Death of a Fool by Ngaio Marsh Read Free Book Online Page B

five, she came into the bar-parlour in order to complete a little piece she was writing for an American publication on “The Hermaphrodite in European Folklore.” She found Simon Begg already there, lost in gloomy contemplation of a small notebook and the racing page of an evening paper.
    She had entered into negotiations with Begg about repairing her car. She had also, of course, had her secret glimpses of him in the character of “Crack.” She greeted him with her particularly Teutonic air of camaraderie. “So!” she said, “you are early this evening, Wing-Commander.”
    He made a sort of token movement, shifting a little in his chair and eying Trixie. Mrs. Bünz ordered cider. “The snow,” she said cozily, “continues, does it not?”
    “That’s right,” he said, and then seemed to pull himself together. “Too bad we still can’t get round to fixing that little bus of yours, Mrs. — er — er — Buns, but there you are! Unless we get a tow —”
    “There is no hurry. I shall not attempt the return journey before the weather improves. My baby does not enjoy the snow.”
    “You’d be better off, if you don’t mind my saying so, with something that packs a bit more punch.”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    He repeated his remark in less idiomatic English. The merits of a more powerful car were discussed: it seemed that Begg had a car of the very sort he had indicated which he was to sell for an old lady who scarcely used it. Mrs. Bünz was by no means poor. Perhaps she weighed up the cost of changing cars with the potential result in terms of inside information on ritual dancing. In any case, she encouraged Begg, who became nimble in sales talk.
    “It is true,” Mrs. Bünz meditated presently, “that if I had a more robust motor-car I could travel with greater security. Perhaps, for example, I should be able to ascend in frost with ease to Mardian Castle —”
    “Piece-of-cake,” Simon Begg interjected.
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “This job I was telling you about laughs at a little stretch like that. Laughs at it.”
    “—I was going to say, to Mardian Castle on Wednesday evening. That is, if onlookers are permitted.”
    “It’s open to the whole village,” Begg said uncomfortably. “Open house.”
    “Unhappily — most unhappily — I have antagonized your Guiser. Also, alas, Dame Alice.”
    “Not to worry,” he muttered and added hurriedly, “It’s only a bit of fun, anyway.”
    “Fun? Yes. It is also,” Mrs. Bünz added, “an antiquarian jewel, a precious survival. For example, five swords instead of six have I never before seen. Unique! I am persuaded of this.”
    “Really?” he said politely. “Now, Mrs. Buns, about this car—”
    Each of them hoped to placate the other. Mrs. Bünz did not, therefore, correct his pronunciation.
    “I am interested,” she said genially, “in your description of this auto.”
    “I’ll run it up here to-morrow and you can look it over.”
    They eyed each other speculatively.
    “Tell me,” Mrs. Bünz pursued, “in this dance you are, I believe, the Hobby-Horse?”
    “That’s right. It’s a wizard little number, you know, this job —”
    “You are a scholar of folklore, perhaps?”
    “Me? Not likely.”
    “But you perform?” she wailed.
    “Just one of those things. The Guiser’s as keen as mustard and so’s Dame Alice. Pity, in a way, I suppose, to let it fold up.”
    “
Indeed, indeed
. It would be a tragedy. Ach! A sin! I am, I must tell you, Mr. Begg, an expert. I wish, so much to ask you —” Here, in spite of an obvious effort at self-control, Mrs. Bünz became slightly tremulous. She leant forward, her rather prominent blue eyes misted with anxiety, her voice unconvincingly casual. “Tell me,” she quavered, “at the moment of sacrifice, the moment when the Fool beseeches the Sons to spare him, something is spoken, is it not?”
    “I say!” he ejaculated, staring at her, “you
do
know a lot about it, don’t