Black As He’s Painted. Ngaio Marsh

Mr Whipplestone agreed. ‘The penalty of distinction,’ he added neatly, and patted the Afghan.

      ‘You are kind enough to say so.’

      Mr Whipplestone’s highly specialized work in the Foreign Service had been advanced by a happy manner with Foreign, and particularly with African, plenipotentiaries. ‘I hope I may congratulate your Excellency,’ he said and broke into his professional style of verbless exclamation. ‘The increased rapprochement! The new Treaty! Masterly achievements!’

      ‘Achievements – entirely – of our great President, Mr Whipplestone.’

      ‘Indeed, yes. Everyone is delighted about the forthcoming visit. An auspicious occasion.’

      ‘As you say. Immensely significant.’ The Ambassador waited for a moment and then slightly reduced the volume of his superb voice. ‘Not,’ he said, ‘without its anxieties, however. As you know, our great President does not welcome –’ he again waved his stick at his bodyguard – ‘that sort of attention.’ A sigh escaped him. ‘He is to stay with us,’ he said.

      ‘Quite.’

      ‘The responsibility!’ sighed the Ambassador. He broke off and offered his hand. ‘You will be at the reception, of course,’ he said. ‘We must meet more often! I shall see that something is arranged. Au revoir, Mr Whipplestone.’

      They parted. Mr Whipplestone walked on, passing and tactfully ignoring the escort.

      Facing him at the point where the Walk becomes the north-east border of the Square was a small house between two large ones. It was painted white with a glossy black front door and consisted of an attic, two floors and a basement. The first-floor windows opened on a pair of miniature balconies, the ground-floor ones were bowed. He was struck by the arrangement of the window-boxes. Instead of the predictable daffodil one saw formal green swags that might have enriched a della Robbia relief. They were growing vines of some sort which swung between the pots where they rooted and were cunningly trimmed so that they swelled at the lowest point of the arc and symmetrically tapered to either end.

      Some workmen with ladders were putting up a sign.

      He had begun to feel less depressed. Persons who do not live there will talk about ‘the London feeling’. They will tell you that as they walk down a London street they can be abruptly made happy, uplifted in spirit, exhilarated. Mr Whipplestone had always taken a somewhat incredulous view of these transports but he had to admit that on this occasion he was undoubtedly visited by a liberated sensation. He had a singular notion that the little house had induced this reaction. No. 1, as he now saw, Capricorn Walk.

      He approached the house. It was touched on its chimneys and the eastern slope of its roof by sunshine. ‘Facing the right way,’ thought Mr Whipplestone. ‘In the winter it’ll get all the sun there is, I dare say.’ His own flat faced north.

      A postman came whistling down the Walk as Mr Whipplestone crossed it. He mounted the steps of No. 1, clapped something through the brass flap and came down so briskly that they nearly collided.

      ‘Whoops-a-daisy,’ said the postman. ‘Too eager, that’s my trouble. Lovely morning, though, innit?’

      ‘Yes,’ said Mr Whipplestone, judiciously conceding the point. ‘It is. Are the present occupants –’ he hesitated.

      ‘Gawn. Out last week,’ said the postman. ‘But I’m not to know, am I? People ought to make arrangements, din’ they, sir?’ He went off, whistling.

      The workmen came down their ladders and prepared to make off. They had erected a sign.

      FOR SALE

      All enquiries to

      Able, Virtue & Sons

      17 Capricorn Street, SW7

      II

      The Street is the most ‘important’ of the Capricorns. It is wider and busier than the rest. It runs parallel to the Walk and in fact Messrs Able and Virtue’s premises lie exactly back to back with the little house at No. 1.

      ‘Good morning,’ said the roundabout lady at the desk on the left-hand side. ‘Can I help you?’ she pleaded brightly.

      Mr Whipplestone pulled out the most non-committal stop in his FO organ and tempered its chill with a touch of whimsy.

      ‘You may satisfy my idle curiosity if you will be so good,’ he said. ‘Ah – concerning No. 1, Capricorn Walk.’

      ‘No. 1, the Walk?’ repeated the lady. ‘Yes. Our notice, ackshally, has only just gone up. For Sale with stipulations regarding the basement. I’m not quite sure –’ she looked across at the young man with a pre-Raphaelite hair-do behind the right-hand desk. He was contemplating his fingernails and listening to his telephone. ‘What is it about the basement, of No. 1,’ he rattled into it, ‘is at present occupied as a pied –’

      He clapped a languid hand over the receiver: ‘Ay’m coping,’ he said and unstopped the receiver. ‘The basement of No. 1,’ he rattled into it, ‘is at present occupied as a pied-à-terre by the owner. He wishes to retain occupancy. The Suggested Arrangement is that total ownership pass to the purchaser and that he, the vendor, become the tenant of the basement at an agreed rent for a specified period.’ He listened for a considerable interval. ‘No,’ he said, ‘ay’m afraid it’s a firm stipulation. Quate. Quate. Theng you, madam. Good morning.’

      ‘That,’ said the lady, offering it to Mr Whipplestone, ‘is the situation.’

      Mr Whipplestone, conscious of a lightness in his head, said: ‘And the price?’ He used the voice in which he had been wont to say: ‘This should have been dealt with at a lower level.’

      ‘Was it thirty-nine?’ the lady asked her colleague. ‘Thirty-eight.’

      ‘Thirty-eight thousand,’ she relayed to Mr Whipplestone, who caught back his breath in a civilized little hiss.

      ‘Indeed?’ he said. ‘You amaze me,’

      ‘It’s a Desirable District,’ she replied indifferently. ‘Properties are at a premium in the Capricorns.’ She picked up a document and glanced at it. Mr Whipplestone was nettled.

      ‘And the rooms?’ he asked sharply. ‘How many? Excluding, for the moment, the basement.’

      The lady and the pre-Raphaelite young gentleman became more attentive. They began to speak in unison and begged each other’s pardon.

      ‘Six,’ gabbled the lady, ‘in all. Excluding kitchen and Usual Offices. Floor-to-floor carpets and drapes included in purchase price. And the Usual Fitments: fridge, range, etcetera. Large recep’ with adjacent dining-room, ground floor. Master bedroom and bathroom with toilet, first floor. Two rooms with shower and toilet, second floor. Late tenant used these as flat for married couple.’

      ‘Oh?’ said Mr Whipplestone, concealing the emotional disturbance that seemed to be lodged under his diaphragm. ‘A married couple? You mean?’

      ‘Did for him,’ said the lady.

      ‘I beg your pardon?’

      ‘Serviced him. Cook and houseman. There was an Arrangement by which they also cleaned the basement flat.’

      The young man threw in: ‘Which it is hoped will continue. They are Strongly Recommended to purchaser with Arrangement to be arrived at for continued weekly servicing of basement. No obligation, of course.’

      ‘Of course not.’ Mr Whipplestone gave a small dry cough. ‘I should like to see it,’ he said.

      ‘Certainly,’ said the lady crisply. ‘When would you –?’

      ‘Now, if you please.

      ‘I think that would suit. If you’ll just wait while I –’ She used her telephone. Mr Whipplestone bumped into a sudden qualm of near-panic. ‘I am beside myself,’