I Am the Only Running Footman by Martha Grimes Page A

there.
    â€œWe did want the Winslows to come this evening —” In the midst of studying over the label on the bottle of malt whiskey, St. John said, “I can understand why poor Marion would not want to socialize —”
    â€œPoor Marion?” said Lucinda. “I should think it would be poor David.”
    Sybil leaned forward and said to Melrose eagerly, “You heard what happened?”
    â€œReally, Mother,” said Divinity. “We shouldn’t be talking common gossip.”
    Replacing the bottle with a frown, St. John said, “I’ve nothing against gossip, nor rumor, just so long as there’s no truth in it and, therefore, cannot damage a reputation through repetition.” He sighed. “But in this case, one does wonder. David Marr has always been unlucky — well, buthaven’t they all? The unluckiest family I believe I know, even more so than my own. Edward had a bad marriage, didn’t he, my dear? Wasn’t her name Rose? And didn’t she leave him flat? Yes, I believe she did. And there was the little girl, poor little Phoebe, who was killed in that accident. And we mustn’t forget Hugh. Hugh is Marion’s husband, but we seldom see him. Hugh keeps to himself in that house in Knightsbridge and does not come down.” St. John sat there, sinking deeper into gloom and finally stopping, like a man in a cave striking match after match, only to watch each one, and finally the last one, gutter out.
    â€œHugh does not keep precisely to himself,” said Sybil. “I don’t think Marion will have him down —”
    â€œOh, but we shouldn’t go talking about that, my dear. We do not absolutely know that Hugh has other women. Not more than one, surely. And now here’s poor David, with his fiancée murdered.”
    â€œHe wasn’t engaged to her, Daddy,” said Lucinda.
    â€œHow do you know that?” asked her mother.
    â€œMarion told me. She met her the one time. At the London house. David and some others were there for drinks.”
    â€œYou mean the girl was at the house?”
    â€œWell, what’s so odd about that?” asked Lucinda, incensed. “He was going round with her.”
    St. John was closely inspecting the plate of canapés. “It is too bad about those boys; they both should settle down. I don’t care for this fish paste; it’s not the brand we usually buy.”
    Pearl had left her seat to arrange herself before the fire, catching whatever she could of the leftover light spilling from Divinity’s person. “Edward was supposed to have come this evening. He was to bring me his new book.”
    â€œBut I’ve got it, my dear,” said her father. “I believe it’s in the car.”
    She pouted. Apparently, since Edward Winslow had notcome with it, better it had not come at all. Now she would have no excuse for running to the Winslow house and collecting it herself. “Mr. Winslow is a writer?”
    â€œA poet, yes,” said St. John. “Unfortunately, poetry doesn’t sell.”
    Sybil laughed. “It hardly needs to, with all of their money. Now, Mr. Plant, I’m sure you’ll reconsider and stay with us.”
    This so caught Melrose by surprise he hadn’t time to muster his forces before she continued.
    â€œThere’s simply no reason why you should stay at the Mortal Man when we’ve a half- dozen perfectly lovely rooms.”
    â€œHe wants to stay there, Mother,” said Lucinda. She looked unhappily at Melrose as her mother continued, obviously deaf to any attempt to scotch her plan.
    â€œOh, Lucinda, don’t be ridiculous. You think you’re putting us out,” she said to Melrose, “but you aren’t at all and I can’t imagine why Lucinda didn’t insist you stay here —”
    â€œMother, he doesn’t want —”
    â€œLucinda, please. I’ve had the maid fix up a room