Gerry had arranged with Beryl on Sunday that she should drive him to Euston and take the Alvis back to Beverley House.
“Urgent business,” he had said to her—“and confidential. I’ll explain on the way to the station.”
“Urgent business has become a sort of disease,” Beryl had thought. “Gerry has caught it from Basil.”
“It is business,” Gerry told her, as they drove to Euston, “but not Oundle, Gumble, and Oundle’s business. It’s to do with the murder, and it’s really nothing to do with me at all. It’s awfully difficult to explain and I hate making a mystery of it to you, Beryl. After Basil’s mysterious complications I expect you’re about fed up with mysteries, but I can’t tell you the whole story because it affects two other people.”
“You needn’t tell me a thing if you don’t want to. I’ll take it on trust,” Beryl assured him. But she did sound a bit fed up, he thought.
Oh, Beryl, I hear you. So much fuss and no clear train of thought that makes anything any clearer.
And what is worse, this book was like watching a game of cricket when you have no idea what is going on – you can fall asleep after 10 minutes, wake up a day later, and the score still seems to be exactly the same.
Gawd, I was so bored.