LUCIA

and the

DIPLOMATIC INCIDENT

Tom Holt

Seattle, WA

Coffeetown Press

PO Box 70515

Seattle, WA 98127

For more information go to: www.coffeetownpress.com

tomholt.coffeetownpress.com

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Cover design by Sabrina Sun

Lucia and the Diplomatic Incident

Copyright © 2013 by Tom Holt

Original Copyright © Tom Holt 1997

ISBN: 978-1-60381-203-0 (eBook)

Produced in the United States of America

Lucia and the Diplomatic Incident

As Miss Mapp left the station and walked slowly up the slight rise into town, her step seemed to lack some of its usual vitality, and an informed observer might have concluded that she had recently passed through some kind of disagreeable experience. Fortunately, at a quarter to six on a Monday morning, even the windows of Tilling were still curtained in slumber, and Miss Mapp, making slow and deliberate progress like the vanguard of a defeated army, reached her front door without observation or untimely encounter. She put her hand out to ring the bell; then, apparently thinking better of it, fumbled in her pocket for her latchkey and let herself in.

Nevertheless, despite the muted nature of her return, Tilling sensed her presence much as the earth feels the quickening of spring. At half past ten the fishmonger’s boy, riding past Mallards, heard the sound of a voice raised in vigorous and forthright speech. By eleven, the shoppers in the High Street were tending to drift towards the stationers’ in search of ink and envelopes they had not anticipated purchasing, their eyes tending to turn towards the bend of West Street and the corner behind which Mallards lay obscured. By a quarter past, they were becoming impatient.

“I don’t believe she’s come back at all,” sighed Georgie Pillson, contemplating the small box of drawing pins he had felt honour-bound to buy. “I expect Hopkins’ boy heard the scullery-maid singing and mistook it for…”

Quaint Irene Coles interrupted him with a snort of laughter. “I shall tell her you said that,” she said. “She’ll be fascinated to learn that’s who you think she sounds like.” She knocked out her pipe on the heel of her shoe and refilled it carefully. “But she’s back. You can feel it in the air, like approaching thunder.”

Georgie frowned; faintly appalled at the thought that Quaint Irene was perfectly capable of saying such a dreadful thing in the name of honest reporting. “And I don’t suppose she’d be all that pleased to be compared to a thunderstorm,” he replied sourly. “Though of course I should never dream of telling her such a thing.”

“Oh, you can if you like,” Irene said cheerfully. “And I should say it’s a compliment, if anything. In fact, the image is rather appealing, don’t you think? I can just see her as one of those splendid allegorical ladies on the ceiling of some great chapel, surging down from the heavens on the wings of a storm, like divine retribution. In fact, I might have a stab at something of the sort myself.”

Although he said nothing, Georgie winced a little at the thought of the monster his words might unwittingly have begotten. Fortuitously, the arrival of Lucia suspended all current topics of conversation, as the assembly waited with keen anticipation to see how she was taking the news of Miss Mapp’s return.

It would have been unkind, as well as inaccurate, to have referred to Lucia’s behaviour during her dear friend’s absence in terms of the doggerel about absent cats and festive mice. Nevertheless, it could not be denied that somehow, by whatever agency, the delicate astronomy of Tilling had altered perceptibly over the last few weeks; orbits had shifted, planets had taken up new attitudes and aspects, with the inevitable changes in calendar and climate that attend such alterations. These shifts of the celestial pattern had not gone unnoticed or uncommented upon; Diva Plaistow had openly speculated about what Elizabeth would say when she found out about Lucia’s newly-inaugurated watercolour group, and even Mr Wyse had made cryptic references to such themes as the restoration of King Charles II and the return of Ulysses from the Trojan war. As for Lucia herself, she had said nothing and affected not to understand what all the fuss was about; her official position was that she could hardly wait for dear Elizabeth to come home and resume her vital role in the life of the commonwealth, Nonetheless, as she walked briskly down the High Street with her basket swinging from her hand there was evidence of haste in the colour of her face and the state of her shoes, and it occurred to several bystanders that it was ironic that she who ought to have been the first to know lived furthest away.

“Here you all are!” she announced, her breath a trifle ragged. “I was beginning to wonder if the town was deserted. Such a pleasant morning. I suddenly realised as I sat down to write some letters that there wasn’t a single envelope in the house.”

