Thou Shell of Death by Nicholas Blake Read Free Book Online

Senior Common-room that there is no need to associate with professional criminals. Yers. Have you heard how the Master of St James was discovered stealing the papers old Wiggens had set for Honour Mods?’
    They passed into the house, Philip Starling rattling off his latest scandals, Nigel listening with his personal blend of serious concentration and noncommittal politeness. At lunch the famous airman and the famous scholar occupied themselves chiefly with a discussion of the comparative merits of Greta Garbo and Elisabeth Bergner. They were both brilliant conversationalists, O’Brien with the untutored vivacity of genius, Starling with his almost incredible trained virtuosity. Nigel, listening, reflected that he was probably hearing the last splendour of an art whose delicate tones could not live long against the ubiquitous bawling of the loudspeaker. He muttered to himself:
    ‘Who killed Cock Robin?’
    ‘I,’ said John Reith,
    ‘Will contribute to a wreath.
    I killed Cock Robin.’
    After lunch O’Brien shot away in his Lagonda and a cloud of dust to fetch Lucilla Thrale and Knott-Sloman from the station. The latter, when they arrived, proved to be a hard-bitten man with china-blue eyes and the impatient mouth of a confirmed raconteur. Lucilla Thrale certainly lived up to O’Brien’s description of ‘professional peach’; she stepped from the car with the air of Cleopatra disembarking from her ‘burnished throne’: even the bleak Somerset wind grew lovesick with her perfume. She was tall for a woman, blonde as a Nazi’s dream, full-figured. ‘O, rare for Antony,’ murmured Nigel, as she undulated towards the front door.
    Philip Starling overheard him. ‘Nonsense,’ he said. ‘Pick ’em up like that two a penny at Brighton any weekend. Won’t wear well. No features.’
    ‘You must admit she has a presence, a magnificent carriage, Philip.’
    ‘Gah! Walks like a jaguar with the gripes,’ replied the little don with unexpected venom: ‘you have such old-fashioned tastes, Nigel.’
    They strolled into the lounge. Knott-Sloman was in the middle of a long and facetious account of some contretemps that had occurred on the journey down. Philip Starling ignored him completely, and to Nigel’s intense astonishment walked up to Lucilla, slapped her on the shoulder, and said, ‘Well, old girl, keeping in the pink?’
    Lucilla Thrale stood up to the onslaught well, Nigel thought. She tweaked Starling’s cheek, drawling, ‘Well, if it isn’t Philip! And how are all those sweet undergraduates of yours getting on?’
    ‘Much better now that you’re no longer in residence, Lucy.’
    O’Brien, who had been watching the scene with an impish expression, now intervened to make introductions all round. Nigel found himself raked by a long, slow look from Lucilla, which seemed to be calculating accurately the length of his purse and any other qualifications he might possess. Then she half-turned, her green eyes dragging provocatively away from him, and said to Knott-Sloman, ‘I don’t think Fergus is looking at all well, do you? I shall have to take you in hand, Fergus.’ She took O’Brien’s arm with a kind of imperious tenderness. Knott-Sloman was looking displeased. He had not liked Starling’s breaking into his anecdote, nor the perfunctory nod with which the little don acknowledged their introduction. Nigel was conscious of an immediate antipathy between the two—the antipathy, perhaps, between the conversationalist, who lives by give-and-take, and the man who must have monologue or nothing.
    ‘Starling?’ Knott-Sloman was saying, ‘haven’t I seen your name somewhere?’
    ‘I doubt it,’ replied the don, ‘you don’t read the
Classical Review
, do you?’
    The latest arrivals were taken to their rooms. Nigel and Starling remained in the lounge.
    ‘I’d no idea you knew that girl,’ said Nigel.
    ‘La Thrale? Oh, I get about. She used to live in Oxford.’
    Philip Starling was oddly