At Aunt Hetty’s suggestion they left Tom’s car parked in her drive and walked to the home of Mr Ripley, as their route afforded them an opportunity to stroll along the road where Miss Tilling had lived.
‘Here we are,’ Aunt Hetty announced, as they approached the property in question. ‘Poor Miss Tilling was found lying at the foot of the stairs, just on the other side of the front door.’
They all turned to look at the door, as if it might yield up some helpful clue, but it was just a normal sort of front door, with two panes of coloured glass set in stained oak panels, about which there appeared to be nothing out of the ordinary.
‘No neighbouring houses for quite a few yards in either direction on this side of the road,’ Tom remarked. ‘And the house on the opposite side of the road stands well back, so it’s most unlikely that they would have heard the sound of someone falling down the stairs. Is that a doctor’s plaque on the gate?’
‘Yes, that’s where Doctor Owen lives. You will probably meet him tomorrow at St Agnes’s.’ Aunt Hetty lowered her voice conspiratorially, though it would have been impossible for anyone inside the house across the road to hear her. ‘I suspect that he is not nearly so enamoured of Mr Pinder’s new ideas as he appears to be. I think he goes along with a great deal in order to keep the peace with his sister.’
‘Who is his sister?’ asked Fran.
‘Mrs Dulcie Smith. She has kept house for him since her husband and son died. The arrangement suits them both, I imagine, since Doctor Owen has never married.’
‘Is Mrs Smith the woman you mentioned yesterday? The one who lost her husband in the war and then her son to influenza?’
‘She is. You will meet her at church tomorrow, too. We turn left at the next corner and then we’re almost at Mr Ripley’s house. There now, you can see the chimneys from here. They’re mock Tudor, the only ones like it anywhere in the village.’
Although they had walked a relatively short distance to reach the bank manager’s house, the day was growing warmer and Fran was grateful to be served with a generous glass of lemon barley on arrival, served from a jug in which ice cubes chinked against the glass. Mr Ripley’s household evidently enjoyed the rare luxury of a refrigerator. They had been conducted out on to the terrace, where an awning had been set up above a group of striped-canvas garden chairs. Here Mr Ripley, a slim, middle-aged man with a neat moustache and hair greying at the temples, welcomed them with what appeared to be genuine friendliness and introduced his son, Geoffrey, a precocious, skinny boy with a corncrake voice and a good deal too much to say for himself; his teenage daughter, Florence, whose pretty face was slightly spoiled by a rather sulky mouth; her governess, Mademoiselle Bertillon, whose almost flawless English was delivered with an accent that betrayed her French origins; and finally Miss Rose, a tall, broad-shouldered woman who was wearing a floral frock which did not really suit her.
‘Miss Rose has kindly agreed to join us in order to even up the numbers,’ announced their host, as if in doing so Miss Rose had conveyed a great favour upon them all. ‘Florence and Miss Bertillon take their meals in the dining room now, but Geoffrey has only been doing so since he returned from school this summer.’
Fran noticed that in spite of the heat, Miss Rose’s gloved hand seemed cool when it briefly grasped her own during the introductions. ‘Mr Ripley tells me that you and Mr Dod share an interest in literature,’ Miss Rose said, politely. ‘And you are staying with Miss Venn while visiting a church associated with Charles Kingsley?’
‘Actually, we think it is associated with the poet and children’s writer, Robert Barnaby,’ Fran corrected her politely. (As Tom had previously remarked, the great thing about Robert Barnaby was that he seemed to have travelled all over the British Isles during the course of his short life and could therefore provide the perfect cover story to explain a visit to just about anywhere.)
‘I don’t believe I have read anything of his.’ Miss Rose tilted her head slightly as she considered the point. ‘Clearly an omission I ought to redress, if his merely visiting a location is enough to spark a literary pilgrimage.’ She smiled as she spoke, but Fran gained the definite impression that Miss Rose did not for a moment believe in the excuse that Tom had concocted with the cooperation of his aunt.
That woman’s as sharp as a tack, Fran thought. I very much doubt that anything gets by her.
Fortunately there was no further reference to the reason for their visit to Durley Dean, and once everyone had remarked on the unusually warm weather for September, Mr Ripley began to ask Tom about importing bananas and Tom in turn asked Mr Ripley about his youthful visits to St Kitts. In the meantime, Mademoiselle Bertillon and Miss Rose engaged Aunt Hetty on the plans for a forthcoming local flower and produce show. Left with Geoffrey, Fran found herself telling him about her recent visit to the lawn tennis championships at Wimbledon, with the unfortunate result that he insisted on sitting next to her at lunch so that he could regale her with a long and extremely tedious monologue about his own exploits on the tennis courts before his school broke up for the long summer vacation. Brought up in a household where children who attempted to monopolize the conversation would have been politely but firmly instructed to desist, Fran found the experience thoroughly irritating. Moreover, she felt she was missing out on a valuable opportunity to size up Mr Ripley and his prospective new partner in life, Miss Rose.
