Doctor On The Brain (14 page)

‘Officer,’ said Sir Lancelot. ‘I wish to see Dr Frances Humble. She works here.’

‘Queue for the public gallery over there, sir,’ said the policeman.

‘I do not wish to sit in the public gallery. I wish to go inside and speak to Dr Humble.’

‘Just take your place in the queue, sir. You’ll get a seat all right before the House rises.’

Big Ben overhead boomed ten o’clock. It was the same evening, warm, starlit and airless.

‘I happen to know that Dr Humble is inside the House of Commons. I saw as much in the evening paper. She is engaged in debating the new Education Bill. It is a matter of the utmost public importance that I should see her.’

‘I’m afraid everyone has to queue for the public gallery, sir.’

Sir Lancelot held a hand before his eyes. ‘I wish to lobby my MP.’

‘Have you a ticket, sir?’

‘I am demanding to exercise the sacred right of a free-born Englishman.’

‘Still got to have a ticket, sir.’

‘Good God, officer! Is this democracy?’

‘Come along, sir, No offensive language, please.’

‘Can’t I even send in a message?’

‘Queue for the public gallery over there, sir.’

The policeman turned to assist a party of tourists looking for the Post Office Tower. Sir Lancelot stood wondering what to do next. He had telephoned Frankie half a dozen times since lunch without success. To be conscripted by her as second-best to Bonaccord was bad enough. But second-best to the dean was unthinkable. He was determined to fling her perfidy in her face before he went to bed. Besides, there was no time to waste, if she were to find yet another vice-chancellor. He looked round wildly. It was unfortunate that the House of Commons, of all edifices in the country, should be purpose-built to keep out the unwelcome. He had half-resigned himself to defeat, when Frankie herself came down the steps from the arched, carved doors, talking earnestly to a man of schoolmasterish appearance.

‘Frankie! I must see you this instant.’

She looked up and smiled. She bade her visitor farewell, and crossed to Sir Lancelot. ‘Why on earth are you standing there mixed with the populace? I could have given you a ticket, had you wanted to hear the debate.’

‘I do not wish to hear any debate. Nor shall there be any on what I am about to say. That vice-chancellor’s job at Hampton Wick. I withdraw my application.’

‘A little sudden, isn’t it?’

‘No more sudden than the blow of my discovering you offered it first to Lychfield, and even before him to Bonaccord.’

‘I can’t see why you should make a fuss. Even Ministers of the Crown aren’t above accepting an office turned down by others.’

‘But you led me to believe, Frankie, that I was your first choice. I accepted on those terms. I am very, very hurt.’

‘Poor Lancelot,’ she said with deep sympathy.

‘And you were very, very naughty.’

‘Perhaps I was. But politics is a very, very naughty business.’

‘So you’ll have to find someone else.’

‘Oh, no I won’t. I’ve had enough trouble filling this job already.’

‘I shall refuse to accept it.’

‘Aren’t you being a little silly?’ Sir Lancelot saw her nose twitch. But at that moment he was twitchproof. ‘The official announcement’s already typed, and probably issued to the press. They’ll have a lot of questions to ask if you simply disown it. Why you’ve got cold feet, for a start.’

‘I shall say you tricked me into it.’

‘Very well. That I tricked you while alone with you, in your house one night. While my husband was away. If you want to present me in that sort of light to my constituents and the rest of the public, you are quite entitled to. But I’m afraid that my political friends would see that it was the end of your career, too.’

Sir Lancelot looked shocked. ‘Frankie, surely you don’t really think I would be capable of such conduct? Especially with you. After all, there are limits.’

She gave him a sweet smile. ‘Of course, you’d never even think of it. You’re far too gallant, in such a lovely old-fashioned way.’

‘Then you’ll voluntarily withdraw your offer?’

‘No. So there’s not much you can do about it, really, is there? Now I must get back to the Chamber. There’s such a boring little man on his feet, but I know he always treats himself to exactly forty minutes of everybody’s time.’

Frankie hurried back up the steps, the policeman saluting. Sir Lancelot made to follow.

‘Queue for the public gallery over there, sir.’

‘It is essential that I speak to that lady.’

‘Come along, sir. Even the Queen herself isn’t allowed in where she’s going.’

Sir Lancelot glowered. But five hundred years of privilege wrung in words and blood stood impenetrably between him and his quarry. ‘In which case, officer, perhaps you would kindly direct me to a telephone box instead?’

