A Thing of Blood Read Online Free PDF

housekeeper. She was wrapped in a silk kimono, only just, and the unruly state of her glossy, hennaed hair indicated that she had come straight from bed to the door. Despite her dishevelled state, she was undoubtedly a beauty, and not at all what the Americans called a ‘broad’. She was delicate, with pale skin and with lips so pink that lipstick would have sullied them. Her cheeks were faintly roseate, and there was something breathy in her voice that was irresistibly attractive. She hadn’t been woken from sleep, I decided, but detached from sex.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, unintentionally giving voice to this supposition.
    ‘What on earth for?’ she laughed.
    ‘For waking you up,’ I said. She came out of the house towards me.
    ‘Oh, good heavens,’ she said. ‘We’ve been awake for hours. We’ve just been lolling. I’m Gretel Beech.’
    I took the proffered hand, shook it, and followed her into the house.
    ‘Paul’s getting dressed,’ she said, and left me in the living room while she repaired upstairs, presumably to get dressed also. I was struck even more forcefully than I had been the previous day by the fanatical neatness of the room. My suitcase made it seem untidy, and I was suddenly conscious that my clothes could have done with more careful pressing. I had the uncomfortable feeling that just by being there I was disrupting the general order. I was the human equivalent of a painting hanging askew.
    ‘Will,’ said Paul Clutterbuck.
    I turned and was taken aback by the sight of him; his hands on his hips, and wearing a crisp, well-cut American army uniform. His tie was tucked into the shirt below the third button, and a forage cap sat jauntily on his head.
    ‘I’ll show you the house,’ he said, clearly feeling no need to explain why he was dressed as he was. ‘And then we’ll talk about the little job I want you to do for me.’
    I picked up my suitcase, self-conscious now about its scuffed corners, and followed him upstairs.
    ‘Your room first,’ he said.
    The room he took me to was at the back of the house, but it was no servant’s room. It had the handsome proportions of a master bedroom, and next to it was a bathroom.
    ‘That’s your bathroom,’ he said. ‘You can’t share a bathroom and call yourself a civilised human being. Can you?’
    He explained that his housekeeper, Mrs Castleton, washed the bed linen twice a week, Mondays and Thursdays, so I shouldn’t leave anything too personal lying about.
    ‘She’s discreet, but she does have a rather Edwardian capacity to disapprove.’
    Mrs Castleton, he told me, was a treasure, and that one of the most awful and under-appreciated consequences of the war was the limitation on the hours domestic help could be employed.
    ‘Did you know about that?’ he asked. ‘It’s supposed to free up the servants for war work. The idea of Mrs Castleton stuffing bullets into ammunition belts is ludicrous — although they’d be the neatest belts in the line. Mrs Castleton has a thing about order, and that’s why I have a thing about Mrs Castleton. She takes hair left on soap very personally, as of course do all reasonable people.’
    I felt compelled to agree with him on this point. I certainly didn’t want to give the impression that I was careless in this department, separate bathrooms notwithstanding. Mrs Castleton would find no fault with my bath soap.
    By the time I’d seen the rest of the house, I’d realised that although Paul Clutterbuck must have had a good deal of money, he couldn’t afford its upkeep without the relief provided by a tenant’s rent. Of the six rooms upstairs, two were unfurnished, and the air in them had the uncirculated dullness of the air in rooms that are never visited.
    When we returned to the living room Miss Gretel Beech was there, dressed and poised for departure. With her hair brushed into place and wearing a dress that flattered her figure, but which had seen better days — I was surprised to see that