Down at Tom’s end of the table, the conversation had moved away from the fruits of the Caribbean and on to the perennial issues of cricket and gardening.
‘Do you play tennis yourself, Mrs Black?’ Geoffrey asked, after the remains of roast chicken and vegetables had been cleared away and junket was being served.
‘A little, though not exceptionally well.’
‘We should get up a four after lunch. Florence – Florence, say you will play tennis with Mrs Black and myself after lunch.’
Florence turned to look at her brother with undisguised distaste, but before she could respond, Fran said quickly, ‘Oh, I couldn’t possibly play. I don’t have the right shoes.’
‘Don’t be silly, Geoffrey. It’s far too hot to play,’ his sister said.
‘Rubbish,’ the boy said. ‘It’s good for you to get out into the sun. Vitamin C and all that. You could easily lend Mrs Black some plimsolls.’ He turned back to Fran. ‘What size do you take?’
‘Really, Geoffrey! Don’t be so rude. Take no notice of him, Mrs Black.’
‘Mr Dod,’ Geoffrey called down the table. ‘You’ll play tennis after lunch, won’t you?’
‘Of course,’ said Tom, who had been focused on something Mr Ripley was saying about vegetable marrows and was therefore clearly unaware that the rest of the party had not committed to Geoffrey’s tennis plans. ‘Though I will need the loan of a racquet.’
‘We’ve got plenty – and spare tennis shoes.’
At this point Aunt Hetty asked Mr Ripley how his dahlias had been this summer, Miss Rose complimented the junket and Geoffrey began to tuck in, so the subject of tennis was temporarily dropped – only to be revived again when Mr Ripley suggested they go back out on to the veranda for their coffee, and in the general move away from the table Geoffrey popped up alongside Tom and headed him off across the hall in search of some appropriate kit for the forthcoming game.
‘I bet we’d have some shoes for you, too, Mrs Black,’ Geoffrey said. ‘And we’ve plenty of ladies’ racquets.’
‘Just ignore him,’ Florence said. ‘No one has to play if they don’t want to.’
‘I am afraid Mr Geoffrey is rather overbearing.’ Mademoiselle Bertillon had fallen into step alongside Fran and spoke quietly enough that no one else could hear her. ‘He does not mean to be rude, but he has always been indulged too much.’
‘Your English is excellent, mademoiselle,’ Fran said. ‘Where did you learn?’
‘I learned in Paris when I was a girl, but I have been living in England for nearly twenty years so there has been plenty of opportunity to practise.’
‘Have you been with the Ripleys all that time?’
‘No, this is my third post. I came here when Miss Florence was six years old – but soon I will need to find another young lady, because Miss Florence is to go away to finishing school in a few months.’
Good heavens, Fran thought, that’s rather grand for a bank manager’s daughter. Aloud she said, ‘I imagine that will be quite a wrench, after what – almost ten years?’
Florence had temporarily excused herself, and her absence left an empty chair between Fran and the governess.
‘I think it is the right time to go.’ Mademoiselle Bertillon glanced towards the three other adults, who were now engaged in a separate conversation, then lowered her voice to say, ‘There will be changes soon, and I do not think that reminders of the original household will be welcome.’
Fran followed the other woman’s glance and noticed that Miss Rose had taken charge of the newly arrived coffee pot, thereby assuming the role of hostess.
‘You served the first Mrs Ripley?’ Fran prompted.
‘No. I was appointed after she died. The second Mrs Ripley engaged me.’
‘Oh.’ Fran was momentarily too surprised to say anything else. She hadn’t realized that the recently deceased Mrs Ripley was not the bank manager’s first wife.
Sensing her confusion, the governess said quietly, ‘You are a visitor … and will have been told that Mr Ripley recently lost his wife, but not that she was his second wife. He has been most unlucky in his domestic affairs.’
At this point Geoffrey and Tom emerged from the house, carrying racquets which had already been removed from their presses. Tom had taken off his tie, undone his top button, rolled his shirt sleeves to his elbows and exchanged his two-tone leather shoes for a pair of slightly greying borrowed plimsolls. Looking around at the others, comfortably settled in their garden chairs, it occurred to Tom for the first time that no one else was readying themselves to play.
‘I say,’ he said. ‘Isn’t anyone else joining us?’
‘I never play, old chap. Artificial leg, d’you see.’ To Fran’s utter astonishment, Mr Ripley lifted his trouser leg at the ankle to reveal a polished wooden calf descending into his sock and shoe. What on earth was the appropriate response to such a revelation in a social situation? Fortunately the bank manager dropped his trouser cuff again and continued, ‘Car smash, back in 1914. Got me out of the Great War, of course – and gave me a lot of unexpected kudos. Young chap hobbling about on a stick in 1915, everyone assumes you are a hero and wants to stand you a drink. Every cloud has a silver lining, eh? Did you see service, Mr Dod?’
