The Old English Peep Show by Peter Dickinson Page A

much of the Woosters there.) “Thank you very much.”
    â€œThank you very much, sir,” said Mr. Waugh. “I endeavor to give satisfaction.”
    He wafted himself silently toward the door, yielding the floor to the watching Mr. Singleton.
    â€œYou’ve got an extraordinary collection here,” said Pibble warmly.
    â€œIt’s a disgraceful muddle, in my opinion,” said Mr. Singleton. “Our German visitors, and I say this in confidence, are frequently disappointed by the inadequate exhibits on the Raid.”
    â€œDo you get many Germans?”
    â€œAn average of seven point two per cent increase in each of the last four years. The future of European tourism is in their hands.”
    â€œIronic,” said Pibble. “That landing craft Deakin was working on—was that his own idea, or part of some planned expansion?”
    â€œBoth, to be candid. Poor Deakin had got it into his head that I was going to build him a special display building for a panorama of the Raid, with himself in charge of it to talk a lot of unsubstantiated gossip about the Claverings at St. Quentin.”
    â€œStrip his sleeve and show his scars,” said Pibble.
    â€œIt may seem to you statistically impossible, but only one man was wounded on Uncle Dick’s ship, and he was hit while we were waiting to board. We were packed so tightly on deck that it took me a full minute to get a bar of chocolate out of my map pocket, and the sky was stiff with Stukas, but Uncle Dick brought us out. I don’t need to tell you that it is not the kind of episode on which it is possible to calculate the odds, but they must be very high indeed.”
    â€œFantastic,” said Pibble, surprised as much by the sudden liveliness of tone as by the actual story.
    â€œYes. But we mustn’t keep Kirtle waiting—he’s a busy man. I expect you would prefer to interview them in private, so I will leave you.”
    With the demurest of footfalls they paced the vast hall. Mr. Singleton opened the door of the Zoffany Room but did not go in himself. It was lucky that Sergeant Maxwell was in uniform; otherwise Pibble would have been certain to commit the blunder of acknowledging them in the wrong social order, for it was Dr. Kirtle who had the slabby raw-beef face of the typical village bobby, whereas Maxwell was graying, harassed, wrinkled, humorous, tired—a good but overworked country G.P. to the life. Pibble shook hands with the Doctor and nodded to the Sergeant.
    â€œI’m sorry to bring you out here like this,” he said.
    â€œNot at all, not at all,” said the Doctor, in a strange half-whisper whose obsequiousness seemed to imply that the privilege of breathing the same air as the Claverings excused any inconvenience. Pibble felt stifled with all this insistent grandeur.
    â€œLet’s go outside,” he said.
    They both flashed him a sharp glance of surprise—in this sort of household one stayed where one was put until one was given permission to move. For a second Maxwell weighed the imponderables of two unlike disciplines, and then (no doubt in the comfortable knowledge that there was a senior officer to take the responsibility) made a vague half shuffle toward the door. The Doctor sensed himself outvoted, whispered “Oh, well,” and moved in the same direction. Pibble led them out to the lawn where he had first seen Mr. Waugh sitting.
    â€œAny bothers, Doctor?” he said. “Hanged himself all right, in your opinion?”
    â€œDear me, yes,” said the Doctor, in his peculiar breathy whisper. Pibble now saw, in the full light of a sweet October noon, that his neck was puckered with the aftermath of a hideous wound. The flicker of shock in Pibble’s eyes must have been very marked, or the Doctor peculiarly sensitive.
    â€œI was on the Raid, too, you know,” he breathed. “I bought it on the quay, just as we were getting ready for the final