One Foot in the Grave by Peter Dickinson Page A

…”
    â€œRight,” said Cass. “But at any rate it was unlocked around ten o’clock. You opened the door, and then …”
    â€œWell, I went out,” said Pibble. “I don’t know why—it seems perfectly stupid now. I suppose the storm mightn’t have been so bad in the courtyard, and I’d got it into my head I wanted to find the chap, and then … well, the door blew shut, for a start, so I couldn’t get back in that way. Had to get round to the front. Started off and … fell over. Wind, it was like. … Anyway, started crawling, I suppose, and just went on. Stupid. Found myself at the tower—must have gone wrong way, you know. Wind. Door open, went inside for shelter—at least that’s what must have happened. I can’t remember deciding to do any of these things. Expect I crawled across and sat on the bottom step—remember feeling I couldn’t just sit there. I’d better do something. Started to climb up. Habit, you know.”
    â€œHabit?”
    â€œYou tell them, Jenny.”
    â€œI think we’d better stop soon,” said Jenny. “Can you hear how tired he’s getting?”
    â€œI’m all right,” said Pibble, aware that he had been overdoing the note of feebleness in order to force them to accept his story. “Give me a bit of a rest. Tell them about stairs.”
    He closed his eyes and half-listened to Jenny’s explanation. His body seemed detached from his mind, the former whining­ with aches and weariness, the latter eager as a puppy on a walk. Even if he hadn’t had a position to defend, a need for alertness, he might have had something of the same feeling. It was as though the working machinery of investigation—Mike and Cass—carried­ a voltage strong enough to wake inductive currents­ in his discarded circuits.
    â€œWell, I suppose it’s pleasant to have a couple of mysteries cleared up,” said Mike.
    â€œIf you say so,” said Cass, mock-subservient. “I’ll check with the kitchen staff about the door—now I come to think of it, there was something about that first time through. …”
    (Rustle of notebook leaves.)
    â€œYes. I’ve only put a query. I remember now. One of them—the fat one—wanted to say something and the thin one interrupted her. Damn. I should have gone back to that earlier. … What else? This shot, if that’s what it was …”
    â€œJust one,” whispered Pibble, eyes still closed. “Didn’t hear the other one.”
    â€œA little after nine twenty-five … that’s ten minutes beyond the pathologist’s outer limit.”
    â€œI wouldn’t worry about that, Ted,” said Mike. “A different boffin would have given you a different limit. Bloody cold night, wasn’t it? Snow thawing with the body warmth, adding to the wind chill. … How old is this boffin?”
    â€œYoungish. Nobody’s made him a knight yet.”
    â€œThere. If he’d been a bit older he’d have allowed himself double the leeway.”
    Pibble, eyes still closed, was aware of a tautness between the two men, an unspoken area of dispute, reaching beyond the timing of the shot. It relieved itself in movement. Cass’s voice came from near the window.
    â€œThat’s a fine old cedar out there,” he said. “I’ve heard a tree like that make some pretty odd noises in a storm.”
    â€œIt groans,” said Jenny. “I’ve never heard it bang.”
    â€œDendrophonics and medicine,” said Cass.
    Pibble sensed the conversation floating beyond his reach. Jenny’s sudden, firm intrusion, as if determined that her patient must be a reliable witness … Cass’s instinct to tease her … a nip of jealousy. …
    â€œIt could have been the cedar,” he said, loudly. “I thought of it at the time and decided it