excuses.
“No—I’m sorry, Audley,” he forced the words out carefully. “That was a half-baked thing to say.”
“It was rather,” Audley replied ungraciously. “In view of the fact it isn’t strictly true. We were sending Hugh down to Eden Hall because we thought that was routine—and thank God it was you who went, because Hugh might have bought it with his leg. But Castleshields House is all yours. You have to admit, Butler—your namesake makes you the obvious candidate.”
“That was your idea?”
“It was. I met the man five years ago, when I was getting material for my book on the kingdom of Jerusalem—he took me through the Cilician Gate. And I tucked him away in the back of my mind for the future.”
It had the ring of truth, for that was the sort of man Audley was; a man who filed names and faces and facts in his prodigious memory, marking them for future use as Wellington had marked the ridge at Waterloo long before Napoleon had set Europe ablaze again.
“Besides—“ Audley paused, and then continued with a touch of diffidence—“I need a man I can rely on with me up north now Smith’s dead.”
Butler frowned. “He was one of ours? ”
“He wasn’t … “ Audley sighed. “Indeed he wasn’t. But it rather looks as though he might have been in the end. It’s a damn shame—a damn shame!”
He fell silent for a moment.
“Just who was Smith, then?”
“Who indeed!” Audley gave a sad little snort. “He was a junior lecturer in Philosophy at Cumbria, and a good one too.”
“How did he die?”
“He was drowned—or we think he was drowned. He rode his motor-cycle into a little lake—no more than a pond really. But deep enough to die in. He rode off into the night and eventually they found him floating face down among the weeds. Accident, they say—and maybe it was an accident, even though he was floating face down.”
“I beg your pardon?” What was the man driving at? He seemed almost to be talking to himself.
“Eh? Oh, yes—face down! Men should float face up—so Pliny says, according to Huxley.”
My Thames-blown body (Pliny vouches it)
Would drift face upwards on the oily tide
With other garbage …
Aldous Huxley, that is of course, not T.H.—and the female floats the other way—
Your maiden modesty would float face down
And men would weep upon your hinder parts.
“I do assure you there may be something to it, Butler. I had thought it nonsense, but a doctor I know says it may relate to physiology. Something to do with the relative density of fat and muscle—those “hinder parts”, I suppose. But he was afloat in the feminine manner, and there may be something in that. It’s one of the things I’d like you to check for me.”
“The official verdict was accidental death?”
Butler did not quite succeed in curbing the impatience in his tone. If he let Audley tell the tale in his own way they’d be travelling the long way to the truth, no matter how interesting the scenery. Poetry, for God’s sake!
“That’s probably what they’ll call it.” Audley nodded. “He was drunk, you see, very drunk. No doubt about that: there were two hundred and something milligrammes of alcohol in his blood—way over the limit. I wasn’t at the inquest, of course. No one of ours was, naturally, because we didn’t know about him then … “
“Didn’t know about him? What didn’t you know?”
“We didn’t know who he was.”
“He was disfigured? Or had the fish been at him?”
“The fish? No, he hadn’t been in long enough for that—“ Audley stopped. “I’m sorry! I keep forgetting how very little you do know.”
Butler balled his fists and counted— one, two three, jour — “Audley, I do not know a little”— five, six, seven, eight —“I know absolutely bloody nothing beyond the fact that I was sent to Eden Hall to get Smith’s records. And having seen them I can’t see what use they are to you if you already know you’ve got his
“No—I’m sorry, Audley,” he forced the words out carefully. “That was a half-baked thing to say.”
“It was rather,” Audley replied ungraciously. “In view of the fact it isn’t strictly true. We were sending Hugh down to Eden Hall because we thought that was routine—and thank God it was you who went, because Hugh might have bought it with his leg. But Castleshields House is all yours. You have to admit, Butler—your namesake makes you the obvious candidate.”
“That was your idea?”
“It was. I met the man five years ago, when I was getting material for my book on the kingdom of Jerusalem—he took me through the Cilician Gate. And I tucked him away in the back of my mind for the future.”
It had the ring of truth, for that was the sort of man Audley was; a man who filed names and faces and facts in his prodigious memory, marking them for future use as Wellington had marked the ridge at Waterloo long before Napoleon had set Europe ablaze again.
“Besides—“ Audley paused, and then continued with a touch of diffidence—“I need a man I can rely on with me up north now Smith’s dead.”
Butler frowned. “He was one of ours? ”
“He wasn’t … “ Audley sighed. “Indeed he wasn’t. But it rather looks as though he might have been in the end. It’s a damn shame—a damn shame!”
He fell silent for a moment.
“Just who was Smith, then?”
“Who indeed!” Audley gave a sad little snort. “He was a junior lecturer in Philosophy at Cumbria, and a good one too.”
“How did he die?”
“He was drowned—or we think he was drowned. He rode his motor-cycle into a little lake—no more than a pond really. But deep enough to die in. He rode off into the night and eventually they found him floating face down among the weeds. Accident, they say—and maybe it was an accident, even though he was floating face down.”
“I beg your pardon?” What was the man driving at? He seemed almost to be talking to himself.
“Eh? Oh, yes—face down! Men should float face up—so Pliny says, according to Huxley.”
My Thames-blown body (Pliny vouches it)
Would drift face upwards on the oily tide
With other garbage …
Aldous Huxley, that is of course, not T.H.—and the female floats the other way—
Your maiden modesty would float face down
And men would weep upon your hinder parts.
“I do assure you there may be something to it, Butler. I had thought it nonsense, but a doctor I know says it may relate to physiology. Something to do with the relative density of fat and muscle—those “hinder parts”, I suppose. But he was afloat in the feminine manner, and there may be something in that. It’s one of the things I’d like you to check for me.”
“The official verdict was accidental death?”
Butler did not quite succeed in curbing the impatience in his tone. If he let Audley tell the tale in his own way they’d be travelling the long way to the truth, no matter how interesting the scenery. Poetry, for God’s sake!
“That’s probably what they’ll call it.” Audley nodded. “He was drunk, you see, very drunk. No doubt about that: there were two hundred and something milligrammes of alcohol in his blood—way over the limit. I wasn’t at the inquest, of course. No one of ours was, naturally, because we didn’t know about him then … “
“Didn’t know about him? What didn’t you know?”
“We didn’t know who he was.”
“He was disfigured? Or had the fish been at him?”
“The fish? No, he hadn’t been in long enough for that—“ Audley stopped. “I’m sorry! I keep forgetting how very little you do know.”
Butler balled his fists and counted— one, two three, jour — “Audley, I do not know a little”— five, six, seven, eight —“I know absolutely bloody nothing beyond the fact that I was sent to Eden Hall to get Smith’s records. And having seen them I can’t see what use they are to you if you already know you’ve got his
Similar Books
