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Book by Rendell Ruth
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The sick . . . they see to with great affection, and let nothing at all pass concerning either physic or good diet whereby they may be restored again to their health.
When Wexford came downstairs in the morning his nephew had already left for work and the women, with the fiendish gusto of amateur dieticians, were preparing a convalescent's breakfast. It had been like that every day since he arrived in London. They kept him in bed till ten; they ran his bath for him; one of them waited for him at the foot of the stairs, holding out a hand in case he fell, a lunatic smile of encouragement on her face.
The other--this morning it was his nephew's wife, Denise--presided over the meagre spread on the dining-room table. Wexford viewed it grimly: two circular biscuits apparently composed of sawdust and glue, a pat of unsaturated fat, half a sugarless grapefruit, black coffee and, crowning horror, a glass dish of wobbly pallid substance he took to be yoghourt. His own wife, trotting behind him from her post as staircase attendant, proffered two white pills and a glass of water.
"This diet," he said, "is going to be the death of me."
"Oh, it's not so bad. Imagine if you were diabetic as well."
'Who," quoted Wexford, "can hold a fire in his hand by thinking on the frosty Caucasus?"
He swallowed the pills and, having shown his contempt for the yoghourt by covering it with his napkin, began to eat sour grapefruit under their solicitous eyes.
"Where are you going for your walk this morning, Uncle Reg?"
He had been to look at Carlyle's house; he had explored the King's Road, eyeing with equal amazement the shops and the people who shopped in them; he had stood at the entrance to Stamford Bridge football ground and actually seen Alan Hudson; he had traversed every exquisite little Chelsea Square, admired the grandeur of the Boltons and the quaint corners of Walham Green; on aching feet he had tramped through the Chenil Galleries and the antique market. They liked him to walk. In the afternoons they encouraged him to go with them in taxis and tube trains to the Natural History Museum and Brompton Oratory and Harrods. As long as he didn't think too much or tax his brain by asking a lot of questions or stay up late or try to go into pubs, they jollied him along with a kind of humouring indulgence.
'Where am I going this morning?" he said. "Maybe down to the Embankment."
"Oh, yes, do. What a good idea!"
"I thought I'd have a look at that statue."
"Saint Thomas More," said Denise who was a Catholic.
"Sir Thomas," said Wexford who wasn't.
"Saint Thomas, Uncle Reg." Denise whisked away the unsaturated fat before Wexford could eat too much of it. "And this afternoon, if it isn't too cold, we'll all go and look at Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens."
But it was cold, bitingly cold and rather foggy. He was glad of the scarf his wife had wrapped round his neck, although he would have preferred her not to have gazed so piteously into his eyes while doing so as if she feared the next time she saw him he would be on a mortuary slab. He didn't feel ill, only bored. There weren't even very many people about this morning to divert him with their flowing hair, beads, mediaeval ironmongery, flower-painted boots and shaggy coats matching shaggy Afghan hounds. The teeming young, who usually drifted past him incuriously, were this morning congregated in the little caf6s with names like Friendly Frodo and The Love Conception.
Theresa Street, where his nephew's house was, lay on the borders of fashionable Chelsea, outside them if you hold that the King's Road ends at Beaufort Street. Wexford was beginning to pick up these bits of with-it lore. He had to have something to keep his mind going. He crossed the King's Road by the World's End and made his way towards the river.
It was lead-coloured this morning, the twenty-ninth of February. Fog robbed the Embankment of colour and even the Albert Bridge, whose blue and white slenderness he liked, had lost its Wedgwood look and loomed out of the mist as a sepia skeleton. He walked down to the bridge and then back and across the road, blinking his eye and rubbing it. There was nothing in his eye but the small blind spot, no immovable grain of dust. It only felt that way and always would now, he supposed.
The seated statue which confronted him returned his gaze with darkling kindliness. It seemed preoccupied with affairs of state, affairs of grace and matters Utopian. What with his eye and the fog, he had to approach more closely to be sure that it was, in fact, a coloured statue, not naked bronze or stone but tinted black and gold.
He had never seen it before but he had, of course, seen pictures of the philosopher, statesman and martyr, notably the Holbein drawing of Sir Thomas and his family. Until now, however, the close resemblance of the reproduced face to a known and living face had not struck him. Only replace that saintly gravity with an impish gleam, he thought, those mild resigned lips with the curve of irony, and it was Dr. Crocker to the life.
Feeling like Ahab in Naboth's vineyard, Wexford addressed the statue aloud:
"Hast thou found me, 0 mine enemy?"
Sir Thomas continued to reflect on an ideal state or perhaps on the perils of reformation. His face, possibly by a trick of the drifting mist, seemed to have grown even more grave, not to say comminatory. Now it wore precisely the expression Crocker's had worn that Sunday in Kingsmark-ham when he had diagnosed a thrombosis in his friend's eye.
