The Tiger in the Well by Philip Pullman Read Free Book Online

be in the vicinity. . . . No, it was very kind, but she wouldn't take tea with Miss Hall, as she had a train to catch. Thank you, thank you, good-bye.
    So, she thought, as the train steamed through the Hampshire countryside under the pale autumn sunshine: a vanishing clergyman, who might or might not be in prison, and an incontrovertible entry in a register of marriages. Someone must have planned this a long time ago: before Harriet was even born, in fact. Someone had woven a net

    around her so carefully that she'd never suspected it, and then waited for the best possible moment before tugging it swiftly tight.
    Her hand felt for the squat shape of the pistol in her bag, and then she thrust it away. Not yet. Get someone in my sights first, she thought; / don't even know what Parrish looks like.
    But how chilling it was to find that invisible net around you, and how easy it would be, faced with evidence like that marriage register, to slip little by little into believing that it was true: that she really was married, and had lost her memory. . . .
    Margaret Haddow rehearsed her story as she climbed the stairs to Arthur Parrish's first-floor office. Sally's situation was scarcely credible, but Sally was a vastly less conventional young lady than Sally herself thought, and Margaret, in her brisk, dry way, was extremely fond of her.
    She knocked, was admitted, and shortly afterward sat down in a tidy little office across a desk from Mr. Parrish himself.
    He was a neat man, with neat black hair and a neat little mustache. Dapper was the word for him, thought Margaret, except that there was a disconcerting stillness in his eyes and a greediness about the mouth. Not a hint of vanity, though he was conventionally handsome enough. His suit was dark, his collar starched, his cravat sober, and the three rings that sparkled on his fingers were no more than many men wore.
    Margaret took it all in, trying not to stare. '*Mr. Parrish, do you take commissions in America.'"' she began.
    ^'Anywhere in the world," he said. "What did you have in mind.?"
    "I've got a cousin in Buffalo. In New York State. He wants to set up in business as an importer of fine china, and he's asked me to see about getting him some samples from the best manufacturers and sending them across to him."
    Mr. Parrish jotted down some notes with a silver pencil.
    "Most of these firms have their own agents," he said. "Your

    cousin will be competing with established networks of salesmen, you know that, don't you?"
    "He was hoping to specialize in the finer items, I think, from the more artistic manufacturers. But I know nothing about china, Mr. Parrish, and nothing about business. What would be the best way to proceed.?"
    He put down the pencil and explained that her cousin's best bet would be to write to the companies he was interested in and introduce himself, offering his services. He, Mr. Parrish, could certainly supply a list of names and addresses, and if desired buy and dispatch a sample from each firm for her cousin's inspection.
    She was impressed. He was brisk and businesslike, and the advice he gave was sound. There was nothing to indicate that as a businessman he was anything but honest.
    She thanked him, asked a couple of further questions to reinforce her story, and then said she'd write to her cousin and see what he said.
    Then, as she stood up to leave, he startled her.
    "By the way, Miss Haddow," he said. "Please assure my wife that she won't get anywhere by sending you to spy on me. All right.? You understand.? Of course, if you really have got a cousin in Buffalo who wants to deal in china, I can help you, by all means. Would you like me to proceed in the way I described.? No.? I thought not. Well, remember what I said."
    She found herself speechless. Her face flaming, she looked down into his hard eyes for a moment more, and then turned on her heel and left.
    "I didn't see anything useful at all," she told Sally later on, over the tea table at Orchard