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and they write to each other like lovers.
    Perhaps it is advisable, on grounds of credibility, not to make too much of the number of times coincidence mixes Troy up in her husband’s cases: a situation that he embraces with mixed feelings. She is a reticent character and as sensitive as a sea urchin, but she learns to assume and even feel a certain detachment.
    â€˜After all,’ she has said to herself, ‘I married him and I would be a very boring wife if I spent half my time wincing and showing sensitive.’
    I like Troy. When I am writing about her, I can see her with her shortish dark hair, thin face and hands. She’s absentminded, shy and funny, and she can paint like nobody’s business. I’m always glad when other people like her, too.

DEATH ON THE AIR

    Death on the Air
was first published in
Grand Magazine
, 1936
    O n the 25th of December at 7.30 a.m. Mr Septimus Tonks was found dead beside his wireless set.
    It was Emily Parks, an under-housemaid, who discovered him. She butted open the door and entered, carrying mop, duster, and carpet-sweeper. At that precise moment she was greatly startled by a voice that spoke out of the darkness.
    â€˜Good morning, everybody,’ said the voice in superbly inflected syllables, ‘and a Merry Christmas!’
    Emily yelped, but not loudly, as she immediately realized what had happened. Mr Tonks had omitted to turn off his wireless before going to bed. She drew back the curtains, revealing a kind of pale murk which was a London Christmas dawn, switched on the light, and saw Septimus.
    He was seated in front of the radio. It was a small but expensive set, specially built for him. Septimus sat in an armchair, his back to Emily and his body tilted towards the wireless.
    His hands, the fingers curiously bunched, were on the ledge of the cabinet under the tuning and volume knobs. His chest rested against the shelf below and his head leaned on the front panel.
    He looked rather as though he was listening intently to the interior secrets of the wireless. His head was bent so that Emily could see the bald top with its trail of oiled hairs. He did not move.
    â€˜Beg pardon, sir,’ gasped Emily. She was again greatly startled. Mr Tonks’ enthusiasm for radio had never before induced him to tune in at seven thirty in the morning.
    â€˜Special Christmas service,’ the cultured voice was saying. Mr Tonks sat very still. Emily, in common with the other servants, was terrified of her master. She did not knowwhether to go or to stay. She gazed wildly at Septimus and realized that he wore a dinner-jacket. The room was now filled with the clamour of pealing bells.
    Emily opened her mouth as wide as it would go and screamed and screamed and screamed…
    Chase, the butler, was the first to arrive. He was a pale, flabby man but authoritative. He said: ‘What’s the meaning of this outrage?’ and then saw Septimus. He went to the armchair, bent down, and looked into his master’s face.
    He did not lose his head, but said in a loud voice: ‘My Gawd!’ And then to Emily: ‘Shut your face.’ By this vulgarism he betrayed his agitation. He seized Emily by the shoulders and thrust her towards the door, where they were met by Mr Hislop, the secretary, in his dressing-gown.
    Mr Hislop said: ‘Good heavens, Chase, what is the meaning—’ and then his voice too was drowned in the clamour of bells and renewed screams.
    Chase put his fat white hand over Emily’s mouth.
    â€˜In the study if you please, sir. An accident. Go to your room, will you, and stop that noise or I’ll give you something to make you.’ This to Emily, who bolted down the hall, where she was received by the rest of the staff who had congregated there.
    Chase returned to the study with Mr Hislop and locked the door. They both looked down at the body of Septimus Tonks. The secretary was the first to speak.
    â€˜But – but –