Diva Plaistow, who had bought a packet of entirely superfluous envelopes (the cheaper sort, with the sickly-tasting gum that always made her think of liquorice, which she couldn’t abide) dropped the incriminating purchases into her basket and covered them with a cauliflower, but not quickly enough. “You too, Diva dear,” Lucia said pleasantly. “Quite a rush on the markets this morning. I hope you’ve left some for me.”

Irene, who scorned subterfuge and so hadn’t bought anything, indicated the corner of West Street with the stem of her pipe. “She’s back,” she said, “and we’re all waiting for her to come out. Time spent on reconnaissance is never wasted, as Major Benjy would say. Where is he, by the way? I’d have expected to see him here by now.”

Lucia’s face clouded for a moment, as she wondered who on earth Irene could mean was back; then she smiled. “What wonderful news,” she said, “and so unexpected, too. If I have time later on, I must pop round and say hello. And now, if you’ll all excuse me, I must buy my envelopes and scurry home before I miss the second post.” She entered the shop; and the assembly, which had parted before her like the waves of the Red Sea, resumed the sundry vantage-points and continued a desultory conversation. Before long, their patience was at last rewarded, as Elizabeth herself rounded the corner of West Street escorted by the courtly figure of Major Flint. There was a fleeting moment of silence. The perceptive Mr Wyse had to stifle a faint gasp of surprise, and even Irene, who had been rehearsing some dreadful barb of pre-emptive quaintness against the encounter, forbore the advantage and held her peace. “If thou be he, bit oh, how fallen, how changed,” declaims the poet of the fallen Lucifer, and the change in Miss Mapp was no less dramatic and no less patent. Her walk was slow and almost painful, her face betrayed a quite fascinating pallor, and in her smile as she greeted the assembly there was a mixture of ordeals overcome and dauntless courage that excited the most ardent curiosity. Nevertheless, when she spoke her voice was cheerful, if subdued, and the warmth of her greeting was clearly unforced.

“Oh, so many dear friends!” she exclaimed, “how wonderful to see you all again!” A pause and a lightning dab of a handkerchief-corner to a treacherous eye spoke eloquently of some great relief, as if for some reason she had despaired of ever seeing them again this side of Redemption. So affecting was the spectacle that nobody seemed able to find the words to reply, until Diva broke the silence with, “Hello, Elizabeth. Lovely to see you again. You’re looking a bit peaky, dear.”

There are times when the ill-considered word is its own punishment, and no sooner had Diva said the word than she regretted it. “Peaky” was not an apt description, just as the fall of Icarus cannot be dismissed as easily as a collision between two slow moving bicycles. Elizabeth did the only possible thing and pretended not to have heard. It was left to Mr Wyse to restore matters as best he could. He inclined his head in a stately bow and enquired politely, “How delightful to have you with us once more, Miss Mapp. And how did you find our dear Venice?” He made it sound as if he were enquiring after the health of some invalid relative, and the tone of the question seemed more appropriate to Miss Mapp herself. Behind her, Major Benjy shuffled his feet, as if to suggest that the patient wasn’t yet strong enough to receive importunate visitors; but Elizabeth favoured Mr Wyse with a wan smile.

“Ah,” she said, “the dear Serenissima! Such a sense of desolation, to be parted from her so quickly. And yet,” she added, after a measured pause, “so delightful to be back and among you all again.”

She broke off, clearly troubled by some strong emotion; and at that moment Lucia emerged from the stationer’s holding a small box of pencils. Their eyes met briefly. Lucia’s eyebrow flickered, while in Elizabeth’s pale face there might have been just a momentary trace of doubt, quickly replaced by a hard glint of triumph. “Hello dear,” Lucia said. “So glad you’re back. Did you have a pleasant holiday?” Elizabeth waited a heartbeat or so before replying.

“Lucia,” she said fondly. “Carissima. How enchanting to see you again. You look well.” In context, this was tantamount to an accusation, or at least a rebuke for heartlessness.

“You too,” Lucia replied. “Your trip seems to have done you a world of good. I am so looking forward to hearing all about – oh, where is it you’ve been? My poor little head, so muddled. Lake Garda, wasn’t it?” Elizabeth’s smile hardened, like steel tempered in the fire.

