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

onset of Mr Beaver’s renovations. As punctually, that seraph-like vision which was Jacqueline brought in his tea. He arrived downstairs as the church bells began ringing for eight o’clock Communion, and was moved by this Sabbath noise to attend the service. Only half a dozen others, it appeared, had succumbed to a like impulse, but he was pleased to see Jacqueline among them. The choir sang a four-square Victorian setting with conspicuous heartiness, and Fen, accustomed to the unobtrusive sleekness of Oxford liturgies, found his attention wandering. He examined the Rector, a substantial, sallow, mephitic-looking man of some sixty years who was named in the church-porch notices as W. Scantling Mills. ‘Dark Satanic Mills’, Fen thought. He walked back to the inn with Jacqueline, who continued to preserve a contented and decorative silence.
    The man who called himself Crawley was alone at the breakfast table, a pencil poised inactively over the Observer crossword. Seen at close range, he did not inspire much disquiet. His chin receded, his nose was long, his eyes were a guileless blue, his whole appearance mocked Fen’s amorphous forebodings of criminality. And identification followed quickly; it had only eluded Fen so far for want of a proper look. The name explained itself, too.
    â€˜Bussy,’ said Fen.
    Bussy returned the pencil to a pocket; it was a gesture of resignation. ‘Hullo, Fen,’ he said agreeably. ‘I was afraid I couldn’t stave off this meeting much longer.’ He paused to consider the remark, separating its more offensive suggestion from its intended meaning. ‘That is to say,’ he elucidated painstakingly, ‘that for business reasons I should have preferred that we didn’t meet. Personally, of course, I’m delighted. How are you, after all these years?’
    â€˜I’m well.’ Fen sat down, selected a spoon, and began delving into half a grapefruit. He eyed Bussy thoughtfully. ‘We can remain mere pub acquaintances if it suits you, you know. As I remember, you’re in the C.I.D.’
    Bussy nodded. ‘Detective-Inspector, by the skin of my teeth.’
    â€˜And actively engaged on something.’
    â€˜Yes. More or less unofficially, I should add. I’m not supposed to be here. The local police would probably be very annoyed if they knew I was.’ This reflection seemed to gratify Bussy; he gave a low chuckle.
    â€˜I see.’ Fen gazed at him in mild perplexity. ‘But your disguise is very inappropriate. No one does any fishing here.’
    â€˜As I’ve discovered. I was misled, in advance, by the name of this pub.’
    Fen poked earnestly at a segment of grapefruit which had been inadequately cut. ‘And other people besides yourself are acquainted with Vanity Fair .’
    â€˜No one has noticed that so far except yourself. But the point, Fen, is this. I’m the world’s most incompetent actor. When I act, infants in arms perceive that I’m acting. So I was never specially perturbed at the thought that people would see I was not what I made myself out to be – that was inevitable, anyway.’
    â€˜In that case, any sort of masquerade – –’
    â€˜Would serve the purpose. The world might know that I wasn’t what I appeared, but it still wouldn’t know what I actually was , and that was all I needed.’
    Fen finished his grapefruit and rang a handbell. Myra produced obese, uncompromising sausages. The two men were silent until she went away again, Fen groping in his mind among the lees left by his undergraduate days. Bussy had been his contemporary; had read English; had nourished an unqualified enthusiasm for Thackeray; had – while Fen entered upon those devious courses which issue in Oxford Fellowships – elected subsequently, from some preference which remained impenetrable, to join the Metropolitan Police Force. And here he was. The reunion