‘Corner of Parliament Square, sir.’

The box was empty. Sir Lancelot felt for a coin, and dialled. There was some delay before anyone answered.

‘Bonaccord? Spratt here. I understand that a few days ago you were honoured with an offer of the vice-chancellorship of Hampton Wick University.’

‘That is perfectly true.’

‘I am asking with the full authority of Dr Frances Humble that you reconsider your decision, and that you take it.’

‘That’s out of the question.’

‘Why? A nut-wallah like you is just what they want.’

‘I should prefer to continue with clinical work, thank you very much.’

‘You haven’t the guts, that’s what.’

‘Fortunately I am not given to crude emotions, Lancelot. But were I a man of uncontrolled instinct I should find that remark most offensive.’

Sir Lancelot swallowed. ‘I apologize. I apologize slavishly.’ His voice took on an oily sheen. ‘Paradoxically enough, my language was dictated solely by regard for your splendid qualities. I was merely trying to goad you into taking the job, for the benefit of the university and all concerned.’

‘But I’m not at all the right type. They want some thick-skinned red-necked old academic hack who’ll simply put up with them. The entire Institute of Psychiatry couldn’t tame those students.’

Dr Bonaccord realized he was talking to himself. He raised his eyebrows, and put back the hall telephone with a sigh. He was in stockinged feet, trousers and mauve-striped shirt open to the waist. He went back to the bedroom.

‘Who was it?’

‘That stupid old bleeder Spratt.’

‘What did he want? Something about Miss MacNish?’

‘No, he seems to have got wind of my being offered the Hampton Wick job.’

Gisela bit the end of one finger guiltily. ‘That was me, I’m afraid.’

‘It doesn’t matter. For some reason he was pressing me to take it. I suppose it’s been offered to someone else whose insides he hates even more than my own. You do look attractive like that.’

‘Flatterer.’

‘Turn in your toes and put your knees together. That’s right. Do your naughty little schoolgirl.’

‘Like that? Aren’t you glad I kept my old school clothes?’

He lay full length on the bed. ‘Mmmmm…’

‘Though it’s a bore having to hide them locked away in the desk. I don’t know what Miss MacNish would say if she found a gym-slip and striped tie.’

‘And a badge saying “House Prefect”.’ Gisela smiled, inspecting herself in the long mirror. ‘They still fit. A bit tight in the bust, that’s all.’

‘The straw boater is a lovely touch.’

‘Do you like it?’ she asked eagerly.

‘Especially on the back of your head.’

She rearranged it. ‘Remember when you used to wait to carry my books home from school?’

He laughed softly. ‘And nobody here even suspects we knew each other then.’

‘It was so far away in the country.’

‘And before you’d met your husband.’

They laughed together. Gisela sprang lightly on to the white-covered bed where he lay relaxed, arms behind his head, She started delicately tickling his left ear with the toe of her black school stocking.

‘Nice?’

He nodded. ‘What do you most admire about me?’

‘That’s a very difficult one.’

‘Try.’

‘Well, you’re very clever.’

‘Yes. I am. And I’m different from others. I understand the human mind. I understand my own mind. I am clean of the prejudices, hates, idiocies, obsessions and phobias of ordinary mortals. I am normal. That is a tremendous achievement.’

‘Of course it is, Cedric.’ She spoke gently and admiringly.

He reached out and picked up a grubby white tennis shoe. ‘It’s got your name inside it.’

‘It’s the pair I used to wear for games.’

He put it under his nose, savouring it like a highly-bred rose. The doorbell rang.

‘Bloody hell!’ Dr Bonaccord got off the bed. He slipped on a short dressing-gown, went down to the hall and opened the front door. Outside was a tall, thin middle-aged lady in a wide-brimmed hat, carrying a small suitcase.

‘Sir Lancelot Sprite?’ she asked.

‘This is the wrong number. Sir Lancelot is at No. 3.’

‘Oh? I was ringing there for a quite considerable time.’ She had the sort of voice heard announcing the prizes at suburban fetes. ‘So I imagined I was mistaken.’

‘I’m afraid I can’t help you,’ he said shortly. ‘Is it urgent? Are you a patient?’

‘I am in no need of medical attention, thank you. I shall have to hang about until he returns. Though I am not in the least used to hanging about, I can assure you.’

The psychiatrist shut the door. His visitor walked up and down Lazar Row, looking petulant. But it was not long before a taxi drew up before No 3 and a stout man with a beard got out. She assumed a smile, approaching from the shadows. ‘Sir Lancelot Sprite?’

