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"Engaged?" I said before I could help myself. Just occasionally my mouth runs away by itself. "Oh, yes," Methven went on, apparently not noticing my astonished reaction, "They’ve been betrothed for ages, but somehow they never seem to get around to announcing a date for the wedding." "Really?" I said inconsequentially, rapidly corralling my composure and pushing it back where it belonged, "Well, sometimes these things are best not rushed." "Rushed?" Methven snorted, then dabbed his eyes again then put the handkerchief back in his pocket, "No chance of that! They've been engaged for fifty years." The interview was interrupted by the urgent buzz-buzz of the intercom. Methven levered himself from the davenport and waddled across to the desk where he pressed a button on the phone. "Yes? What is it?" The squawk from the intercom was no more intelligible at this end, but I thought I caught the words "appointment" and "lunch" through the racket. Methven said: "Okay. Thanks," in response and turned back to me from the desk. "I'm very sorry, Mister Gask," he said, "But I do have another pressing appointment. Business must go on, you know." I couldn't think of any more questions for Methven in any case. I was far too distracted by a different question, the question why neither Tibbermore nor her Ladyship had mentioned this Cutmal Lundie as a visitor, nor his engagement to Mayfield Strowan. I retrieved my hat from the table and stood up, still deep in thought. In this case, it actually worked. A wild notion which rapidly became a conviction; I stopped and turned as I reached the door. "Mister Methven," I said, addressing his back as he fiddled with something on the desk, "The police haven't been to call, have they?" Methven turned casually, his attention still on whatever he was doing on his desk. "The police?" he said, only half paying attention, "No, they haven't. Should I expect a call, then?" "I'd imagine so," I replied, adjusting my hat to its usual rakish angle, "Give Sergeant Tewel my regards."
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Part 27