Embarrassment of Corpses, An by Alan Beechey Page B

model for him, Uncle Tim.”
    The two men fell into an embarrassed silence, each pretending to have a deep fascination with the way Lorina was placidly stirring the tea, like closely packed riders in an elevator studying the floor numbers. Mallard had more reason to be distracted, because he was trying to decide if he should be complimented or insulted by Lorina’s remark. Suddenly, Satan lifted his head and unspooled himself from his chair. A few seconds later, the doorbell rang and, with an apology, Lorina followed the cat out of the living room. They heard the front door open, and a strangely high-pitched voice declaimed a greeting.
    â€œSo, Squire Random’s finally trodden the primrose way to the everlasting bonfire, eh Ina, old thing?”
    The voice stopped abruptly. Half a minute later, Lorina put her head around the door of the living room and smiled awkwardly at them.
    â€œLook, sorry about this, but Ambrose has turned up, and I think he may have been drinking.”
    Mallard got to his feet instantly. “I have to leave anyway, my dear,” he said quickly. “Thank you for the refreshments, and once again, my condolences on your loss, which I trust you’ll extend to your brother. Come, Oliver, I’ll give you a lift home.”
    He brushed his lips against Lorina’s cheek and swept into the hallway, which was visibly empty of Ambrose, although a well-stuffed backpack had been dropped on the parquet.
    â€œWill you be okay?” Oliver asked her anxiously as they stood at the front door. She nodded.
    â€œI can handle Ambrose, whatever mood he’s in. He’s scared of me.”
    She hugged him closely and watched him until he reached Mallard’s Rover. Then, with a sigh, she closed the door.

Chapter Three
    â€œYes, sir, they certainly were innocent times,” said Dworkin wistfully. “Take the works of Arthur Ransome, for instance. Boys and girls—barely adolescent—camping together, bathing together, living as free as nature intended. Did they hide their shame behind scraps of clothing, the swaddling bands of civilization?”
    â€œI seem to recall some mention of bathing drawers,” muttered Oliver to the porter’s shoes.
    â€œAh, but there was nothing about scurrying behind bushes to change, was there, sir? Swallows, Amazons—these are names from nature, from myth. Bold and free, as nature intended. I certainly picture them all naked. That island in the lake was a return to Eden for them. Where else could a young girl be proleptically called ‘Titty’ without the vile sniggerings of censorious society?”
    â€œWhere indeed?” grunted Oliver, finding himself wondering where Dworkin, the day porter at the Sanders Club, had picked up the word “proleptically.” Must have been reading Anthony Burgess again.
    Dworkin’s obsessions with Adamitic innocence were notorious at the club, and most members avoided eye-contact with the dapper ex-sapper. It had been noted that, since Dworkin had arrived a couple of years earlier, the club’s copy of Hans Christian Andersen’s collected tales always seemed to fall open at the picture of the Little Mermaid, and all the illustrated editions of The Water Babies had disappeared. Unfortunately, Dworkin was the only other occupant of the club lobby, and because the porter had initially applied for the job after serving on a jury with Sir Harry Random, Oliver felt obliged to put up with him for his late friend’s sake.
    Oliver was at the club that Wednesday afternoon because of a brain wave that had struck him earlier in the day. On the night Sir Harry died, Oliver recalled, he had been waving a piece of paper that was in some way connected with his supposed assignation at six o’clock on Monday morning. This paper was in Harry’s possession while the two men were playing poker in the club’s card room; but it was gone by the time the police searched the