The Old English Peep Show by Peter Dickinson

Author:Peter Dickinson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Open Road Media Mystery & Thriller
Published: 2015-02-03T04:06:51+00:00

6:10 P.M.

Damn sorry, my dear fellow. Didn’t spot you down there. I thought that moron Rastus had shut Bonzo in without water.”

“General Clavering,” said Pibble, “I have reason to suspect that your brother has been killed and that you have some knowledge of how this happened.”

“I told Harvey it was bloody silly to get a real pro down,” said the General. He put his hand into an inner pocket and Pibble stiffened to jump for a gun, but what the General drew forth was a small torch which he shone into the bucket, bending down to peer at its contents.

“Didn’t think of that,” he said as he straightened up. “What are you going to do?”

“Have it analyzed for hair. And there’s something that looks like a braces clip. Meanwhile I’ll apply for a search warrant. There’s going to be a fuss, but you could save some of it by telling me what happened.”

The General shone his torch on the back wall, where a tall English beauty with the popeyes so admired by the eighteenth century was entwined with an ecstatically grinning hunchback.

“Extraordinary fellow, Josiah,” said the General. “That’s Lady Feverfew, you know. He put all the neighbors in, but kept it for his own amusement. Didn’t even let his brother down at the Abbey see it. Harvey wants us—I suppose I can say ‘me’ now—to open it to the visitors, but I don’t see how we can. Not honorably. Silly word. That old chap”—he shone his torch farther down the wall—“was the Rector in Josiah’s day, used to drink port with him after hunting, ancestor of Maureen Finnick’s, as a matter of fact. Isn’t the slightest evidence he was a pederast, and I don’t see why a lot of salivating Yanks should be allowed to think so now, eh?”

“General Clavering,” said Pibble, “will you please tell me how your brother died?”

“I am telling you, damn it,” said the General sharply. “If you won’t let me tell you my own way, you won’t get a squeak out of me. You must be feeling bloody pleased with yourself, but you aren’t home yet. Come here and listen. Going to take a long time, so we might as well be comfortable.”

He leaned his hands on the balustrade, like a tripper admiring the view from Weymouth Pier. Pibble walked forward and settled warily beside him: there was something wrong, another oubliette being prepared in that subtle old mind—perhaps he’d brought Singleton with him and left him lurking in the shadows, ready to tiptoe in when Pibble was all set up and pitch him down to the disposal unit below. The disposal unit was in theatrical form, ravening to and fro with the stilted walk of a destroyer captain pacing his five-foot bridge; the long tail lashed against either flank; the mad eyes never stopped looking up to where there now stood, just out of reach, a double helping of Man.

“Going to be a cracking night,” said the General. “Full moon, almost. We’ll be having a frost in a week or two—I must remember to warn Rastus.

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