Clouds among the Stars. Victoria Clayton

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СКАЧАТЬ So it’s some kind of hallucinogenic substance.’ Inspector Foy began to pick up bottles at random and sniff the contents. ‘Obviously taken unintentionally.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Four thirty. Who had cups of tea?’

      ‘Everyone except Cordelia and two of the reporters who bring flasks. I had a mug of tea and I feel fine. Oh, I know – of course! It’s the sugar! Maria-Alba always has three spoons. Only two of the reporters take sugar. And poor Dicky, I mean PC Bird – sorry, but everyone calls him that – has four.’

      The inspector dipped his finger in the blue-and-white sugar jar and licked it. ‘Tastes all right to me but I’ll take it for analysis. I wonder, though …’ He got out his pipe while he was thinking but when he lit a match poor Dicky knuckled his eyes and whimpered that a big fiery dragon was coming to eat him up, so the inspector was forced to abandon it. ‘Look after that man,’ he instructed Sergeant Tweeter.

      Dicky began to sob brokenly into Sergeant Tweeter’s tunic, which embarrassed its owner horribly. Meanwhile Maria-Alba was cradling the pieces of the broken ladle in her arms and singing it a lullaby, while the reporter, under the impression that the kitchen table was a large chocolate cake, was trying to eat it with a spoon.

      The inspector sounded just a little rattled. ‘I can’t think with all this noise going on. Get that man into the car and wait for me. Calm him down. Sing him a nursery rhyme or something.’ Sergeant Tweeter’s ruby-coloured face darkened further and he dragged the poor sufferer away. ‘It’s something like LSD. That’s it. Sugar lumps!’ We opened every jar and box in the place until we found a large cache of lump sugar in an old biscuit tin.

      ‘We never usually have sugar in lumps,’ I said, puzzled. ‘Maria-Alba, shush a minute!’ I showed her the tin. ‘Where did you get them?’

      Her expression grew solemn and wondering. ‘Diamanti! Scintillanti! Siamo ricchi!’

      ‘No, not diamonds – unfortunately. Sugar. Zucchero.’

      ‘Sì, sì. Jack! Jack!’

      ‘Jack who? We don’t know anyone called Jack.’

      ‘No, no, no!’ She shook her head emphatically. ‘Jack!’

      Suddenly I got it. ‘I see! Not Jack but giacca! It means jacket. They must have been in Chico’s coat! We’ve been trying desperately to save money. She probably thought it would be wasteful to throw them away.’

      ‘If they’re all impregnated with LSD there must be a thousand pounds worth here,’ said the inspector. ‘Dex and his chums would be keen to recover them. Who else takes sugar in their tea?’

      ‘Not Ophelia – nor Portia – oh dear, Bron!’

      The inspector picked up the biscuit tin. ‘You go and see to your brother. I’ll check on the other reporter. Come along with me,’ he addressed the one who was trying to eat the table. ‘We’ll see you safely home.’

      The reporter looked at the inspector with astonishment. ‘Why, if it isn’t Rita Hayworth! Well, I never!’ he giggled. ‘I’ve always fancied you rotten.’

      I ran up to see how Bron was. He was lying on the sofa in the drawing room, screeching with laughter.

      ‘I’ve never known him be so stupid.’ Ophelia was sitting at the table, building a house of cards. ‘I can’t get any sense out of him at all. I suppose he must be drunk but I do think he might have shared it round. He’s always so selfish. There!’ The construction collapsed with the last card. ‘I wish I knew what was funny. I’m bored to sobs.’

      ‘He’s on a trip. The sugar lumps in the tea had LSD in them.’

      ‘Really?’ Ophelia was interested for a moment. ‘How long will it last? Where did you get them from?’

      ‘Several hours, I should think. Maria-Alba found them in the pockets of Chico’s clothes.’

      ‘Who’s Chico?’

      ‘Oh dear, I’d forgotten. I promised Portia I wouldn’t tell anyone.’

      ‘All right, don’t bother, then. I’m not really interested in her sordid pick-ups.’ Ophelia looked gloomy. ‘I’d better have a sugar lump, then. I could do with a laugh.’

      ‘The inspector’s taken them away. Anyway, it wouldn’t do you any good. Honestly, I think it’s dangerous. People jump out of windows thinking they can fly, and often they have a really horrible time.’

      ‘I may as well go to bed then, until he’s sobered up.’

      ‘You aren’t supposed to leave people alone when they’re on trips.’

      ‘I shall have a migraine if I have to listen to that noise.’

      Dirk and I sat with Bron while he chortled and cackled and chuckled for hours without a break. I was glad for his sake that my brother seemed to have no inner demons, but whether this was good or bad for the rest of the world, I couldn’t make up my mind. Portia and Cordelia played draughts in Maria-Alba’s room while she slept deeply, having been given a sedative by her doctor. By evening we were all in a state of extreme lassitude. Bron finally stopped laughing and demanded supplies of wine, lemonade and throat lozenges, as he was painfully hoarse.

      There was a general, plaintive call for food. I tried to poach some eggs but it was more difficult than I had imagined. A plate was piled high with failures – too hard, broken yolks, stringy whites like rubber bands – and I was heated with feelings of inadequacy and annoyance, when a row broke out at the front door. The bell rang repeatedly, the knocker banged violently and Dirk let the front door know what he thought of it in a succession of ear-splitting barks. All the journalists had gone home hours ago, no doubt to write lurid exposés of everyday life in a famous actor’s narcotics den. I went up to see.

      On the doorstep were two figures of sinister appearance, disguised in swathes of clothing so as to conceal their features.

      ‘Cut along now!’ said the policeman who had replaced poor Dicky. ‘Let’s have no argy-bargy, madam, if you please. The family doesn’t want to be disturbed.’

      ‘Now, look here, my good man,’ said a male voice that was familiar. ‘This lady lives here and if you know what’s good for you you’ll let us in without delay.’

      ‘A likely story,’ said the PC, who seemed to have learned his lines from Dixon of Dock Green. ‘You reporters have plenty of cheek, I’ll give you that.’

      ‘But this is my daughter!’ said my mother’s voice from behind a veil. A gloved finger emerged from among the wraps to point at me. ‘Harriet, tell this blundering fool who I am!’

       TEN

      ‘Confusion now hath made his masterpiece!’ said my mother, with feeling. ‘Ronnie, I need a drink. No, Harriet, Macbeth! You can’t think,’ she continued to address me, ‘what a frightful time we’ve been having. Ow-how! Gently!’ I drew back in alarm, having attempted to kiss the veil masking her cheek. ‘What is this dog doing in the house? Can no one stop it barking?’

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