Every few seconds his eyelid twitched irritatingly, but Timothy ignored it.


Chapter Six

'Now the one who I thinks really going to miss me is Stella,' Florrie said.

'Oh, I'm sure she will. I do like Stella. And she's so smart and sophisticated.'

'I suppose working as a fashion journalist in New York for ten years does that for you.'

'I do enjoy her stories.'

'Yes, she's a wonderfully entertaining girl. I love her sense of humour. I'm sorry her magazine went broke, of course, but I am glad it brought her home.'

'But she seems to be doing just as well with this London magazine.'

'Don't suppose she earns as much, though. She's a very ambitious girl, and I wouldn't be surprised if she moved on fairly soon. Ah well, we'll see. Or at least you will.'

'She's the granddaughter of Margaret, your husband's younger sister, is that right?'

'I sometimes think you know my family better than I do. Yes. Margaret was pretty cool at first, but she came round in the end. We became quite good friends. And it's nice that her grandson keeps in touch, as well as her granddaughter.'

'Stella and Tommy are first cousins, aren't they?'

'Yes. I'm fond of Tommy - even though he's not the brainiest lad you could hope to find.'

'He's so charming, though. And funny. He really makes me smile with all those tales of his pranks.'

'Bit too funny and charming sometimes, perhaps, but his heart's in the right place.'

'He's such a good listener, too. He always seems really eager to hear the little stories I am able to tell him about communications with the Other Side.'

Florrie strongly suspected that Jean's little stories were secretly a source of great amusement to Tommy. But she said nothing.

* * *

The richly carpeted and gracefully appointed car showroom had the hush of a great cathedral. Here and there among the multicoloured and glistening graven images, elegant and expensively attired young men, the priests of this secular religion, conversed in low and earnest tones with equally well-dressed but clearly timid acolytes. Occasionally a single word or phrase wafted, like a mantra, above the low hum: 'torque,' 'compression,' 'power-to-weight ratio.'

Tommy Lambert, an exceedingly tall and slim young man of twenty-three, with a pink complexion and a mop of unruly sandy-coloured hair, stood gazing out through the plate glass window at the sunlit bustle of London's Park Lane, his normally amiable expression replaced at this moment by one of profound gloom. No eager enquirers after truth had approached him that morning, perhaps sensing that he was as much a noviciate as they themselves. And no enquirers, to be promptly converted into cash-paying customers, meant no commission this week. And no commission meant no - what? Champagne cocktails? Tickets to the new Rodgers and Hart musical for himself and Ginny or Susie or Joanie? No afternoon at Epsom on Saturday? He could put up with that, though, if it wasn't for the other business. The day suddenly darkened as he thought of it again. What the deuce was he going to do? For the moment Benny seemed reasonably content with ten shillings a week. But that was just interest. It could only be a matter of weeks at the most before he demanded payment in full. And when he didn't get it he'd probably turn very nasty. Confound the fellow who'd given him that 'sure-fire' tip. Nothing seemed to have gone right since.

'Hello, Tommy,' said a soft and slightly breathless voice behind him.

Tommy spun round and his face lightened. 'Penny, old bean, what a surprise!'

The girl standing there was a few years younger than himself.