‘Spratt’s the name. Who are you?’

‘I am Mrs Grimley. I am here through the agency of Hotblack’s.’

‘Thank God you’ve turned up. Come inside.’

He switched on the light in the hall. ‘Charming place,’ she said, following him.

‘Glad you like it. Through here is my sitting-room.’ Sir Lancelot paused. He rubbed his hands briskly. ‘You must forgive me, madam, but I have just endured one of the most trying days of my life. Would you object if I had a whisky and soda?’

‘But not at all. I always believe a man is entitled to his tipple.’

‘Er…perhaps you’d join me, Mrs Grimley?’ he asked politely.

‘Thank you. Ever so. I would be quite partial to a small one.’

Sir Lancelot produced two crystal tumblers and a bottle of Glenlivet. ‘Say when.’ He poured the spirit. ‘Say when.’ He poured some more. ‘Say when.’

‘It does so restore the morale, don’t you think?’

‘Say when.’

‘Oh! I wasn’t noticing.’

‘Soda or water?’

‘I’ll take it straight, thank you ever so. Mud in your eye.’

Sir Lancelot poured his own drink. ‘I suppose you’re pretty experienced?’

‘Well… I
am
a widow.’

‘H’m. As you may have gathered from Hotblack’s, I am a widower.’

‘And
a knight. I’m very thrilled, I must say.’

‘It is hardly the most magnificent of distinctions. Or perhaps one just gets used to it, like one’s cricket colours at school.’

‘I don’t think I’d
ever
get used to calling myself “Lady Spratt”.’

‘No? Perhaps my late wife didn’t. Where are you from, Mrs Grimley?’

‘Wiveliscombe. That’s in Somerset, you know.’

‘You’ve had a long journey.’

‘Too, too exhausting! Do you think I could restore myself with another little drinkey?’

‘Yes, of course.’ Sir Lancelot looked at her doubtfully. ‘Do you…er, shift much of this stuff?’

‘In strictest moderation, I assure you. Except when I’m tired. My poor late husband passed away with it. Chin-chin.’

He sat in the armchair, sticking out his legs. ‘Do sit down, Mrs Grimley. I don’t insist on formality here, you know. I hope you’ll decide to stay.’

She took the straight-backed chair opposite, crossing her legs and modestly tugging the hem of her skirt, holding her glass with both hands on her knees. ‘How very kind.’

‘I’ve been without anyone now for two days.’

She gave a shriek. ‘Your wife! She’s only just died? Not even buried?’

‘No, no, no. I had someone living here to look after me. A housekeeper.’

‘A
housekeeper
!’ She giggled and winked.

‘Hotblack’s must have explained to you that I suggested we took a look at each other. If we both approved, we’d go ahead without any more fuss and bother.’ She nodded. ‘For my part, Mrs Grimley, I should be delighted to take you on.’

‘Oh! Sir Lancelot.’ She dropped her eyes.

‘And for your part?’

‘You have made me the happiest woman in London.’

‘H’m. Well. That’s settled then.’

‘Might I have another wee one? It’s all so trying on the nerves.’ She picked up the bottle and helped herself.

‘When can you start? Tonight?’

‘Oh! You are impatient.’ She closed her eyes appreciatively. ‘Quite a bull pawing the ground, a stallion champing at the bit.’

‘I told you, I’ve had no one for two days. It’ll be a great relief, I make no secret of it.’

‘I am yours to command,’ she said grandly.

‘Good. Well, first you’ll have to go up to the bedroom and make the bed.’ She stood up and aimed for the door, swaying hardly perceptibly. ‘By the way, I don’t know if Hotblack’s charge you anything. But I’ll send them a cheque to cover both of our fees in the morning.’

She turned round and gently patted his face. ‘How sweet you are. But I’m afraid my fees are rather on the large side, because I have been on their books for quite a wee time, you know. Still, what’s it matter if they deliver the goods in the end? To think! I was actually on the point of losing faith in any matrimonial agency at all.’

‘I wonder who the woman was I saw going into Lancelot’s house?’ asked Josephine in the sitting-room of No 2.

The dean looked up quickly from his
Proceedings of the Royal Society of Medicine
. ‘It wasn’t Frankie?’

‘Oh no, dear, I’d always recognize Frankie. It was someone very strange. She looked as though they’d forgotten to tidy her away after the Chelsea Flower Show.’

