Read Online Buried for Pleasure by Edmund Crispin - Free Book Online

natural, as though she had a right there.
    She stumbled a little on a root; attempted to smile; stammered a conventional greeting; and then turned and half ran back through the coppice. More slowly, Fen followed.
    Reaching the car, he found her waiting for him there, shifting her small, neat bag from hand to hand. She had decided, evidently, that the occurrence called for stronger measures than mere flight.
    â€˜I – I wanted to see the house,’ she said. ‘It’s very beautiful, isn’t it?’
    At that moment she seemed very small and friendless, and Fen was touched. He smiled with reassuring charm.
    â€˜Delightful,’ he answered. ‘I was trespassing, too. Can I give you a lift back to the inn?’
    â€˜N – no, thank you. I came out for a walk, and I shan’t go back yet.’
    â€˜Then I’ll be seeing you later.’
    â€˜Just – just a minute.’ She put out a hand to stop him. ‘I – Do you know Lord Sanford?’
    â€˜I’m afraid not.’
    â€˜Oh!’ She gave a little gasping laugh. ‘Well, I hope – I hope you won’t tell him I’ve been spying on him.’
    â€˜I shan’t tell a soul,’ Fen assured her. ‘And you must do the same for me.’
    â€˜That’s a bargain, then,’ she said. And beneath the outward flippancy he knew that she was desperately in earnest.
    â€˜That’s a bargain,’ he said seriously. ‘You’re sure I can’t take you anywhere?’
    â€˜No, really, thank you.’
    â€˜Good-bye for now, then.’
    As he drove off, he saw in the driving-mirror that she stood looking after him until a bend in the road hid him from her. He wondered if he could have done more for her; she had seemed, somehow, so very much in need of help and advice. Better not offer those commodities, though, until he was asked for them. . . .
    And of one thing at least he was sure; whatever might have been her motives in watching Diana and Lord Sanford, this girl was incapable of a mean or a flagitious act.
    He parked the car in the inn-yard alongside the non-doing pig, which was lying gracelessly on its side in what appeared to be a stupor. The total quietude of the inn made it clear that Mr Beaver and his family had given up for the day and gone home. And Fen, yawning copiously, decided that the most agreeable thing to do now would be to lie on his bed and fall asleep; which accordingly he did. He was slightly troubled by a recurring dream in which Mr Judd, uttering American college cries, pursued a scantily-clad Jacqueline in and out among the Doric columns of a Greek temple, but in spite of this inconclusive drama he awoke at seven in the evening considerably refreshed.
    Dinner he ate alone in the room where he had breakfasted, Myra informing him that neither of the other guests was booked to appear. This room evidently adjoined the bar, for he was able to hear the perennial argument going on within a few feet of him.
    â€˜She’m close-’auled, I tell ’ee.’
    â€˜No, no, Fred, you’m proper mazed. See them? Them’s ’er gaff-tops’ls.’
    â€˜Mizzen-tops’ls.’
    â€˜Mizzen, gaff, ’tis all the bloody same.’
    â€˜What I says is, ’er’s runnin’ before the wind.’
    â€˜Look ’ere, see that ship at anchor, see? Now, if’er was moored fore and aft, you wouldn’t be able to see which way the bloody wind was blowing. As ’tis, she’s facin’ out t’ards sea. An’ that means – –’
    â€˜But she is moored aft. You can see it. You can see the buoy.’
    â€˜That’s no buoy, Fred, that’s just a drop o’ bloody paint.’
    â€˜I’m tellin’ ’ee ’tes a buoy.’
    â€˜Well, look ’ere now, if that brig’s close-’auled, that means. . . .’
    The meal over, Fen settled down with some beer and