“You must come to tea this afternoon, then,” she replied, “and I’ll tell you all about it.” She glanced around, to confirm that the invitation was general, and received the confirmation of general nods and smiles. “But now, if you’ll all excuse me, a few errands. A rividerci,” she added, as Major Benjy ushered her down the street with the air of a brigade of cavalry escorting a royal progress; and it was universally noted that the first shop she entered was the chemist’s. As she walked disconsolately home along the long road to Grebe, Lucia’s mind worked with determined speed. It had been bad enough to begin with; Elizabeth receiving that small but adequate legacy from a previously unsuspected aunt (“I’ll swear the lawyers made a mistake and it wasn’t her aunt at all,” as she told herself; “or why hadn’t we ever heard of the woman before? No doubt she simply kept the money and didn’t tell anyone”), followed by the subsequent announcement of a lifetime ambition now capable of fulfilment, a visit to the queen of cities, the Most Recent Serene Republic. Such a blatant infringement on Lucia’s Italian dominions was in itself an act of war; yet at the time she had been happy to hold her tongue, satisfied that Elizabeth’s own over-reaching folly would undo her and more than content with the prospect of three whole weeks without her. Many a dictatorial ruler, she had reflected, has embarked on some frivolous foreign adventure only to return and find that in his absence his subjects have thrown off the yoke. So let it be, so to speak, with Caesar. And sure enough, over the past three weeks she had done good work and made significant progress, in spite of the fact that all things Italian had been, of necessity, topics to be avoided at all costs. Thus she had had to weed out of her everyday speech the few little flowers of Italian phrase and idiom that had somehow taken root there over the years; all discussions of art and music had had to be carefully monitored and structured so as to avoid the untimely topic. Even her own name (or at least her nom de guerre, since she had been christened plain Emmeline by her unimaginative parents) had proved an embarrassment to her. These difficulties, however, she had coped with so ably that she had anticipated poor Elizabeth’s return to be largely a consolidation of her own achievement, as a Tilling weaned away from the Latin flavour found itself recoiling from the taste when presented with it by the tablespoonful, as it were, by the returning Elizabeth. Somehow, it had all gone wrong, if her senses weren’t deceiving her. But how?

The crucial question was still unanswered in her mind as she barged through her garden gate and rapped sharply at the door. There was, she knew, something odd about the way Elizabeth had been acting; behind that frail, fascinating façade of a survivor come wanly smiling from the world’s greatest snare (whatever that was about; well,, they’d all find out soon enough, as sure as eggs were eggs) there was something else, something she couldn’t quite make out but which she was convinced was the root of the matter. There would be time for all that later, she assured herself, as the door opened; now she needed to regroup and consolidate her strength before the dreadful prospect of the afternoon’s tea party. She let her basket drop unheeded in the hall, retreated to the quiet of her study and spent the rest of the morning writing a ferocious letter to the coal merchant.

Nature, prompted perhaps by Quaint Irene’s earlier suggestion, obliged with a sudden squall of heavy rain and the distant rumble of thunder to usher the guests in to Elizabeth’s tea party. Umbrellas jostled each other in West Street as the hour approached, and for once everyone was so punctual in arriving as to be, in practical terms, early.

“Such dreadful weather,” Miss Mapp commented, as the party assembled (with one noticeable, almost inevitable exception) in the garden room. “And yet, what can be more evocatively English than a sudden, sweet-smelling shower on a spring afternoon?”

Diva Plaistow, soggy about the cuffs and bad-tempered as a result, was tempted to ask Elizabeth to clarify her definition of a shower, but decided not to. For some reason, Elizabeth seemed terribly fragile, like some wounded hero carried from the battlefield, so that picking her up on some slight slip of the tongue would be uncalled for to the extent of rudeness. Instead, therefore, she wiped a dribble of rain from the bridge of her nose and held her tongue, while keeping a close eye on the peregrinations of chocolate-coated ginger biscuits.

“So what was it like?” she demanded. “Venice, I mean. Such a strange place, I’ve always thought, with water running down all the streets and having to go everywhere on those funny lopsided boats. I can’t say I’ve ever wanted to go there myself, because boats always make me feel seasick, although it isn’t really the sea so perhaps that wouldn’t apply. But everyone says how marvellous it all is, and especially the paintings.”

As usual after Diva had spoken at any length there was a moment’s silence, as her audience unravelled the threads of her speech like a ball of wool tangled my a mischievous dog. Then Mr Wyse cleared his throat as if to speak; but Elizabeth was beforehand with him.

