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her, but a good stroke for the investigation, for perhaps she could gather from the man what, if
anything, he had learned about the Weaver case. Judging by Geraldine’s high color, she had not yet
recovered from the insult to Rayley, but she too was in the party clustered around Everlee.
Trevor’s group entered last. Impossible to tell what, if anything, that meant, but he was
no sooner seated than he extended his feet under the table and jumped.
His foot had found something hard. Hard and, after a moment of poking against it, even
rather cold.
He continued to nudge about, but the human foot is an improper instrument for
investigation, far less subtle than the hand. Abandoning his plastered social smile, Trevor was finally
forced to raise the tablecloth and peer beneath.
“It is ice,” whispered the elderly lady seated to his right. Trevor’s status, evaluated God
knows where or when, had evidently not been deemed high enough to earn him proximity to either a
young lady or an esteemed guest. If Rayley and Davy had remained, they probably would have been
seated out by the tennis courts. This woman, who had evidently waged centuries of war with the
tropical sun and lost, was looking at Trevor down the length of her nose with amusement.
“New to India, I take it,” she said.
“Less than a day,” he admitted.
“ Ah,” she said. “They say the first ten years are the hardest.”
“Is it customary to put blocks of ice under the table?”
“I wouldn’t say customary,” she said. “For it is too expensive a practice to be common.
But it is pleasant, is it not? Especially considering the layers of clothing we ladies are expected to
wear beneath our skirts. But all one has to do is prop one’s feet on a block of ice and voila, it is as if
a cool breeze is blowing right up the legs.”
Well, that was a rather unexpected observation. Most of the women Trevor knew would
rather die than admit they had legs, much less that they enjoyed the notion of a cool breeze running up
them.
“I am Trevor Welles,” he said.
“Scotland Yard,” she said, with a definitive nod. “I know all about it. We have so little
excitement here at the Byculla Club that of course your reputation has preceded you. I am Evangeline
Morrow.”
“A pleasure to meet you,” Trevor said, suspecting that for once the shallow statement
would be truthful. “But answer me this, Mrs. Morrow - how do they keep the ice under the table?”
“It rests on great silver trays,” she said, “which are placed under the table just before we
are called in to dine. We are to prop our feet on the ice while we can, you see, which is to say before
it sinks and melts and turns the floor into a puddle. Everyone in India is accustomed to propping up
his feet the minute he sits down, Detective, but don’t let them tell you that it is for comfort. It’s to
make it less likely you’ll be stung by a scorpion or bitten by a cobra.”
“Dear God,” said Trevor. “We have come to a most extraordinary land, have we not?”
“The country is indeed extraordinary,” Mrs. Morrow said, “for those plucky enough to
explore it. But I suppose you mean it is extraordinary the lengths we expatriates will go to in our
search for comfort. Have you noticed anything else about this table?”
“It glows.”
“Indeed it does. Can you imagine why?”
“It would appear that they have set electrical lamps on the floor at each corner of the
table”