Read Online The Moving Toyshop by Edmund Crispin - Free Book Online
Authors: Edmund Crispin
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didn’t recognize you. Ergo, he didn’t knock you on the head. Ergo, he wasn’t the murderer.”
“That’s rather clever,” said Cadogan grudgingly.
“It isn’t clever at all,” Fen groaned. “It leaks at every joint, like an Emmett railway engine. In the first place, we don’t know that the person who hit you was the murderer; and in the second, all that stuff about the will may be mere hooey. There are other staring gaps, too. It’s possible Miss Tardy wasn’t killed in the toyshop at all. But in that case, why take her body there, and then take it away again? The whole thing’s quite topsy-turvy, and we simply don’t know enough to form an opinion.”
Cadogan’s admiration waned somewhat. He regarded gloomily a group of newcomers to the bar as he emptied his pint glass. “What can we do now, anyway?”
Possible courses of action, when discussed, resolved themselves into four:
Attempt to trace the body (impossible).
Interview Mr. Rosseter again (dubious).
Get some further information about Miss Alice Winkworth, proprietress of Winkworth, Family Grocer and Provisioner (possible).
Ring up a friend of Fen’s at Somerset House and check on the details of Miss Snaith’s will (practicable and necessary).
“But as far as I’m concerned,” Cadogan added, “I’m going off to the police. I’m sick of rushing about, and my head still aches like a thousand devils.”
“Well, you can wait a minute till I’ve finished my whisky,” said Fen. “I’m not going to make myself sick just because of your miserable, nagging conscience.”
They had been talking in low tones, and he was relieved at being able to raise his voice. Also he had consumed a comfortable amount of whisky. His ruddy, cheerful face grew ruddier and more cheerful; his hair stood up with unquenchable vitality; he fidgeted his long, lanky form about in his chair, shuffled his feet, and beamed on the dark, supercilious features, now particularly dejected, of Richard Cadogan.
“…and then the public schools,” the young man with red hair was piping. The peruser of Nightmare Abbey looked up wearily at the mention of this hoary topic; the hook-nosed person at the bar continued to talk uninterruptedly about horses. “The public schools produce a brutal, privileged, ruling-class mentality.”
“But didn’t you go to one yourself?”
“Yes. But, you see, I shook it off.”
“Don’t the others, then?”
“Oh, no, they have it for life. It’s only the exceptional people who shake it off.”
“I see.”
“The fact is, the whole economic life of the nation has got to be reorganized…”
“Now, don’t you worry about the proctors,” Mr. Hoskins was soothing his companion. “There’s nothing to fear. Let’s both have another chocolate.”
“We might as well play a game while we’re waiting,” said Fen, who still had a good deal of whisky left in his glass. “Detestable Characters in Fiction. Both players must agree, and each player has five seconds in which to think of a character. If he can’t, he misses his turn. The first player to miss his turn three times loses. They must be characters the author intended to be sympathetic.”
Cadogan grunted, and at this point a University proctor entered the bar. The proctors are appointed from the dons in rotation, and go about accompanied by small, thick-set men in blue suits and bowler hats, who are known as bullers. Members of the University in statu pupillari are not allowed on licensed premises, and so their main occupation is to process dismally from bar to bar, asking people if they are members of the University, taking the names of those who are, and subsequently fining them. Not much obloquy or enthusiasm is attached to this procedure.
“Gosh!” said dark-haired Miriam in a small voice.
The self-elected reorganizer of the nation’s finances blenched horribly.
Mr. Hoskins blinked.
The young man with glasses retired deeper into Nightmare Abbey.
The
“That’s rather clever,” said Cadogan grudgingly.
“It isn’t clever at all,” Fen groaned. “It leaks at every joint, like an Emmett railway engine. In the first place, we don’t know that the person who hit you was the murderer; and in the second, all that stuff about the will may be mere hooey. There are other staring gaps, too. It’s possible Miss Tardy wasn’t killed in the toyshop at all. But in that case, why take her body there, and then take it away again? The whole thing’s quite topsy-turvy, and we simply don’t know enough to form an opinion.”
Cadogan’s admiration waned somewhat. He regarded gloomily a group of newcomers to the bar as he emptied his pint glass. “What can we do now, anyway?”
Possible courses of action, when discussed, resolved themselves into four:
Attempt to trace the body (impossible).
Interview Mr. Rosseter again (dubious).
Get some further information about Miss Alice Winkworth, proprietress of Winkworth, Family Grocer and Provisioner (possible).
Ring up a friend of Fen’s at Somerset House and check on the details of Miss Snaith’s will (practicable and necessary).
“But as far as I’m concerned,” Cadogan added, “I’m going off to the police. I’m sick of rushing about, and my head still aches like a thousand devils.”
“Well, you can wait a minute till I’ve finished my whisky,” said Fen. “I’m not going to make myself sick just because of your miserable, nagging conscience.”
They had been talking in low tones, and he was relieved at being able to raise his voice. Also he had consumed a comfortable amount of whisky. His ruddy, cheerful face grew ruddier and more cheerful; his hair stood up with unquenchable vitality; he fidgeted his long, lanky form about in his chair, shuffled his feet, and beamed on the dark, supercilious features, now particularly dejected, of Richard Cadogan.
“…and then the public schools,” the young man with red hair was piping. The peruser of Nightmare Abbey looked up wearily at the mention of this hoary topic; the hook-nosed person at the bar continued to talk uninterruptedly about horses. “The public schools produce a brutal, privileged, ruling-class mentality.”
“But didn’t you go to one yourself?”
“Yes. But, you see, I shook it off.”
“Don’t the others, then?”
“Oh, no, they have it for life. It’s only the exceptional people who shake it off.”
“I see.”
“The fact is, the whole economic life of the nation has got to be reorganized…”
“Now, don’t you worry about the proctors,” Mr. Hoskins was soothing his companion. “There’s nothing to fear. Let’s both have another chocolate.”
“We might as well play a game while we’re waiting,” said Fen, who still had a good deal of whisky left in his glass. “Detestable Characters in Fiction. Both players must agree, and each player has five seconds in which to think of a character. If he can’t, he misses his turn. The first player to miss his turn three times loses. They must be characters the author intended to be sympathetic.”
Cadogan grunted, and at this point a University proctor entered the bar. The proctors are appointed from the dons in rotation, and go about accompanied by small, thick-set men in blue suits and bowler hats, who are known as bullers. Members of the University in statu pupillari are not allowed on licensed premises, and so their main occupation is to process dismally from bar to bar, asking people if they are members of the University, taking the names of those who are, and subsequently fining them. Not much obloquy or enthusiasm is attached to this procedure.
“Gosh!” said dark-haired Miriam in a small voice.
The self-elected reorganizer of the nation’s finances blenched horribly.
Mr. Hoskins blinked.
The young man with glasses retired deeper into Nightmare Abbey.
The
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