“What a charming misapprehension, Diva dearest! Of course it isn’t sea at all, and the water is always as still as a duck-pond, so even you wouldn’t suffer a moment’s discomfort. And the dear little gondoli – so comfortable! There will always be a corner of my heart that is for ever Venice, in spite,” she added, as her expression changed completely, “of everything. But enough of that. What has been happening in our dear little Tilling while I’ve been away? I do hope somebody will tell me all the excitements …”

“Well …” Mrs Bartlett began, but nobody heeded her or let her continue; the words “in spite of everything” hung in the air like Pentecostal fire and could not be so easily ignored.

“In spite of what?” Georgie demanded hungrily, leaning forward so intently that a small, dry cake slid off his plate into his lap, and his request was echoed across the room. But Miss Mapp simply held up a hand for silence. It was clear that the recital was being delayed until a certain absent friend arrived; and it was probably as well for the blood pressure of the assembly that, a minute or so later, the door opened and Lucia entered the room. She was, it was impossible not to notice, very wet. One sleeve on the windward side, beyond the protective shield of her umbrella, was sodden with rain and a damp patch on her skirt strongly suggested some incident involving a careless passing motorist and a deep puddle. She entered the room warily, like an army approaching the site of a possible ambush, and her apology for her lateness was positively meek.

“You poor thing!” exclaimed Miss Mapp, observing her bedraggled condition. “Come and sit here beside me, where it’s warm. You’ll soon dry out. After all,” she added in marked tone, “it wouldn’t do for you to catch pneumonia as well.”

The hint, tantalising as it was, was enough to satisfy the sharpest edge of curiosity, while whetting the appetite for further revelations. So Elizabeth had fallen ill during her holiday, which explained her drained and shattered appearance! A tremor of subdued sympathy ran around the room, augmented by Elizabeth’s compassion in offering her fireside seat to the robustly healthy Lucia.

“So that’s why you’re looking washed out,” Irene said with a sharp nod. “Fell in the canal and caught a cold, I suppose. And there I was thinking it was the after-effects of some frightful dissipation or other.”

Elizabeth’s smile, as she turned her head to look at Irene, was quite awesome in its warmth.

“Double pneumonia actually,” she said carelessly, “but much better now, thank you so much. At least, the doctors have assured me that the danger is quite past, and a few days’ rest – but where shall I find that I wonder, in this little maelstrom of a town? Scarcely have I set foot once again on my native strand than here I am back again, with all my oldest and dearest friends around me, as before! Such a tonic, of course, and so much better for one than any gloomy old hospital.”

“How dreadful!” Diva exclaimed, and then quickly added, “the pneumonia, I mean, not the being back with us, which is quite delightful. Never had pneumonia myself, I’m delighted to say, but I’ve heard it can be ever so serious, especially in people of our – I mean, once one’s past the first flush, so to speak.”

“Terrible thing, pneumonia,” intoned Major Benjy, positioned on and slightly behind Elizabeth’s right hand like a loyal knight. “In India I’ve seen men sicken with it in the morning and die before nightfall. Strong men cut down in the flower of their manhood,” he added with a shake of his head. “What a terrible experience, Miss Elizabeth. Are you quite sure you shouldn’t be in bed?”

“Dear Major Benjy, so thoughtful,” Elizabeth purred. “What a fine nurser you would make if such a thing were needed. But no. I feel as fit as a fiddle and quite restored simply by being home again. And no, naughty Irene, I didn’t fall in the river as you so wickedly suggest.”

“So what did happen?” Georgie clamoured, quite failing to notice the cold look in Lucia’s eye as he opened his mouth to speak. “If you didn’t fall in the river, what did you fall in? Or didn’t you fall in anything at all?”

Elizabeth’s silvery peel of laughter marked the awkwardness of the enquiry, which was probably just as well.

“An accident,” she replied, “most unfortunate, but no real harm done, thanks to a merciful Providence. Although,” she added artlessly, “at the time it was quite terrifying, I assure you.”

“Ah hoots,” interrupted the Reverend Bartlett impatiently. “Can we no ken the nature of this accident Misstress Mapp. I feel sure we’re all dyin’ to hear or’t.”