"God knows, Reg, I warned you often enough. I told you to lose weight, I told you to take things easier, and how many times have I told you to stay off the booze?"
"All right. What now? Will I have another?"
"If you do, it may be your brain the clot touches, not your eye. You'd better get away somewhere for a complete rest. I suggest a month away."
"I can't go away for a month!"
"Why not? Nobody's indispensable."
"Oh, yes, they are. What about Winston Churchill? What about Nelson?"
"The trouble with you, apart from high blood pressure, is delusions of grandeur. Take Dora away to the seaside."
"In February? Anyway, I hate the sea. And I can't go away to the country. I live in the country."
The doctor took his sphygmomanometer out of his bag and, silently rolling up Wexford's sleeve, bound the instru-ment to his arm. "Perhaps the best thing," said Crocker without revealing his findings, "will be to send you to my brother's health farm in Norfolk."
"God! What would I do with myself all day?"
"By the time," said Crocker dreamily, "you've had noth-ing but orange juice and sauna baths for three days you won't have the strength to do anything. The last patient I sent there was too weak to lift the phone and call his wife. He'd only been married a month and he was very much in love."
Wexford gave the doctor a lowering cowed glance. "May God protect me from my friends. I'll tell you what, I'll go to London. How would that do? My nephew's always asking us. You know the one I mean, my sister's boy, Howard, the Superintendent with the Met. He's got a house in Chelsea."
"All right. But no late nights, Reg. No participation in swinging London. No alcohol. I'm giving you a diet sheet, one thousand calories a day. It sounds a lot but, believe me, it ain't."
"It's starvation," said Wexford to the statue.
He had started to shiver, standing there and brooding. Time to get back for the pre-lunch rest and glass of tomato juice they made him have. One thing, he wasn't joining any Peter Pan expedition afterwards. He didn't believe in fairies and one statue a day was enough. A bus ride, maybe. But not on that one he could see trundling up Cremorne Road and ultimately bound for Kenbourne Vale. Howard had made it quite plain in his negative gracious way that that was one district of London in which his uncle wouldn't be welcome.
"And don't get any ideas about talking shop with that nephew of yours," had been Crocker's parting words. "You've got to get away from all that for a bit. Where did you say his manor is, Kenbourne Vale?"
Wexford nodded. "Tough sort of place, I'm told."
"They don't come any tougher. I trained there at Biddulph's." As always when speaking to the green rustic of his years in the metropolis, Crocker wore his Mr. Worldly Wise-man expression and his voice became gently patronising. "There's an enormous cemetery, bigger than Kensal Green and more bizarre than Brompton, with vast old things what their next stop'll be. Apart from that, the place is miles of mouldering terraces containing two classes of persons, Threepenny Opera crooks and the undeserving poor.
"I daresay," said Wexford, getting his own back, "it's changed in the intervening thirty years."
"Nothing to interest you, anyway," the doctor snapped. "I don't want you poking your nose into Kenbourne Vale's crime, so you can turn a deaf ear to your nephew's invitations."
Invitations! Wexford laughed bitterly to himself. Much chance he had of turning a deaf ear when Howard, in the ten days since his uncle's arrival, hadn't spoken a single word even to indicate that he was a policeman, let alone suggested a visit to the Yard or an introduction to his Inspector. Not that he was neglectful. Howard was courtesy itself, the most considerate of hosts, and when it came to conversation, quite deferential in matters, for instance, of literature, in spite of his Cambridge First. Only on the subject nearest to his uncle's heart (and, presumably, to his own) was he discouragingly silent.
It was obvious why. Detecti...
Biographie de l'auteur :
When Wexford came downstairs in the morning his nephew had already left for work and the women, with the fiendish gusto of amateur dieticians, were preparing a convalescent's breakfast. It had been like that every day since he arrived in London. They kept him in bed till ten; they ran his bath for him; one of them waited for him at the foot of the stairs, holding out a hand in case he fell, a lunatic smile of encouragement on her face.
The other--this morning it was his nephew's wife, Denise--presided over the meagre spread on the dining-room table. Wexford viewed it grimly: two circular biscuits apparently composed of sawdust and glue, a pat of unsaturated fat, half a sugarless grapefruit, black coffee and, crowning horror, a glass dish of wobbly pallid substance he took to be yoghourt. His own wife, trotting behind him from her post as staircase attendant, proffered two white pills and a glass of water.
"This diet," he said, "is going to be the death of me."
"Oh, it's not so bad. Imagine if you were diabetic as well."
'Who," quoted Wexford, "can hold a fire in his hand by thinking on the frosty Caucasus?"
He swallowed the pills and, having shown his contempt for the yoghourt by covering it with his napkin, began to eat sour grapefruit under their solicitous eyes.
