Buried for Pleasure. Edmund Crispin

of trespass, went through it.

      Crossing a small coppice of beeches, he came on a curious scene.

      By the side of a small stream, about thirty yards off, Diana stood talking to the young man in shabby tweeds with whom Fen had seen her earlier in the day, and whom in default of other evidence he identified as Lord Sanford. It was impossible to tell what the conversation was about, but it did not seem to be a particularly amicable one. Diana was gesticulating vehemently; her eyes flashed, and her mouth, when she spoke, was twisted at the corners with indignation. The young man seemed less angry than harassed; evidently he was on the defensive. Their voices came to Fen’s ears, through the hot summer air, in weak spasms of uninflected sound.

      But it was not the apparent quarrel which chiefly interested him. It was the presence among the beech trees of a watcher other than himself.

      The fair-haired girl who called herself Jane Persimmons was partly hidden by one of the tree trunks, and the hand she had pressed against it was rigid, with the knuckles white. A narrow shaft of sunlight rested on her cheeks, but her eyes were in shadow and unreadable. All Fen could tell was that what she saw interested her passionately. He thought, too, that she was not deliberately eavesdropping – that like himself she had come here accidentally, and not much before him at that. But the scene, for some reason, had gripped her, and until it was finished she was incapable of moving, whether she would or no.

      Now, however, Diana and the young man were moving away, up towards the house. Jane Persimmons stiffened and made a short indecisive movement as if to follow. Then she relaxed and turned slowly away.

      And turning, she saw Fen.

      It was easy for him to read what was in her mind. Principally, it was shame at being caught in a harmless but equivocal act; secondarily, it was a desperate resolve to try and appear natural, as though she had a right there.

      She stumbled a little on a root; attempted to smile; stammered a conventional greeting; and then turned and half ran back through the coppice. More slowly, Fen followed.

      Reaching the car, he found her waiting for him there, shifting her small, neat bag from hand to hand. She had decided, evidently, that the occurrence called for stronger measures than mere flight.

      ‘I – I wanted to see the house,’ she said. ‘It’s very beautiful, isn’t it?’

      At that moment she seemed very small and friendless, and Fen was touched. He smiled with reassuring charm.

      ‘Delightful,’ he answered. ‘I was trespassing, too. Can I give you a lift back to the inn?’

      ‘N – no, thank you. I came out for a walk, and I shan’t go back yet.’

      ‘Then I’ll be seeing you later.’

      ‘Just – just a minute.’ She put out a hand to stop him. ‘I – Do you know Lord Sanford?’

      ‘I’m afraid not.’

      ‘Oh!’ She gave a little gasping laugh. ‘Well, I hope – I hope you won’t tell him I’ve been spying on him.’

      ‘I shan’t tell a soul,’ Fen assured her. ‘And you must do the same for me.’

      ‘That’s a bargain, then,’ she said. And beneath the outward flippancy he knew that she was desperately in earnest.

      ‘That’s a bargain,’ he said seriously. ‘You’re sure I can’t take you anywhere?’

      ‘No, really, thank you.’

      ‘Goodbye for now, then.’

      As he drove off, he saw in the driving-mirror that she stood looking after him until a bend in the road hid him from her. He wondered if he could have done more for her; she had seemed, somehow, so very much in need of help and advice. Better not offer those commodities, though, until he was asked for them…

      And of one thing at least he was sure; whatever might have been her motives in watching Diana and Lord Sanford, this girl was incapable of a mean or a flagitious act.

      He parked the car in the inn-yard alongside the non-doing pig, which was lying gracelessly on its side in what appeared to be a stupor. The total quietude of the inn made it clear that Mr Beaver and his family had given up for the day and gone home. And Fen, yawning copiously, decided that the most agreeable thing to do now would be to lie on his bed and fall asleep; which accordingly he did. He was slightly troubled by a recurring dream in which Mr Judd, uttering American college cries, pursued a scantily-clad Jacqueline in and out among the Doric columns of a Greek temple, but in spite of this inconclusive drama he awoke at seven in the evening considerably refreshed.

      Dinner he ate alone in the room where he had breakfasted, Myra informing him that neither of the other guests was booked to appear. This room evidently adjoined the bar, for he was able to hear the perennial argument going on within a few feet of him.

      ‘She’m close-’auled, I tell ’ee.’

      ‘No, no, Fred, you’m proper mazed. See them? Them’s ’er gaff-tops’ls.’

      ‘Mizzen-tops’ls.’

      ‘Mizzen, gaff, ’tis all the bloody same.’

      ‘What I says is, ’er’s runnin’ before the wind.’

      ‘Look ’ere, see that ship at anchor, see? Now, if ’er was moored fore and aft, you wouldn’t be able to see which way the bloody wind was blowing. As ’tis, she’s facin’ out t’ards sea. An’ that means—’

      ‘But she is moored aft. You can see it. You can see the buoy.’

      ‘That’s no buoy, Fred, that’s just a drop o’ bloody paint.’

      ‘I’m tellin’ ’ee ’tes a buoy.’

      ‘Well, look ’ere now, if that brig’s close-’auled, that means…’

      The meal over, Fen settled down with some beer and a detective story, becoming so engrossed that it was not until nearly closing-time that a sudden outbreak of abnormal excitement in the bar restored him to consciousness of his surroundings. Reluctantly abandoning the heroine to the suspicious circumstances in which she had foolishly contrived to entangle herself, he went to see what was happening.