“I think I could tell him if he really wanted to know.”
“You tell me instead.”
“I might, one of these days. If you would really like a drink, come on in. I know where the Scotch is hidden.”
I followed her into a large room which led off the hall. She rolled a little with each step, and had weight and control in her hips. They moved under the prim-looking white dress the way a baseball flighted with finger-spin moves. I could have walked behind her all day watching that action.
“Sit down,” she said, waving to an eight-foot settee. “I’ll fix you a drink.”
“Fine,” I said, lowering myself down on the cushion-covered springs. “But on one condition. I never drink alone. I’m very particular about that.”
“So am I,” she said.
I watched her locate a bottle of Johnny Walker, two pint tumblers and a bottle of Whiterock from the recess in a Jacobean Court cupboard.
“We could have ice, but it’ll mean asking Benskin, and I guess we can do without Benskin right now, don’t you?” she said, looking at me from under eyelashes that were like a row of spiked railings.
“Never mind the ice,” I said, “and be careful of the Whiterock. That stuff can ruin good whisky.”