The Glimpses of the Moon by Edmund Crispin

about Mavis Trent.’ Fen stooped, thinking it might be a good idea to get the youth at least partially upright.‘ ’Old ’im off!’ the youth bellowed at the Rector. ‘ ’Old ’im off, ’e’s going to throttle me!’
    â€˜Nonsense, Scorer, of course he’s not going to throttle you,’ said the Rector repressively. ‘People don’t go around throttling people in broad daylight, with a clergyman present. And what’s all this about Mavis Trent? No, don’t answer for the moment. First, let’s see if there’s anything the matter with you. Moveyour limbs. Go on, move them. No, not just your left foot,
all
of them.’ Grey with apprehension, the youth obeyed. ‘Nothing much wrong there,’ said the Rector briskly. ‘Pelvis still in one piece? Spine? Ribs? Fingers? Any softness in the skull? Cough.’ The youth hawked feebly. ‘Any blood in your mouth? Tender tummy? Teeth loose?’
    Fen went and heaved the motor-cycle in to the side of the lane. He propped it against one of the high stone retaining walls which here hemmed the lane in. Returning, he found the youth still lying supine, as if laid out waiting for his coffin to be brought, while the Rector diagnosed bruises and a possible, but not really very probable, cracked coccyx.
    Satisfied that these ministrations were adequate for the moment, ‘Now, what’s all this about Mavis Trent?’ the Rector went on. ‘Explain yourself.’
    â€˜No,’ said the youth uncompromisingly. ‘Shan’t.’ With precaution he propped himself up on one elbow, meanwhile making a palsied attempt to brush some of his plentiful hair away from his eyes. ‘And it weren’t ’im, either,’ he added, indicating Fen. ‘I sees that now. ‘E’m tall enough but ’e’m not fat enough.’ But then all at once his eyes bulged in renewed alarm. ‘Listen!’ he shouted agitatedly. ‘Listen!’
    They listened. The noise, coming up fast from beyond the bend in the lane, was confused but distinctive.
    â€˜Tes Tully!’ the youth wailed. ‘Tes Farmer Tully an’ ’is cows! Move me! Move me!’ the noise grew, bell-ringing, hooting, dogs barking, a car engine, a thunder of hooves. ‘
Move
me!’ the youth shrieked, wriggling convulsively. ‘Oh, save me!’ Fen and the Rector grabbed him at either end and heaved him on to the grass of the verge just as the cavalcade came into view.
    At the head of it rode Clarence Tully’s third cowman, whose duty it was to precede cow migrations on a bicycle; he was a jittery man whose nervous economy had been permanently affected, he believed, by having to toil up slopes in front of a herd of animals with more stamina, and a better turn of speed for hill work, than himself. Then came the cows, fourteen-hundredweight yearling South Devons. Last came Clarence Tully himself, bulging Falstaffianly behind the wheel of his Land-Rover, surrounded by excited, yapping sheep dogs, andwith two of his many enormous sons standing up, as they all for some reason always did, in the back.
    Clarence Tully waved. The sons waved. They waved using the whole of the arm, like castaways trying to attract the attention of a ship hull-down on the horizon. The third cowman pedalled frantically. The cows - each of which would have lost several pounds in weight by the time the new pasture was reached - mooed angrily as they lumbered along at an ungainly trot. Clarence Tully hilloed. His sons yippeed. The third cowman rang his bell for the entrance to Fen’s lane. The dogs fell into a paroxysm of barking. Still waving at full stretch, ‘All right, then?’ Clarence Tully bawled, as the Land-Rover passed the group on the verge. ‘All
right!’
The youth whimpered, shielding his eyes from the dust. The Rector signalled reassurance. Fen watched the cows’ smooth skins, glossy