It was a solecism of the very worst kind. He sneezed loudly, wetly, and
quite unforgivably into the woman's face. He'd been holding it back for
three-quarters of an hour, fi ghting it off as if it were Henry Tudor's
vanguard in the Battle of Bosworth. But at last he'd surrendered. And
after the act, to make matters worse, he immediately began to snuffle.
The woman stared. She was exactly the type whose presence always reduced
him to blithering idiocy. At least six feet tall, dressed in that
wonderfully insouciant mismatch of clothing so characteristic of the
British upper classes, she was ageless, timeless, and she peered at him
through razor blue eyes, the sort that must have reduced many a
parlour-maid to tears forty years ago. She had to be well over sixty,
possibly closer to eighty, but one could never tell. She sat bolt
upright in her seat, hands clasped in her lap, a fi nishingschool
posture which made no concessions towards comfort.
And she stared. First at his Roman collar, then at his undeniably dripping nose.
Do forgive, darling. A thousand apologies. Let's not allow a little faux
pas like a sneeze to come between such a friendship as ours. He was
always so amusing when engaged in mental conversations. It was only
aloud that everything became a terrible muddle.
He snuffled again. Again she stared. Why on earth was she travelling
second class? She'd swept into the carriage in Doncaster, like a
creaking Salome with rather more than seven veils to her ensemble, and
for the remainder of the trip she'd alternated between imbibing the
railway's foul-smelling tepid coffee and staring at him with a
disapproval that shouted Church of England at every available
opportunity.
And then came the sneeze. Unimpeachably correct behaviour from Dancaster
to London might have somehow excused his Roman Catholicism to her. But
alas, the sneeze condemned him forever.
"I…ah…that is…if you'll excuse…" It was simply no good. His handkerchief
was deep within his pocket. To reach it he would have to loosen his
grasp on the battered attaché case in his lap, and that was unthinkable.
She would just have to understand. We aren't talking about a breach of
etiquette here, madam. We are talking about MURDER. Upon that thought,
he snuffled with self-righteous vigour.
Hearing this, the woman sat even more correctly in her seat, every fibre
of her body straining to project disapproval. Her glance said it all.
It was a chronicle of her thoughts, and he could read each one: Pitiful
little man. Pathetic. Not a day under seventy-fi ve and looking
positively every second of it. And so very much what one would expect of
a Catholic priest: a face with three separate nicks from a poor job at
shaving; a crumb of morning toast embedded in the corner of his mouth;
shiny black suit mended at elbows and cuffs; squashed hat rimmed with
dust. And that dreadful case in his lap! Ever since Doncaster he had
been acting as if she'd boarded the train with the deliberate intention
of snatching it from him and hurling herself out the window. Lord!
The woman sighed and turned away from him as if seeking salvation. But
none was apparent. His nose continued to dribble until the slowing of
the train announced that they were finally approaching their journey's
end.