“Well”, Elizabeth replied, settling comfortably in her chair, “I dare say it was all trivial enough, what with no lives lost, thankfully enough, and no lasting injuries that I’m aware of. But I’m not ashamed to say that at the time I was quite terrified, particularly when the water started to gush in through the sides of the ship…”

Diva let slip a frantic squeak of excitement, while Susan Wyse turned quite pale and felt in her handbag for her smelling salts.

“What ship?” Georgie yipped. “Oh do stop tantalising us, Elizabeth, and start from the very beginning. And make sure you don’t leave anything out.”

“Dear Mr Georgie!” Elizabeth replied indulgently. “Oh very well, since you insist. We were crossing the river on the ferry, just below Saint Mark’s – which, as I’m sure you know, in the very centre of the city. Unfortunately the captain – a most intemperate man, by the looks of him, as I remarked when I first went on board – entirely failed to notice a small fishing boat until quite the very last moment, and in his panic to avoid a collision he steered our ship into the side of an old stone bridge, tearing the most tremendous gash in her side. Of course,” she went on, with a sigh, “on board the ship there was the most dreadful panic as you can imagine, with people scrambling for the lifeboat and no regard whatsoever for the children and elderly people aboard. The Italians,” she added, with another sigh, “are by nature a volatile and temperamental race; or at least, “she added, with a conciliatory nod towards Mr and Mrs Wyse, “the lower orders. There was no decorum, no orderly procession to the lifeboat; all scurrying to and fro, like rats in a trap. Fortunately I had the good sense to stay exactly where I was or else I fear I might have been trampled in the rush.”

An awed silence had fallen over the room, as if the shadow of disaster was looming over the entire company. Even Lucia felt a momentary feeling of disquiet, though whether for sympathy at the horrors described or for irritation at the thought that Miss Mapp might so easily have been drowned (but hadn’t), it was impossible to say. For her part, Elizabeth took a deep breath, closed her eyes for a moment, and then continued her narrative.

“Of course,” she went on, “I could see from the start that there was no prospect of getting onto the lifeboat, and so I resolved to jump off the side as quickly as I could and get as far from the ship as possible before it went down. That way,” she continued, “I knew that I would increase my chances of being clear of the vessel when it finally did sink, and avoid the risk of being drawn down with it by the eddies of the water, which is of course one of the greatest risks in these situations.”

At this Major Benjy nodded sagely, one experienced adventurer acknowledging the wisdom of another. Mr Wyse, who had been frowning for some time, muttered “Quite so,” in a polite tone. Georgie, who had just taken another biscuit, put it back on his plate with a shudder, knowing full well the adverse effects of great excitement on the digestion.

“I was about to hurl myself from the ship,” Elizabeth went on, “when I noticed under one of the seats opposite a small child, cowering in floods of tears. The poor thing had evidently been quite abandoned by its mother, and since nobody else seemed to have noticed it I realised it was my duty to help. Of course, the poor thing spoke not a word of English, and try as I might I couldn’t seem to make it understand the peril we were all in. Finally, when the ship was beginning to lean over in the most alarming fashion and it was becoming nearly impossible to keep one’s footing on the deck, I had no alternative but to drag the child bodily from its hiding place and fling myself over the side, clutching the hapless infant, just as the ship finally subsided into the waves. Quite by chance I managed to lay hold of a passing fragment of driftwood, and not long afterwards we were rescued by a passing gondola and carried safely to shore. And that’s all there was to it, really,” Miss Mapp concluded simply, “except that I must have caught the most frightful cold, which in turn became pneumonia, and I ended up in the hospital.” She smiled bravely. “Such drama,” she added with a little laugh, “and so distressing. So you can tell what a great relief it is to be back in dear, quiet Tilling where such things simply do not happen. Would anybody care for more tea?”