‘I wouldn’t be surprised at any company Lancelot keeps. He’s really a disgrace to the neighbourhood. He goes round shouting his head off, he crashes about in there half the night, and he reeks of onions. I wish to God he’d move out.’

‘That isn’t very charitable of you, Lionel.’

‘Charitable? Lancelot’s about as deserving of charity as a successful bank robber.’

‘Daddy, do shut up,’ said Muriel, not lifting her eyes from her
Lancet
.

‘Kindly do not speak to me like that,’ said the dean icily.

‘You’re always carrying on about Uncle Lancelot. It bores me.’

‘Just because you’re going to be a married woman doesn’t mean you can irritate your parents with a display of condescension.’

‘Lionel! Remember her condition.’

The dean snorted.

‘If you ask me–’ began Edgar Sharpewhistle, a finger keeping his place in the
Journal of Hospital Medicine
.

‘For God’s sake, don’t you start,’ said the dean. They were enjoying a family evening. Muriel had to the dean’s annoyance insisted strongly on her fiancé being asked for dinner, and then made a point of their all sitting together over the coffee.

‘After all,’ she had claimed. ‘We’ve got to get used to each other’s company some time, haven’t we?’

Sharpewhistle started looking anxiously round for the brandy, but the dean had hidden it. Suddenly Muriel stood up.

‘Ah! You’re both off,’ said the dean.

‘Father. The time is just on ten-thirty. A crisis is about to arise in my life,’

Sharpewhistle blinked.

‘Now, now, dear,’ said Josephine. ‘You’re being a little emotional. It’s only to be expected in your delicate state.’

Muriel glanced at her watch. ‘At any moment someone will walk through the front door to change the lives of all of us.’

‘What
are
you raving about?’ complained the dean. ‘Who do you expect at this hour? It’s hardly the season for Santa Claus.’

‘I wanted you, Father, and Mother – and you, Edgar – to be here when he arrived. That’s why I engineered the dinner-party. He couldn’t come earlier because of his job.’

‘Love, you’ve been overworking,’ suggested Sharpewhistle.

‘Muriel, my dear,’ said the dean. ‘Possibly you’re in the grip of some hallucination or other. How about the pair of us slipping next door to Bonaccord?’

The doorbell rang. They all looked at one another. ‘I’ll go,’ said Muriel.

She reappeared with a tall, thin, pale, clean but shabbily-dressed young man.

‘Mother… Father… Edgar…this is Andrew Clarke.’

The dean jumped up and glared. ‘And what, may I ask, do you want?’

‘I want to marry your daughter.’

‘Good God,’ muttered the dean. ‘It’s me. Yes, I’m the patient. I’ve developed organized delusions. Probably schizophrenia. Must see Bonaccord at once.’

‘Here, steady on–’ began Edgar.

‘Oh, Andy,’ said Muriel. ‘This is my fiancé.’

Andy extended his hand. ‘Peace to you, my friend. Hold no rancour in your heart, I pray you.’

‘You’re pulling my bird–’

‘Life is such a magnificent gift, brother,’ he continued, ‘our destinies so mysterious, we cannot let our vision be clouded by trivialities.’

‘You can’t just pinch my wife–’

‘Peace, peace–’

‘I’d give you a punch on the nose, if I was bigger.’

‘Edgar, do please avoid making an exhibition of yourself.’

‘Anyway, I feel quite sick.’

‘Who is this man?’ demanded the dean. ‘Where did you bring him from?’

‘I have known Andy for some months, Father. Since I was doing my sociology course. We are very much in love with one another.’

‘Sociology student, is he? I might have known as much. Depraved, the lot of them.’

‘No, Andy isn’t one of the students. He’s one of the subjects. He doesn’t believe in money or possessions, or anything but leading a pure life. Though now he’s got a steady job, you may like to know. So we want to get married.’

‘An evening job, sir,’ Andy explained. ‘Washing up in a hotel. It’s remarkable the satisfaction one can get from scraping dirty plates.’

The dean wagged his finger. ‘Don’t imagine that you’re going to get any financial assistance from me. Not a penny, I assure you. Nor are you going to move in and live here, free of charge…’ He stopped. He stared at Sharpewhistle and Andy in turn, then finally at Muriel. He added in a weak voice, ‘Er…does he…your new young man…
know
?’

