Read Online Death of an Old Goat by Robert Barnard - Free Book Online

skin and bone, and you’ve nothing to fall back on — see?’
    â€˜Difficult though we undoubtedly find it,’ murmured Professor Belville-Smith to the chandelier, ‘to enter the magic circle of Cranford , how rich are the rewards, and how subtle are the pleasures of those of us who are willing to . . .’
    Bill Bascomb hurriedly drained his glass and interrupted this meeting of intellect and wealth.
    â€˜Professor Belville-Smith,’ said Bill, ‘don’t you think youought to be getting back to the motel?’
    â€˜What?’ he said, starting.
    â€˜Back. Don’t you think you should be getting back? You have a lecture to give tomorrow.’
    â€˜Lecture?’
    â€˜I thought you might be a little tired.’
    â€˜Yes. Yes, I am tired. Call me a taxi.’ He stood up imperiously and looked around the room. ‘Call me a taxi at once,’ he said loudly.
    â€˜Of course, of course,’ said Professor Wickham, bustling up from the opposite corner, where he had been the last of a long line of recipients of Mrs Turberville’s monologues. ‘I’ll do it at once. I should have thought of it before.’
    Belville-Smith focused upon him, and mentally associated him with some grievance or other from earlier in the day. His grievances were very dear to Professor Belville-Smith.
    â€˜Yes, you should,’ he said severely. ‘Call me a taxi at once. You have been most remiss. And tell the driver to knock up Smithers when we get there.’
    Professor Wickham, already dialling, was somewhat nonplussed.
    â€˜Smithers, Professor Belville-Smith?’
    â€˜The porter, of course,’ said his guest tetchily. ‘Give me your arm, young man.’
    This last was said with a grandiose condescension which was so overdone that Bill decided that the distinguished guest was by now very drunk indeed. The heavy pressure on his arm bore out the diagnosis. Professor Belville-Smith, however, was by now quite unaware of his condition.
    â€˜I’m not feeling very steady, young man,’ he said, resuming his imitation of the Grand Old Man of Letters. ‘Just age, you know, just age. I trust the night will be clement. The autumn nights of Oxford can be treacherous, most treacherous to a man of my age.’
    â€˜I believe the night is . . . clement,’ said Bill, consciousof Alice O’Brien’s sardonic gaze on him as he brought out the adjective.
    They came to the hall where Professor Wickham was bustling around with coats and scarves; Alice opened the front door to give Belville-Smith a breath of fresh air, which he seemed to need. Outside it turned out to be a bitterly cold early autumn night.
    â€˜Where is the taxi?’ he said grandly. ‘It should be here. Negligence on somebody’s part.’
    â€˜I’ll drive him home,’ said Alice. ‘Just a minute while I get my car keys.’
    â€˜No, you will not, Miss O’Brien,’ said Lucy, emerging from the lounge. ‘We don’t want any accidents. We’ll wait for the taxi, thank you.’
    â€˜I can drive on a lot more grog than I’m likely to get my hands on in this dump,’ muttered Alice to Bill, enraged. And to do her justice, she could.
    The taxi drew up outside, and they led Professor Belville-Smith down the garden path, Lucy pushing Alice aside from his right arm. Lucy found the conversation a little bewildering. He was apparently reminiscing to Bill about a meeting he had had with Jane Austen at Winchester shortly before her death:
    â€˜Charming woman, charming. Sick, you know, very sick, but brave. Quite what you would expect from the novels, and most witty, even though she must have been in pain.’
    Bill opened the door of the taxi, and they eased him into it, still talking, the others expressing their profound interest.
    â€˜You must let me tell you more about it some time,’ said Professor Belville-Smith.