The news of Miss Mapp’s ordeal by water spread through the town at such a speed that by nightfall there was no other topic of conversation anywhere. Tradesmen and delivery boys dawdled outside Mallards as they passed, gawping up at the windows in hopes of a glimpse of the heroine of so great an adventure, and a journalist from the local newspaper was the first visitor next morning, emerging an hour and a quarter later with a dazed but determined expression, as of a man given a beatific if slightly confusing vision by some ancient oracle. The fruits of his labours, spread out on a table in the drawing room of Grebe, gave rise to an equally puzzled expression on the face of Lucia, as she read the account for the seventh time and carefully compared it with her own recollection of Elizabeth’s narrative, several volumes of the Encyclopaedia, and a veteran Baedeker borrowed in haste from Doctor Dobbie’s aunt. From the newspaper, she learned that Miss Mapp had refused a proffered decoration for gallantry from the Italian government, insisting that she had only done what any human being, or at least any Englishwoman, would have done in such circumstances (“And that’s one in the eye for dear Susan and her MBE,” Lucia reflected sombrely, “so perhaps it’s not a total disaster.”) From the atlas, she gathered the curious intelligence that St Mark’s Square was on the southern edge of the city and not, as Miss Mapp had suggested, in the centre; while Herr Baedeker supplied further details concerning ferry services, place-names and other matters that eventually removed the frown from Lucia’s face and replaced it with a glowing smile. In particular, she gathered that one of the main promenades of the city (which she had never herself visited) was called the Riva degli Schiavoni, commonly abbreviated to Riva, and that it ran from St Mark’s along the seaboard facing the distant prospect of the neighbouring islands. “Crossing the river indeed”, Lucia said aloud, closing the book with one finger in it to mark her place. “Now then, let’s see what he has to say about steamers. I don’t imagine for one moment that they carry lifeboats, but it’d be as well to check.”

When Lucia joined the shoppers in the High Street next morning she could sense a coldness amounting almost to hostility, such as St Thomas might have encountered from the other disciples after his distressing display of scepticism. She ignored it, and asked solicitously after dear Elizabeth’s health.

“A little better, I’m delighted to say,” said Susan Wyse, “and bearing up remarkably well considering her awful experience. Such fortitude, and we almost had to drag the story from her. I’m sure if I had done such a very brave thing, I should have wanted to shout it from the rooftops.”

Dismissing the enticing vision of Susan Wyse, dripping wet in a bedraggled fur coat, announcing deeds of valour from the roofs of Venice, Lucia nodded, said “Quite so,” and was about to change the subject when she caught sight of Withers coming out of the Post Office with a basket over her arm. As she crossed the road, an envelope dropped from the basket and fell in a puddle. Since Withers appeared not to have noticed the incident, Lucia, having made her excuses to dear Susan, darted across the road and rescued the letter, plucking it from the muddy pool as if it had been Elizabeth herself, snatched from the fatal if indeterminate waters of the lagoon. Here was a quandary. Withers, walking quickly, had passed on up the street, so that Lucia would have had to run fast to catch up with her; yet the letter was sopping wet, and if allowed to remain in its sodden envelope, would surely become quite spoilt. There was nothing else to be done but open it, and take the risk that she might inadvertently set eyes on some private and confidential matter that Elizabeth would rather she didn’t see. Having first made sure that she was unobserved, therefore, she opened the envelope. Her first apprehensions had been groundless; the envelope had kept out the worst of the moisture, and the contents (a cheque and some sort of bill) were none the worse for their immersion. The obvious thing to do would be to reseal them in a fresh envelope and post them on, and with this in mind Lucia glanced at the address, which was still just discernible despite the running of the ink. What she read made Lucia raise her eyebrows in puzzlement. Then she pressed her lips firmly together, quickly pocketed the envelope and its contents, and set out at once for Grebe.

“What a delightful surprise,” cried Miss Mapp, as Lucia walked into the drawing room of Mallards. “Always a delight to see you Lucia dearest, but if perhaps in future you might take the trouble to telephone, or send a message …”

“Of course,” Lucia replied brightly. “But under the circumstances I felt it would be better not to wait. After all, I wouldn’t want to be accused of hindering His Majesty’s Mails. I believe that’s a criminal offence and I should hate to end up in prison.”

Elizabeth wasn’t quite sure how she should take that. In any case there was something distinctly odd about Lucia’s demeanour, which was scarcely the attitude of one come to sue for peace from a victorious, if magnanimous opponent. Rather, she seemed excited to the point of feverishness, and for a moment Miss Mapp felt a slight qualm of unease. It was unlike Lucia to betray any outward signs of triumph even when she was undoubtedly in the ascendant, and such a mien from one who was definitely on the defensive, if not completely subdued, was hard to fathom.

“What an odd thing to say!” she exclaimed therefore. “Do sit down and tell me all about it.”

“Oh, it’s nothing important,” Lucia replied, taking out two folded pieces of paper and laying them before her with the quiet air of satisfaction of a general presenting his defeated enemy with the articles of surrender. “Withers dropped a letter in a puddle in the High Street. I picked it up. I had to take it out of the envelope to prevent it from being quite ruined, but I think I was in time.”