‘I’m aware, sir, that Muriel is expecting a child by another man.’ He bowed courteously towards Sharpewhistle. ‘But that is a mere nothing, compared with our own future happiness.’

‘You mean you’re…you’re prepared to rear this cuckoo?’

‘It will be Muriel’s child.’

‘Here! What about me?’ demanded Sharpewhistle.

‘Do be quiet, Edgar. You must try and adjust yourself like an adult.’

‘But I’m the father of it! Don’t I count at all?’

‘Yes, it
must
be mass delusions,’ muttered the dean. ‘First thing tomorrow morning, we’ll all five of us have to go and see Bonaccord.’

‘You’ve got to marry me,’ shouted Sharpewhistle.

‘Nothing in this world would make me do that, Edgar. I must have been mad to contemplate it in the first place.’

‘Well, that’s all very satisfactory, isn’t it?’ Josephine spoke for the first time. ‘Muriel will marry Andy, whom she is very fond of and the baby will have a nice, cheerful home. It’s a little hard on you, Edgar, I must admit, but I’m sure you’ll take it in a very reasonable way. After all, there’re plenty of other very nice girls about the place, whom you can make pregnant in the fullness of time.’

‘Drugs!’ exclaimed the dean. ‘I’ve got it! That’s what you’re on, young man, aren’t you? Hallucinogens. The obvious diagnosis.’

‘I take neither drugs, sir, nor tobacco, nor alcohol nor meat. My life is devoted to purity, to sweetness towards others, and to intellectual integrity.’

Sharpewhistle stood in the corner making choking noises. Josephine continued calmly, ‘As everything’s settled, Lionel, why not get that bottle of champagne from the fridge to celebrate?’

‘What’s the point, my dear, he says he doesn’t drink alcohol… I mean, the whole thing is outrageous. Ridiculous. Impossible. I won’t hear a single word of it. Muriel! Come to your senses. You must marry young Sharpewhistle there.’

‘I refuse to.’

‘Why couldn’t you get this other fellow to put you in the family way in the first place?’ asked the dean furiously. ‘Why do you have to make life so bloody complicated for all of us? Absolutely typical of a female medical student!’

There was a crash. An iron casserole came sailing through the window.

Josephine screamed. The dean stared through the shattered glass in horror. ‘Send for the police. Dial 999 instantly.’

‘Let me in,’ shouted Sir Lancelot from the pavement. ‘I’m being raped.’

‘Come back, you old sod.’ A shrill female voice rang from outside. ‘You’re not going to walk out on me like this, you randy old doctor–’

‘Madam! Will you please desist in hurling household appliances at me?’

‘Are you coming to bed or aren’t you?’

‘You are to leave my premises at once.’

‘What, at this time of night? You must be joking. Go all the way back to Wiveliscombe? That’s your game, is it? Lead me on and throw me out. Like this, too, with hardly a stitch on my back.’

‘Muriel dear, I think it would be convenient for Sir Lancelot if you opened the front door,’ said Josephine.

The surgeon staggered into the room, wiping his face with his red-spotted handkerchief. The dean perched on the edge of the sofa, staring into the middle distance and biting his nails.

‘And who
was
your friend, Lancelot?’ asked Josephine.

‘A middle-aged alcoholic nymphomaniac.’

Josephine looked through the broken window. ‘She seems to have retreated inside your house. I expect in that state she found the night air chilly.’

‘You may possibly be wondering how in the name of God I managed to get mixed up with her?’

‘Don’t think I’m nosy, Lancelot, but it would seem of interest.’

‘I went to a place called Hotblack’s–’

‘Lancelot! So you decided to marry again, after all? How charming.’

‘No, I did not blasted well decide to get married. Nor shall I. Nor have another female of any description whatever in my house again. I imagined Hotblack’s was a domestic employment agency.’

‘Oh, dear. You should have gone to Morpeth’s in the Strand. I’ll telephone them tomorrow. Though perhaps it would be best if I asked them to send the ladies to be interviewed at St Swithin’s?’

Sir Lancelot sat down heavily next to the dean.

‘Couldn’t you have simply thrown her out?’ asked Josephine.

‘She said she liked the brutal approach. When she appeared, I thought she was at least civilized. Quite refined, in fact. She was raising her elbow rather, though I was prepared to put that down to nerves. In the end, she turned out a…a monster. I only hope I can get rid of her somehow tomorrow. I see I owe you for a window.’

‘But where are you going to sleep?’

