weather and the state of the snow. In Colmar she would meet a French friend from schooldays whose brother she had always rather fancied. She wondered what Lucy and Rad Sothern would do when their conductor had taken off the month to which she was entitled. Go without, she supposed.
    Khalid, in the manner of every British plumber, electrician, gardener or other tradesperson, called out, ‘Hello? Are you there?’ and Montserrat ran up to escort him out.
    ‘These stairs are dangerously steep,’ said Khalid in a severe tone. Montserrat had never noticed before. ‘The floor down there,’ he said, ‘is made of tiles, very hard, and this banister requires fixing. It could become detached as a person descends and then what happens?’
    ‘God knows,’ said Montserrat.
    ‘Also human beings know. I would call it a deathtrap.’
    She let him out and watched him climb the area steps to the street.
    T he House of Lords car park would fill up in the afternoon but now, just before noon, it was half empty. Henry had shampooed the Beemer in the mews behind Hexam Place that morning and now he parked it in the slot he always used next to the space where the Government Chief Whip left his shabby old Volvo. The difference between the Beemer and the Volvo, one so smart and glossy, the other so scarred and dusty, brought him a lot of pleasure, though he was disappointed that Lord Studley had made no comment on the contrast. Henry got out, opened the nearside rear door for Huguette and then the passenger door for her father. He wasn’t rid of them yet.
    It was the first time he had driven father and daughter together and he was afraid all the time Huguette would speak out of turn, like saying to him, ‘See you on Friday,’ or ‘Why didn’t you text me?’ She was capable of it. From the moment Lord Studley had said, ‘I’m giving my daughter lunch at the House,’ he had been nervous. First, for instance, he had to pretend he didn’t know where Huguette lived, though, oddly enough, he had never been to her street bycar before. Then he had to say, ‘Good morning, Miss Studley,’ not sure if this was all right or whether it ought to be, ‘Good morning, the Honourable Huguette.’ But apparently he had got it right as neither of them complained. Huguette was in a sulky mood, not speaking much, while Lord Studley talked at length about the oral question he had to answer when the House sat at two thirty. It seemed to be about Brazil, a debt or loan and the International Monetary Fund and Henry was none the wiser when he had driven round Parliament Square and turned in through the security lane. Huguette looked as if she had gone to sleep. Lord Studley broke off at this point to show his red-and-white-striped pass with photograph to the policeman on duty, though the officer had seen him pass this way daily for years.
    His employer wanted Henry to carry into the House and up to his office his briefcase and a large cardboard box full of papers. They went through the