For a moment, Elizabeth wasn’t quite sure whether she was awake or caught in some horrible dream, for there on the table before her were two pieces of paper she never thought to see again; a cheque, and a bill from the Commercial Hotel, Southampton, in respect of three week’s board and lodging and the services of a local doctor during her recent unfortunate illness. There was, of course, just the slightest chance that Lucia hadn’t read them; or if she had, then she hadn’t compared the dates on the bill with the period of Elizabeth’s supposed absence in the Most Serene Republic; or if she’d done that, that she hadn’t extrapolated from them the ugly fact that when she had been supposed to be in Venice, glorying in the antique splendour of the queen of cities and saving small children from a watery tomb, she had, in fact, been imprisoned in a cheap hotel in Southampton with an uncomfortable and undignified gastric disorder, which had deprived her of her holiday and left her feeling weak and extremely miserable until inspiration had shown her the way to turn the disaster into a glorious opportunity. All these things were possible, but not, Elizabeth felt, likely.

“Oh,” she said.

“I haven’t looked at any of it, of course,” Lucia went on, in a tone of voice that completely belied her words. “And I hope you’ll excuse my impertinence in opening your private correspondence, but I hope I was acting for the best.”

“Oh, quite,” Elizabeth replied, her eyes still glued to the loathsome documents in front of her. All that was left, she knew, was for Lucia to pronounce her doom, the precise form that her immolation was to take. Would it be a brief announcement at some hurriedly summoned gathering at which she need not be present, or would the wretched woman insist on a full public confession? And which would be worse, to have to say the fateful words herself, or for Lucia to tell the story behind her back, with all the undoubted command of language and gesture that she possessed?

“I have to say,” Lucia went on, “that you don’t look at all well, in spite of what you say the doctors have told you. Have you consulted a doctor since you left Italy? I must confess, my own experiences of Italian medicine leave me with grave reservations concerning competence. To be ill in one’s own land is bad enough,” she added, with a sideways glance at the folded bill, “but sickness abroad is always so much more wearing. You poor thing,” she added. Elizabeth didn’t reply, or at least not in words; she may have made some inarticulate sound. Lucia smiled at her and went on. “If you want my opinion,” she said, “I would take another holiday to recuperate. A nice long holiday, somewhere cosy, like Harrogate. Or Stroud, which I believe is quite charming at this time of year.”

“What a splendid idea,” Miss Mapp croaked. “I might just do that.”

“Of course,” Lucia continued remorselessly, “such a holiday would prove frightfully expensive, particularly if one had just been put to the cost of doctor’s bills and the like.”

“Indeed,” Elizabeth replied. “Such vultures!” she added, bitterly.

“So,” Lucia went on, folding her hands in a revoltingly businesslike manner, “what do you think of the idea of letting Mallards to me while you’re away? That way, you’d be able to afford the rest cure you so obviously need, and I – well, this is such a pleasant house, and so well situated for visiting friends and entertaining. Don’t you think that would be the perfect solution?”

Miss Mapp was still and quiet for a very long time, as if digesting some unpleasant but necessary medicine. Silently she cursed all the agents of her nemesis, from the bad omelette she’d eaten on the train to Southampton, to Withers’ criminal negligence, right down to the hateful credulity of her friends that had virtually urged her to carry on embroidering the original tale until it had become an ineluctable snare for her own feet. Most of all, however, she cursed Lucia, thoroughly and in fine detail, as she thought of her entertaining her friends in her house, supplanting her in her own fastness until, when she finally condescended to allow the exile to return, there would be absolutely nothing left. Then she caught sight of the terrible documents on the table in front of her and, closing her eyes, she bowed her head to the inevitable.

“That would be most acceptable,” she said humbly. “Would you care for some tea?”

Photo by Shelley Humphries

Tom Holt was born in 1961 in London, England.

His first book, Poems By Tom Holt, was published when he was twelve years old. While he was still a student at Oxford he wrote two sequels to E F Benson’s Lucia series. After an undistinguished seven-year stint as a lawyer, he became a full-time writer in 1995 and has published over thirty novels.

Tom lives with his wife and daughter in the west of England. As well as writing, he raises pigs and pedigree Dexter cattle.

For more information, go to tomholt.coffeetownpress.com.