‘No,’ Tom said. ‘I’m afraid I was too young.’
Fran noticed the way Tom’s face had clouded. She too felt discomfited by their host’s remarks, for – like Tom’s – her own brothers had not come home from the war.
Geoffrey barely allowed Tom time to finish his coffee before chivvying him across the lawn where, after the necessary adjustments to the net, they began to knock up. By now Florence had returned to her seat, which prevented Fran from drawing out Mademoiselle Bertillon any further regarding Mr Ripley’s lack of fortune in domestic affairs. Oh dear, Fran thought, our detecting is not going at all well; I can’t ask the governess anything in front of the daughter, and Tom is stuck on the tennis court with Geoffrey.
It was really far too hot to play, and singles meant a good deal more chasing after the ball than a set of doubles would have done. To make matters worse there was no back or side netting, so any unreturned shots had to be retrieved by the players themselves. Tom was soon red in the face and visibly perspiring. Geoffrey’s constant yelping commentary kept those sitting on the terrace appraised of the score, but after a closely fought set, Tom emerged victorious and immediately returned to the rest of the party for a well-earned glass of lemon barley.
Whereas Tom clearly felt that he had done his duty, Geoffrey had other ideas. ‘It’s not fair. It has to be best of three sets.’
‘Oh, do shut up, Geoffrey,’ his sister said. ‘You can see that Mr Dod is positively done for in this heat.’
‘It was a close set and could have gone either way,’ the boy whined on. ‘It’s not sporting to refuse to give a chap the chance to redress the score.’
Fran glanced across to Mr Ripley, but his attitude to Geoffrey’s behaviour never seemed to extend beyond amused benevolence.
Tom was clearly nettled by the insinuation about a lack of sportsmanship. ‘Very well then,’ he said, rising to his feet and picking up his racquet. ‘Best of three it is.’ There was a glint in his eye which Fran had never seen before.
Conversation among the spectators dwindled as the game resumed. Geoffrey was young and fit and scampered all over the court with the reckless abandon of youth, while Tom, though clearly struggling in the heat and presumably disadvantaged by a borrowed racquet, played with a do-or-die determination and looked increasingly irritated by the number of close shots his opponent was calling out. Once or twice he queried them, but Geoffrey always stuck to his guns – even when Tom hit what looked like a clear winner on game point.
‘You should play a let,’ Florence called from her seat on the terrace.
‘It was out,’ Geoffrey shouted back. ‘I saw it clearly.’
After a moment’s hesitation, Tom accepted the call in silence and walked back to the baseline for another serve. Possibly, Fran thought, Tom was saying nothing because he could no longer summon enough breath to protest. With the score at eight games all, Tom abruptly changed tactics, no longer looking to serve and volley but instead merely playing the ball back into the court, often directly at Geoffrey’s feet.
‘I think Mr Dod is becoming too tired to make his shots,’ murmured Mademoiselle Bertillon.
Fran said nothing. That had been her own initial thought, but after a couple of points she realized that Tom had not capitulated but had instead developed a plan to defeat his opponent. Firstly by keeping the ball so far inside the lines that it was impossible for him to lose any further points as a result of Geoffrey’s fraudulent calls, and secondly by allowing the boy to beat himself, for Geoffrey had clearly mistaken Tom’s apparent lassitude for exhaustion and this encouraged him to show off, attempting overambitious shots that ended up in the net or yards out of court. Eventually a flashy forehand went flying into the shrubbery for match point, and then a mistimed smash gave Tom the match.
‘Ten eight,’ Tom said, politely. ‘My match, I think.’ He walked purposefully to the net and extended his hand. Geoffrey, as if caught unawares by the score, reluctantly walked to meet him. While at the net, Tom inclined his head and said something that was inaudible to the spectators on the terrace, at which Geoffrey abruptly withdrew from the handshake and marched, red-faced, directly into the house.
‘I am afraid Mr Geoffrey is a bad loser,’ remarked Mademoiselle Bertillon.
‘Well played, Mr Dod,’ said Miss Rose and clapped Tom back to the terrace, her applause taken up enthusiastically by the rest of the party.
It occurred to Fran that Miss Rose might not be particularly fond of her prospective stepson. She pictured her own eldest brother, another Geoffrey, who had been keen on tennis but had always played fair. Poor Geoffrey, who had not been so very much older than this brat of a boy when he went off to fight in the war to end all wars. It must never, ever, be allowed to happen again.
The three guests made their excuses soon afterwards, and once they were safely beyond the front gate and a few yards along the road, Fran asked, ‘What was it that you said to that insufferable boy at the end of the match?’
‘I said gentlemen do not cheat and cheats seldom prosper.’