"Where are you going for your walk this morning, Uncle Reg?"
He had been to look at Carlyle's house; he had explored the King's Road, eyeing with equal amazement the shops and the people who shopped in them; he had stood at the entrance to Stamford Bridge football ground and actually seen Alan Hudson; he had traversed every exquisite little Chelsea Square, admired the grandeur of the Boltons and the quaint corners of Walham Green; on aching feet he had tramped through the Chenil Galleries and the antique market. They liked him to walk. In the afternoons they encouraged him to go with them in taxis and tube trains to the Natural History Museum and Brompton Oratory and Harrods. As long as he didn't think too much or tax his brain by asking a lot of questions or stay up late or try to go into pubs, they jollied him along with a kind of humouring indulgence.
'Where am I going this morning?" he said. "Maybe down to the Embankment."
"Oh, yes, do. What a good idea!"
"I thought I'd have a look at that statue."
"Saint Thomas More," said Denise who was a Catholic.
"Sir Thomas," said Wexford who wasn't.
"Saint Thomas, Uncle Reg." Denise whisked away the unsaturated fat before Wexford could eat too much of it. "And this afternoon, if it isn't too cold, we'll all go and look at Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens."
But it was cold, bitingly cold and rather foggy. He was glad of the scarf his wife had wrapped round his neck, although he would have preferred her not to have gazed so piteously into his eyes while doing so as if she feared the next time she saw him he would be on a mortuary slab. He didn't feel ill, only bored. There weren't even very many people about this morning to divert him with their flowing hair, beads, mediaeval ironmongery, flower-painted boots and shaggy coats matching shaggy Afghan hounds. The teeming young, who usually drifted past him incuriously, were this morning congregated in the little caf6s with names like Friendly Frodo and The Love Conception.
Theresa Street, where his nephew's house was, lay on the borders of fashionable Chelsea, outside them if you hold that the King's Road ends at Beaufort Street. Wexford was beginning to pick up these bits of with-it lore. He had to have something to keep his mind going. He crossed the King's Road by the World's End and made his way towards the river.
It was lead-coloured this morning, the twenty-ninth of February. Fog robbed the Embankment of colour and even the Albert Bridge, whose blue and white slenderness he liked, had lost its Wedgwood look and loomed out of the mist as a sepia skeleton. He walked down to the bridge and then back and across the road, blinking his eye and rubbing it. There was nothing in his eye but the small blind spot, no immovable grain of dust. It only felt that way and always would now, he supposed.
The seated statue which confronted him returned his gaze with darkling kindliness. It seemed preoccupied with affairs of state, affairs of grace and matters Utopian. What with his eye and the fog, he had to approach more closely to be sure that it was, in fact, a coloured statue, not naked bronze or stone but tinted black and gold.
He had never seen it before but he had, of course, seen pictures of the philosopher, statesman and martyr, notably the Holbein drawing of Sir Thomas and his family. Until now, however, the close resemblance of the reproduced face to a known and living face had not struck him. Only replace that saintly gravity with an impish gleam, he thought, those mild resigned lips with the curve of irony, and it was Dr. Crocker to the life.
Feeling like Ahab in Naboth's vineyard, Wexford addressed the statue aloud:
"Hast thou found me, 0 mine enemy?"
Sir Thomas continued to reflect on an ideal state or perhaps on the perils of reformation. His face, possibly by a trick of the drifting mist, seemed to have grown even more grave, not to say comminatory. Now it wore precisely the expression Crocker's had worn that Sunday in Kingsmark-ham when he had diagnosed a thrombosis in his friend's eye.
"God knows, Reg, I warned you often enough. I told you to lose weight, I told you to take things easier, and how many times have I told you to stay off the booze?"
"All right. What now? Will I have another?"
"If you do, it may be your brain the clot touches, not your eye. You'd better get away somewhere for a complete rest. I suggest a month away."
"I can't go away for a month!"
"Why not? Nobody's indispensable."
"Oh, yes, they are. What about Winston Churchill? What about Nelson?"
"The trouble with you, apart from high blood pressure, is delusions of grandeur. Take Dora away to the seaside."
"In February? Anyway, I hate the sea. And I can't go away to the country. I live in the country."
The doctor took his sphygmomanometer out of his bag and, silently rolling up Wexford's sleeve, bound the instru-ment to his arm. "Perhaps the best thing," said Crocker without revealing his findings, "will be to send you to my brother's health farm in Norfolk."
"God! What would I do with myself all day?"
"By the time," said Crocker dreamily, "you've had noth-ing but orange juice and sauna baths for three days you won't have the strength to do anything. The last patient I sent there was too weak to lift the phone and call his wife. He'd only been married a month and he was very much in love."