‘It is totally out of the question to return to my own house, of course. I rather hoped, Josephine, that I could impose on you for a shakedown here?’

‘That would be no trouble, honestly.’

‘This sofa would suit me perfectly well.’

She looked doubtful. ‘You’re sure you’d be comfortable enough?’

‘Mother–’

Sir Lancelot looked up. He seemed to see the three others for the first time.

‘Yes, dear?’

‘I’m afraid Andy will have to stay here the night, too.’

‘Of course he can. But he hasn’t brought any things, has he?’

‘My things,’ said Andy with a saintly gesture, ‘are in my pockets. A man should never own more possessions than he can carry on his person.’

‘If he stays, I stay.’ Sharpewhistle stared angrily at everybody. ‘To see there isn’t any hanky-panky.’

‘Oh, dear, that might make the house a little crowded.’

‘But Andy’s got nowhere else to go, Mother. Usually, he sleeps where they put the hotel garbage, but they will have locked it up by now.’

‘How very awkward. Well, Andy, if you would care to sleep down here on the sofa, and if Edgar will sleep in the spare room on the first floor, then I’ll move into the divan bed in your room on the top, Muriel. And Sir Lancelot can share our own bedroom with Lionel.’

The dean came to life. ‘I utterly refuse.’

‘Now you’re being churlish, Lionel.’

‘I will not sleep in the same room as Lancelot. It strikes me as quite unhygienic.’

‘Well, you’d better share the sofa down here with young Andy, then.’ The dean jumped up. He pulled half a dozen copies of
The Medical Annual
out of the bookcase, and removed the bottle of brandy lying on its side behind them. ‘So
that’s
where you’d hidden it,’ said Josephine. ‘I do wish I’d known after dinner.’

‘I am taking this liqueur cognac up to our bedroom. I am going to drink as much as possible before it anaesthetizes me. I shall then not care in the least if my bedmate is to be Lancelot, Andy, Edgar or all three. And the lady next door, too, if she feels like it.’

He marched from the room, Sir Lancelot following. The dean went straight through his bedroom to the bathroom, produced a tooth-mug, and half-filled it with brandy.

‘I say, dean,’ murmured Sir Lancelot. ‘I could do with a peg of that.’

For a second the dean glared, but relented. He fetched Josephine’s tooth-mug, gurgled in the brandy, and handed it over in silence. The pair sat on the twin beds.

‘We have problems,’ observed Sir Lancelot.

The dean gulped his brandy and snorted. ‘I have problems. My daughter having got herself pregnant by that over-moustached dwarf Sharpewhistle, now announces she wants to marry that El Greco leftover Andy, or whatever his name is.’

Sir Lancelot raised his eyebrows. ‘You mean the fellow who sleeps on garbage? An odd situation, I must say. Ibsen might have made something of it.’

‘My daughter is an odd female.’ The dean took another gulp. ‘She takes after her mother.’

‘While
I
am let in for this bloody vice-chancellor’s job.’ Sir Lancelot half-drained the brandy. ‘Did you see the Hampton Wick students’ latest antics?’ he asked gloomily. ‘They got bored with hanging their professors in effigy–’

‘I should imagine so. They’re always up to it.’

‘So they decided to do it for real. I believe the poor fellow escaped with a stiff neck and a severe fright. He was the Professor of Criminology, too.’

The dean winced. ‘If only we could get Bonaccord to accept, after all. I wouldn’t worry very much if they hanged him. Nor drew and quartered him while they were at it.’

‘He’s already told me he won’t.’

‘Can’t we put some pressure on him?’

‘What pressure? We can hardly blackmail him. He’s perfectly open about his fornication with that girl, and doesn’t give a damn anyway.’

‘But at his age, the vice-chancellorship of Hampton Wick would be a big step in his career. Can’t he take a rational view?’

‘Rational? Don’t be stupid. He’s a psychiatrist.’ There was a silence. ‘It’s all Frankie’s fault.’

The dean nodded. ‘I’m afraid it is.’

‘It was moreover Frankie who sent me to the marriage agency instead of the domestic agency.’ For the first time, the dean laughed. Sir Lancelot looked at him bleakly. ‘I fail to see anything funny in it, dean. Frankie simply took us both for a ride. She doubtless looks upon us as a pair of burbling old fools.’

‘You know, Lancelot, I’m beginning to believe something which I have long suspected. Frankie’s a bitch.’

‘I’m inclined to agree with you, dean.’