An Unsuitable Job for a Woman Read Online Free PDF Page B

artificial and unsubstantial as a film set. It was essentially a family house, a welcoming house. But now a heavy silence lay over it and the rows of elegantly proportioned windows were empty eyes.
    Lunn, who had driven fast but skilfully, braked in front of the porch. He stayed in his seat while the two women got out, then drove the van round the side of the house. As she slid down from the high seat Cordelia could glimpse a range of low buildings, topped with small ornamental turrets, which she took to be stables or garages. Through the wide-arched gateway she could see that the grounds dropped slowly away to give a far vista of the flat Cambridgeshire countryside, patterned with the gentle greens and fawns of early summer.
    Miss Leaming said: “The stable block has been converted into laboratories. Most of the east side is now glass. It was a skilful job by a Swedish architect, functional but attractive.”
    For the first time since they had met her voice sounded interested, almost enthusiastic.
    The front door was open. Cordelia came into a wide, panelled hall with a staircase curving to the left, a carved stone fireplace to the right. She was aware of a smell of roses and lavender, of carpets gleaming richly against polished wood, of the subdued ticking of a clock.
    Miss Leaming led the way to a door immediately across the hall. It led to a study, a room book-lined and elegant, one with a view of wide lawns and a shield of trees. In front of the French windows was a Georgian desk and behind the desk sat a man.
    Cordelia had seen his photographs in the Press and knew what to expect. But he was at once smaller and more impressive than she had imagined. She knew that she was facing a man of authority and high intelligence; his strength cameover like a physical force. But as he rose from his seat and waved her to a chair, she saw that he was slighter than his photographs suggested, the heavy shoulders and impressive head making the body look top-heavy. He had a lined, sensitive face with a high-bridged nose, deep-set eyes on which the lids weighed heavily and a mobile, sculptured mouth. His black hair, as yet unflecked with grey, lay heavily across his brow. His face was shadowed with weariness and, as Cordelia came closer, she could detect the twitch of a nerve in his left temple and the almost imperceptible staining of the veins in the irises of the deep-set eyes. But his compact body, taut with energy and latent vigour, made no concession to tiredness. The arrogant head was held high, the eyes were keen and wary under the heavy lids. Above all he looked successful. Cordelia had seen that look before, had recognized it from the back of crowds as, inscrutable, they had watched the famous and notorious pass on their way—that almost physical glow, akin to sexuality and undimmed by weariness or ill-health, of men who knew and enjoyed the realities of power.
    Miss Leaming said: “This is all that remains of Pryde’s Detective Agency—Miss Cordelia Gray.”
    The keen eyes looked into Cordelia’s.
    “We take a Pride in our Work. Do you?”
    Cordelia, tired after her journey at the end of a momentous day, was in no mood for jokes about poor Bernie’s pathetic pun. She said: “Sir Ronald, I have come here because your secretary said that you might want to employ me. If she’s wrong, I would be glad to know so that I can get back to London.”
    “She isn’t my secretary and she isn’t wrong. You must forgive my discourtesy; it’s a little disconcerting to expect a burly ex-policeman and to get you. I’m not complaining, Miss Gray; you might do very well. What are your fees?”
    The question might have sounded offensive but it wasn’t; he was completely matter-of-fact. Cordelia told him, a little too quickly, a little too eagerly.
    “Five pounds a day and expenses, but we try to keep those as low as possible. For that, of course, you get my sole services. I mean I don’t work for any other client until your case is