Page 38 of Blow Down (The Plumber's Mate)
He nodded, which wasn’t exactly helpful. “Typically, they contain samples of urine, and a pierced heart of some kind.”
Lovely.
“Are you ready to order?” the waitress interrupted, the German accent subtly making it sound like we’d better be.
“Five minutes,” Phil said firmly.
I was thinking it might be a fair bit longer than that before I got my appetite back, but I dutifully glanced at the menu and picked out the first thing that looked vaguely all right.
Lance was still ignoring his. “Did you know the Nether Wallop Cache was found to contain literally dozens of garments or garment fragments hidden inside the framework of the building, including hats, shoes, and underwear? So what does that tell you?”
I blinked. “Someone really didn’t fancy doing their laundry?”
His face cracked into a beaming smile, which suddenly made him look a lot more human. “Quite possibly. But the usual interpretation is that they were there to protect the house from malign influences both natural and supernatural.”
Okay, I was interested despite myself. “How’s that work? I mean, dead cats, yeah, I can sort of see that one, ’cos of mice and witches and stuff. But somebody’s old kecks? Were they hoping the smell would chase evil spirits away?”
“Nobody’s quite sure. Shoes, now, it’s well known you can trap the devil in them.”
You could? How? Shove your feet straight in after? Wouldn’t he jab your toes with his pointy stick?
Phil coughed. “Think the waitress is on the way back—you ready?”
Lance flashed me a conspiratorial smile and bent his head to his menu.
I tried to give Phil a look, but he was staring out into the middle of the room and didn’t meet my eye.
We ordered—steak for Phil, risotto for me, and grilled fish for Lance, together with a bottle of pinot grigio. Not that I was planning on having more than the odd sip, and I didn’t reckon Phil was either.
Phil waited until we all had a glass until he brought up the subject we were here for. “Can you tell us a little about your relationship with Mrs. Fenchurch-Majors?”
And there was a loaded question if ever I heard one.
Lance smiled, a wistful edge to it this time. “We met at university. We both studied history of art.”
Really? Amelia, with her insatiable urge to modernise? The lecturers must have been terrible.
“We became firm friends, of course. And when we left, it seemed natural to go into business together.”
“You were more than friends, though, weren’t you?” Phil pressed. I gave him a sharp look. This was all news to me. “In fact, you were married, weren’t you?”
Whoa. Okay, that put a whole new complexion on things. I couldn’t help thinking of Dave’s professional judgement that it was usually the spouse what done it.
Lance stared into his glass, twisting it between his fingers, a strange smile on his lips. “Oh, I wouldn’t read too much into that. We were very young.”
“Must have been hard carrying on working together after the split.”
“Not at all. It was entirely amicable.”
“And when she got married again?”
“I was very happy for her. Amelia deserved happiness.”
Phil nodded, and there was a short break as the food arrived, which was probably just as well as (a) Lance was starting to look a bit narked about all the grilling and (b) it gave me a chance to get my thoughts in order.
It wasn’t easy. I just couldn’t imagine carrying on working with an ex as if nothing had happened. I mean, yeah, sure, keep your business and your personal life separate, but come on, people are human, aren’t they? Not quad-core bloody CPUs with integrated graphics and Pentel umptium processors (Phil had been on at me to get a new laptop again, in case you’re wondering). You’re not going to stop feeling . . . whatever you feel about your ex, just ’cos it’s 9 a.m. and time to start work, are you? Then again, I s’pose it’s just like couples with kids, right? You keep the split amicable for the sake of the children?
’Cept, in that case, you’d only see the ex every once in a while, wouldn’t you? Not all day every working day. I s’pose Lance and Amelia might’ve worked on different projects, but even so . . . And what the hell had Alex thought about it? Put it this way, if the Mysterious Cheating Mark had still been in the land of the living, I wouldn’t have been too chuffed about Phil spending forty hours a week with him. Not that I don’t trust Phil. Course I do. But feelings can be tricky little bastards.
