Buried for Pleasure by Edmund Crispin Page A

formality, gave him no opportunity to do so. ‘That’s settled, then,’ he said. ‘I shall look forward to having your co-operation.’ He could no more conceive of a refusal, Fen reflected, than a fanatical gardener can conceive of an affirmative answer to the question ‘Are you bored?’ when conducting a guest on a tour of the flower-beds. It was inevitable, no doubt, that men with missions should display a certain brusquerie. . . .
    The church clock struck six, and Bussy’s determination gave place with some abruptness to anxiety. ‘My God, I must be off,’ he said. ‘I haven’t had a chance to pack yet. I’ll see you, then, at midnight.’
    â€˜One moment. Are you telling anyone else about this – this manoeuvre? The local police, for instance?’
    â€˜No. Certainly not. And I rely on your keeping it strictly to yourself.’
    â€˜Yes, I’ll do that all right.’
    Bussy nodded, and with this much farewell turned and made off down the slope towards the inn, absorbed, it was to be presumed, in the details of his scheming. For perhaps half a minute Fen stood watching him; then – but more slowly – followed. Single-mindedness, he reflected, is always obscurely ludicrous – and he smiled. But the smile faded on his recollecting that he was now committed to an indistinct and probably tiresome nocturnal labour; one, moreover, which had been characterized as involving ‘an element of risk’. Risk is no doubt tolerable at the time of undergoing it, when the blood is impregnated with adrenalin; in prospect, however, and with its nature wholly undefined, it is conspicuously lacking in charm. Fen reached the inn in a rather dreary state of mind.
    Bussy had long since disappeared from sight; by now he was probably in the act of packing or of paying his bill. Skirting the back of the inn, Fen was vaguely aware of a car being driven away in the direction of Sanford Morvel, of quick, light footsteps receding along the village street, of the rumbling approach of some heavy vehicle and the blaring vehemence of its horn. But the impact of these things was on the remote periphery of his mind, and the shout of warning, the short, choked scream, the sudden skidding swerve, were held tranced for long seconds at that periphery before, with a sinking heart, he returned to full consciousness of his surroundings and knew them for what they were. Then he ran – ran across the inn-yard and out into the road.
    A hundred yards along it curved sharply. On the right, as you stood with your back to Sanford Morvel, was a high, blank wall of umber brick, screening the inn from approaching traffic. And there was no pavement – only a fringe of grass and nettles less than a foot’s breadth wide. . . . Given these conditions, an accident was likely enough, and this accident had apparently been a bad one. The lorry, stationary now but with its engine still pulsing, stood diagonally across the road; the sprawled, motionless figure of Jane Persimmons lay almost beneath its wheels; and around her, as Fen ran up, there hovered the driver of the lorry, a middle-aged village woman, and an old man, their faces a painter’s allegory of mingled indecision and shock.
    Fen knelt beside the girl, felt for her heart; it was beating still, though faintly and irregularly. He glanced swiftly, appraisingly, at the dark blood ebbing out through her tangled hair, at the gashed lower lip, at the dirt-smeared pallor of her face, at the bag which lay near her outstretched hand, its contents – a lace-edged handkerchief, a latchkey, a powder compact and lipstick, a cheap cigarette case, a box of matches – half spilled into the dust. Then he straightened up, made a split-second assessment of the relative intelligence of the three people confronting him, and said to the lorry driver:
    â€˜Go in at the door on this side of the pub. In a little