Buried for Pleasure by Edmund Crispin Read Free Book Online

considered this fiscal theory and decided that, subject to a good deal of qualification, there was something in it.
    â€˜But still,’ he said, ‘it does seem a pity. You know the sort of customers you’ll get; loud-voiced, red-faced men with Hudson Terraplanes and toothbrush moustaches, and little slinky girls with geranium lips and an eye to the main chance, smoking cigarettes in holders.’
    Myra sighed a little at this vision of the coming Gomorrah, but – since unlike Fen she was not prone to aesthetic bigotry – did not seem, he thought, to be seriously dismayed.
    â€˜Anyway,’ she said, ‘it’s their pub to do what they like with. They tried to get a licence for the renovations, but the Ministry refused it. So they’re doing the whole thing themselves.’
    â€˜Doing it themselves?’
    â€˜There’s a regulation, you see, that if you don’t employ workmen, and don’t spend more than a hundred pounds, you can do up your house, or whatever it is, yourself. Mr Beaver’s got his whole family at it, and some of his friends drop in now and again to lend a hand.’
    â€˜Surely, though, it’s a job for an expert.’
    â€˜Ah,’ said Myra sombrely. ‘You’re right there, my dear. But that’s Mr Beaver all over. Once he gets an idea into his head, nothing’ll stop him. And if you ask me – –’
    But what more she would have said Fen never learned. Even as she spoke, he had been conscious that a large and noisy car was pulling up at the door of the inn.
    And now, with the consciously grandiose air of a god from a machine, a newcomer strode into the bar.

CHAPTER 6
    T HE newcomer was a man of between thirty and forty, though a certain severity of expression made him seem rather older. He was tall and stringy, with a weather-beaten complexion, a long straight nose, bright, bird-like eyes, and thin brown hair which glistened with bay-rum; and he wore jodhpurs, riding-boots, a violent check hacking coat, and a yellow tie with horses’ heads on it. In his hand he carried a green pork-pie hat with ventilation holes in the top, so that it looked as if someone had been shooting at him.
    He stalked to the bar, rapped on it, and demanded peremptorily to be told if Professor Fen were available.
    â€˜I am Fen,’ said Fen.
    The newcomer’s manner changed at once to one of great affability. He took Fen’s hand and joggled it up and down prolongedly.
    â€˜My dear sir,’ he said, ‘this is a very great pleasure. Damme yes. Delighted, and all that. . . . What are you having?’
    â€˜Bitter, I think.’
    â€˜A pint of bitter, Miss, and a large Scotch for me.’
    â€˜You are Captain Watkyn?’ Fen asked mistrustfully.
    â€˜You’ve got it in one, old boy,’ said Captain Watkyn with enthusiasm; it was as though he were commending Fen for the solution of a particularly awkward riddle. ‘The old firm in person, at your service now as always. . . . Well, bungho.’
    They drank.
    â€˜It’s a good thing you’re a drinking man,’ Captain Watkyn added pensively. ‘I had to act for a T.T. once- Melton Mowbray, I think it was – and between ourselves, I had a pretty sticky time of it.’
    â€˜Did he get in?’
    â€˜No,’ said Captain Watkyn with satisfaction, ‘he didn’t. Mind you,’ he went on hurriedly, perceiving in this anecdote an element which might be interpreted to his own disadvantage – ‘mind you, he wouldn’t have got in even if the King – God bless His Majesty – had been sponsoring him. . . . I tell you what, we’ll go and sit over by the window, where there’s some air.’
    Carrying their drinks, they moved to the embrasure he had indicated and settled down there, Captain Watkyn with the relieved sigh of one who, after long and tedious journeyings, has returned