Page 6 of Murder Most Actual

“We always try to bear that in mind,” Liza finished, shooting her wife an I-can-speak-for-myself look. “And everything we discuss is a matter of public record.”

“Ignore her.” Malcom Ackroyd pointed at his wife with a fork. “She just likes to make everyone feel bad about things we don’t need to feel bad about.”

Liza cringed inwardly. It was going to be one of those evenings, wasn’t it? “It’s fine,” she tried. “I do get that there are valid criticisms you can make of the genre. Still, I like to think we’re responsible in what we do.”

“And even if you’re not,” added the colonel, “it’s nobody’s bloody business.” He turned a surprisingly gentle eye to Mrs Ackroyd. “Your sensitivity does you credit, Vivien, but if the girl wants to talk about murders she can bloody well talk about murders.”

Sir Richard gave him the kind of smile people gave when they knew full well they were stirring. “Belloc disagrees. Says crime should be left to serious-minded people.”

“Belloc’s an ass,” declared the colonel.

The door burst open. “Oh, is he?” demanded Belloc, who Liza would have bet money had been waiting outside for the perfect moment to make a big entrance. “But I wonder, would the great Colonel Coleman have the courage to say this to Belloc’s face?”

The colonel stared at him. “You’re an ass.”

“Lovely to see you, Mr Belloc,” tried Mrs Ackroyd, which earned her a quiet “Don’t be so obsequious, Vivien,” from her husband that Belloc didn’t seem to hear.

Without replying to anybody, Mr Belloc settled into his seat and picked up a menu. “Let us see, let us see,” he muttered. “What is Belloc in the mood for this evening?”

Glancing over the top of his own menu, Sir Richard smiled. “You’re talking to yourself again, old man.”

“It is the only way Belloc can be sure of intelligent conversation.”

Mr Ackroyd shot a glance at his wife. “I know the feeling.”

She shot him back. “Uncalled for, Malcom.”

“Quite uncalled for,” agreed the colonel.

The professor was also perusing the menu. “Well, I’ve found the conversation perfectly charming.” He smiled at Lady Tabitha. “Mr Belloc, I don’t like to speak harshly to people, but I fear you’re being a bore.”

“Belloc is not here to entertain you.”

Not necessarily wanting to get drawn into an argument with a man who already had reason to dislike her, Liza distracted herself by trying to decide what to have for dinner. Of course, even the simple dishes had elements served alongside them that were basically designed as shibboleths to trick the working class. Leaning over to her wife, she whispered, “What’s ‘dulce butter sauce’?”

“A kind of butter sauce.” Hanna was probably actually trying to be helpful. She was just failing hard.

“I worked that out,” Liza half-snapped, “from the fact that it has the words butter sauce in it. What kind of butter sauce is it?”

Hanna looked flustered in a way that Liza would have sympathised with more if they hadn’t been in the middle of a very drawn-out argument. “I think it goes well with fish?”

“And I worked that out because it comes with the fish. Are you doing this deliberately?”

“No, but I’m not a chef. It’s … it’s a sauce. It’s the kind of sauce that comes with fish. It’s not a middle-class conspiracy to make you feel bad.”

“It’s often made with seaweed,” Sir Richard chimed in.

“Thank you,” replied Liza pointedly just as Hanna was replying equally pointedly, “We weren’t talking to you.”

Across the table, Belloc set his menu down. “Belloc has decided,” he announced. “He will have the lamb avec les Pommes Anna.”

“That’s a kind of layered potato,” whispered Hanna.

“Didn’t ask.”

“Sorry, I’m not psychic.”

From his seat next to Lady Tabitha, Mr Ackroyd gave Hanna a look of solidarity.

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