Wexford gave the doctor a lowering cowed glance. "May God protect me from my friends. I'll tell you what, I'll go to London. How would that do? My nephew's always asking us. You know the one I mean, my sister's boy, Howard, the Superintendent with the Met. He's got a house in Chelsea."
"All right. But no late nights, Reg. No participation in swinging London. No alcohol. I'm giving you a diet sheet, one thousand calories a day. It sounds a lot but, believe me, it ain't."
"It's starvation," said Wexford to the statue.
He had started to shiver, standing there and brooding. Time to get back for the pre-lunch rest and glass of tomato juice they made him have. One thing, he wasn't joining any Peter Pan expedition afterwards. He didn't believe in fairies and one statue a day was enough. A bus ride, maybe. But not on that one he could see trundling up Cremorne Road and ultimately bound for Kenbourne Vale. Howard had made it quite plain in his negative gracious way that that was one district of London in which his uncle wouldn't be welcome.
"And don't get any ideas about talking shop with that nephew of yours," had been Crocker's parting words. "You've got to get away from all that for a bit. Where did you say his manor is, Kenbourne Vale?"
Wexford nodded. "Tough sort of place, I'm told."
"They don't come any tougher. I trained there at Biddulph's." As always when speaking to the green rustic of his years in the metropolis, Crocker wore his Mr. Worldly Wise-man expression and his voice became gently patronising. "There's an enormous cemetery, bigger than Kensal Green and more bizarre than Brompton, with vast old things what their next stop'll be. Apart from that, the place is miles of mouldering terraces containing two classes of persons, Threepenny Opera crooks and the undeserving poor.
"I daresay," said Wexford, getting his own back, "it's changed in the intervening thirty years."
"Nothing to interest you, anyway," the doctor snapped. "I don't want you poking your nose into Kenbourne Vale's crime, so you can turn a deaf ear to your nephew's invitations."
Invitations! Wexford laughed bitterly to himself. Much chance he had of turning a deaf ear when Howard, in the ten days since his uncle's arrival, hadn't spoken a single word even to indicate that he was a policeman, let alone suggested a visit to the Yard or an introduction to his Inspector. Not that he was neglectful. Howard was courtesy itself, the most considerate of hosts, and when it came to conversation, quite deferential in matters, for instance, of literature, in spite of his Cambridge First. Only on the subject nearest to his uncle's heart (and, presumably, to his own) was he discouragingly silent.
It was obvious why. Detecti...
Ruth Rendell was an exceptional crime writer, and will be remembered as a legend in her own lifetime. Her groundbreaking debut novel, From Doon With Death, was first published in 1964 and introduced the reader to her enduring and popular detective, Inspector Reginald Wexford, who went on to feature in twenty-four of her subsequent novels.
With worldwide sales of approximately 20 million copies, Rendell was a regular Sunday Times bestseller. Her sixty bestselling novels include police procedurals, some of which have been successfully adapted for TV, stand-alone psychological mysteries, and a third strand of crime novels under the pseudonym Barbara Vine. Very much abreast of her times, the Wexford books in particular often engaged with social or political issues close to her heart.
Rendell won numerous awards, including the Crime Writers’ Association Gold Dagger for 1976’s best crime novel with A Demon in My View, a Gold Dagger award for Live Flesh in 1986, and the Sunday Times Literary Award in 1990. In 2013 she was awarded the Crime Writers’ Association Cartier Diamond Dagger for sustained excellence in crime writing. In 1996 she was awarded the CBE and in 1997 became a Life Peer.
Ruth Rendell died in May 2015. Her final novel, Dark Corners, is scheduled for publication in October 2015
With worldwide sales of approximately 20 million copies, Rendell was a regular Sunday Times bestseller. Her sixty bestselling novels include police procedurals, some of which have been successfully adapted for TV, stand-alone psychological mysteries, and a third strand of crime novels under the pseudonym Barbara Vine. Very much abreast of her times, the Wexford books in particular often engaged with social or political issues close to her heart.
Rendell won numerous awards, including the Crime Writers’ Association Gold Dagger for 1976’s best crime novel with A Demon in My View, a Gold Dagger award for Live Flesh in 1986, and the Sunday Times Literary Award in 1990. In 2013 she was awarded the Crime Writers’ Association Cartier Diamond Dagger for sustained excellence in crime writing. In 1996 she was awarded the CBE and in 1997 became a Life Peer.
Ruth Rendell died in May 2015. Her final novel, Dark Corners, is scheduled for publication in October 2015
Les informations fournies dans la section « A propos du livre » peuvent faire référence à une autre édition de ce titre.
- ÉditeurDoubleday
- Date d'édition1972
- ISBN 10 0385039131
- ISBN 13 9780385039130
- ReliureRelié
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MURDER BEING ONCE DONE
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Doubleday
(1972)
ISBN 10 : 0385039131
ISBN 13 : 9780385039130
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