The creative impulse - 2

(continued)
"Good afternoon, Bullfinch," said Mrs Forrester. "I wish to see your master".
Mrs Bullfinch hesitated for a second, then held the door wide open. "Come in, ma'am." She turned her head, "Albert, here's Mrs Forrester to see you."
Mrs Forrester went in quickly and there was Albert sitting by the fire, leaning back in an old armchair and reading the evening paper.
"How are you, my dear?" said Albert cheerfully, putting aside the paper. " Keeping well, I hope?"
"Won't you sit down, ma'am?" said Mrs Bullfinch, pushing a chair forward.
"Could I see you alone, Albert?" Mrs Forrester asked, sitting down.
"I'm afraid noj," Albert answered, "because of Mrs Bullfinch. I think she should be present."
"As you wish."
"Well, my dear, what have you to say to me?" Albert asked.
Mrs Forrester gave him her best smile. "I don't blame you for anything, Albert, I know it isn't your fault and I'm not angry with you, but a joke's a joke and should not be carried too far. I've come to take you home."
"Then I think you're wasting your time, my dear," said Albert. "Nothing will ever make me live with you again."
"Have you noj been happy with me, Albert?" asked Mrs Forrester in a deeper tone, trying not to show that her feelings were hurt.
"We have been married for thirty-five years, my dear. It's a very long time, isn't it? You're a good woman in your own way1, but not suitable for me. You're literary and I'm not. You're artistic and I'm not."
"But all this time I've been doing everything in my power to interest you in art and literature," said Mrs Forrester.
"That's true, and I can only blame myself if I didn't react properly. But I don't like the books you write. And I don't like the people who surround you. Let me tell you a secret, my dear. At your parties I often very much wanted to take off my clothes just to see what would happen."
"Aren't you ashamed of yourself, Albert?" asked Mrs Bullfinch. "You haven't got the right figure for that at all!"
"Mrs Bullfinch wants me to retire," Albert continued. "I discussed the matter with my partners today, and they agree to settle everything nicely. They will buy me out2, and I shall have an income of just under nine hundred pounds. There are three of us, so it gives us nearly three hundred a year each."
"How am I to live on that?" cried Mrs Forrester, using the last argument she could think of.
"You have a wonderful pen, my dear."
"You know very well that my books don't bring me any money. The publishers always say that they lose by them."
And just then Mrs Bullfinch suddenly asked:
"Why don't you write a good detective story?"
Mrs Forrester burst out laughing. "Me?" she exclaimed. "What a wild idea! I could never hope to please the masses and I have never read a detective story in my life."
"It's not a bad idea at all," said Albert.
"I love a detective story," said Mrs Bullfinch, "Give me a lady in evening dress lying dead on the library floor and I know I'm going to enjoy it."
"Personally, I prefer a respectable gentleman with a gold watch chain, lying dead in Hyde Park," said Albert. "There's something particularly interesting to the reader in the murder of a respectable gentleman!"
"I see exactly what you mean," said Mrs Bullfinch. "He knew an important secret, and his murderers had said they would kill him unless he kept his mouth shut. He just didn't manage to run away from them."
"We can give you all the advice you need, my dear," said Albert, smiling kindly at Mrs Forrester. "I've read hundreds of detective stories."
"You!"
"That's what first brought Mrs Bullfinch and me together. I gave them to her when I'd finished them. And I must say you can't find two stories that are alike. There's always a difference when you compare them."
Mrs Forrester rose to her feet. "Now I see what a gulf separates us3," she said and her voice shook a little. "You've been surrounded for thirty years with all that was best in English literature and all this time you've been reading detective novels! I came here willing to come to a reasonable agreement and take you back home. Now I wish it no longer."
"Very well, my dear," said Albert. "But you think over the detective story."
Mrs Forrester walked downstairs, and when Mrs Bullfinch opened the door and asked if she would like to hire a taxi, she shook her head. "I shall take the tram."
"You needn't be afraid4 that I won't look after Mr Forrester properly, ma'am," said Mrs Bullfinch, seeing Mrs Forrester to the tram stop. "I know how to run a house and I'm not a bad cook, as you know. And of course, he'll have a hobby. He's going to collect postage stamps." Mrs Forrester was about to say something, but just then a tram pulled up at the stop and she got in.
Wondering what time it was, she looked up at the man sitting opposite her to see whether he was the kind of person she could ask and suddenly started; as sitting there was a respectable-looking gentleman5 wearing a gold watch chain. It was the very man6 Albert had described lying dead in Hyde Park. He asked the conductor to stop and she saw him go down a small, dark street. Why? Alp, why? At Hyde Park Corner she suddenly made up her mind to get out. She could not sit still any longer. She felt she must walk. As she passed the Achilles Statue she stopped for a minute and looked at it. Her heart was beating fast. After all Edgar Allan Poe had written detective stories ...
When she reached her flat at last and opened the door, she saw several hats in the hall. They were all there. She went into the drawing-room.
"Oh, you poor things, I've kept you waiting so long!" she cried out. "Have you had no tea?"
"Well," they said. "Well? Did you manage to get hold of him?"
"My dears, I've got something quite wonderful to tell you, I'm going to write a detective story."
They looked at her with open mouths.
"I'm going to raise the detective story to the level of art. It came to me suddenly in Hyde Park. It's a murder story and I shall call it 'The Achilles Statue'!"
"But what about Albert?" the young writer asked.
"Albert?" repeated Mrs Forrester. "I knew I went out to do something about Albert, but I've quite forgotten what it was."
"Then you haven't seen Albert?"
"My dear, I say I forgot all about him."
She gave a laugh. "Let Albert keep his cook. I can't bother about Albert now. I'm going to write a detective story."
"My dear, you're too, too wonderful!" the guests cried out.