The Glimpses of the Moon (12 page)

‘You must be sure and do that,' said Fen.

‘Oh, I will, I will.' The man from Sweb lowered his voice. ‘What exactly
is
the Botticelli?' he mumbled.

‘A picture.'

‘A picture? Is that all? What sort of a picture?'

‘Religious.'

‘Oh dear, and I've paid already.'

Fen left him and sought out the Rectory Stall, where for the moment there were no other customers.

‘Come and buy,' said little Miss Endacott, blushing painfully.

‘Certainly I'll come and buy, Miss Endacott. I'll have that purple lamp-shade.'

‘Oh yes, do, it's so pretty, isn't it? Only it's fifty pence, I'm afraid.'

‘Never mind, I'll still have it. And have you got some music of Broderick Thouless's, or has it gone?'

‘Oh no, it's still here,' said Miss Endacott. ‘Such a worry, it's been.'

‘Oh? Why?'

‘Well, you see, I feel sure it must be very
valuable.
But then, when I asked the Rector how much I ought to charge for it, he said, “Six pence”. I think he must have been joking, don't you?'

‘Yes, I do. It's worth much more than that.'

‘Yes, but
how
much more? I don't know what to say to you, truly I don't,' said Miss Endacott faintly. ‘Would … would
a pound
be too much, do you think?'

‘No, it wouldn't. It'd be too little.' Fen had been thumbing through Thouless's crumpled fistful of bank-notes, which he had kept separate in his left-hand trousers pocket, and had discovered that there were fourteen of them. Thouless was well-off, but had he really intended Fen to spend the lot? Some sort of compromise seemed desirable. ‘Seven pounds, Miss Endacott,' he said. ‘I'll give you seven pounds for it.'

‘There, I
knew
it was valuable.' Glowing Miss Endacott handed over a bundle of manuscript orchestral full scores, done in pencil. Opening one of the double sheets at random, ‘2
secs.', Fen read, in red ink, in the space between the percussion and the first violins, ‘Monster starts eating child', and then, several bars further on, ‘5
secs. Monster finishes eating child'. He gave Miss Endacott the money.

At the hoop-la he found Padmore. The Whirlybirds, having run themselves into the ground, were taking a break, so that it was possible to hear Padmore singing ‘Ta-ra-ra Boumedienne'
quietly to himself. He appeared to be trying to win a tin of Chivers Garden Peas.

Buying himself some hoops, Fen said, ‘So you think Youings's evidence settles the matter, do you?'

Padmore displayed alarm. ‘Yes, of course I do. I mean, from what you said, I gathered Youings was quite
definite
about Hagberd not having been at the pub, talking to Gobbo, at the time when Routh was being murdered. He was quite definite about it, wasn't he?'

‘Yes, he was.'

‘Well, then.'

‘He might have been lying,' Fen said mildly.

‘Oh,
Lord!'
Padmore threw a hoop, distractedly, and knocked over a doll. ‘Why ever should you think that?'

‘It's a possibility.'

‘Certainly it is, but
why
should he lie?
He
can't have done the murder, because when it was happening the Rector saw him four miles away at the pub … You're trying to make me rewrite,' Padmore said accusingly.

‘I thought you were going to have to re-write anyway, so as to make Routh and Hagberd start out at one from the page.'

‘That's not re-writing, it's just a matter of sticking in atmospheric bits here and there. Do you know Clarence Tully?'

‘Slightly. Why?'

‘He's one man I ought to talk to. He employed Hagberd after Hagberd left Routh. I didn't see him when I was down here before. Is he here?'

‘I saw him arrive, but I don't know if …' Fen glanced around him. ‘Yes, there he is.'He pointed. ‘That huge man in the leggings and the green jacket.'

‘Ah,' said Padmore, making the identification. 'Good.' Concentrating, he poised his final hoop. 'If I win the peas, Youings isn't mistaken and he isn't lying,' he said childishly. He threw. The hoop settled neatly over the wooden block on which the peas stood. ‘Look at that, then,' said Padmore, triumphant.

Thouless joined them. He bought hoops, settled his bifocals on his nose, and prepared to throw.

‘Wait a minute, Thouless,' Fen said. ‘Here are your scores.'

‘Heavens, I don't want them.'

I dare say, but neither do I.'

Though on second thoughts, perhaps I do want them. When I finally run out of inspiration, which I'm bound to do sooner or later, I can crib bits from them for other films.'

Fen, you wouldn't like these peas, would you?' said Padmore winningly. ‘They're no conceivable use to me.'

‘No, thanks,' said Fen. ‘I've got quite enough to carry already.' Padmore sighed and departed, presumably in search of Clarence Tully. ‘Well, come on, take your scores,' Fen said to Thouless.

‘Look, why don't you come and have a drink with me some time, and bring them with you then?'

‘No.'

‘Oh, all right,' said Thouless resignedly. He accepted the scores and dumped them on the ground at his feet.

‘I paid seven pounds for them,' said Fen. ‘Here's the other seven pounds you gave me.'

‘Only seven pounds?' said Thouless, aggrieved. ‘I should have thought they'd have priced them a bit higher than
that'

‘As a matter of fact, I priced them myself.'

‘Well then, I should have thought
you
would have priced them a bit higher than that.'

‘Then you'd have had to pay more for them.'

‘Yes, that's true.' Thouless threw a hoop, hitting the stallholder lightly on the belly. ‘Now I come to think of it, seven pounds is quite enough. Exorbitant, in fact. You're sure you wouldn't like to keep the scores with you, for the time being?'

‘Quite sure.'

‘I say, what a monstrosity of a lamp-shade you've got,' said Thouless. ‘Where on earth do people find these things?'

Off with his head - so much for Buckingham.
Colley Cibber: Shakespeare's
Richard III,
improved

Though not large, the fortune-telling tent was relatively ornate; its use of arc-lines in the roof and the flap, and its elaborate spiked finial, made it vaguely reminiscent of paynimry at the time of the Crusades. It was labelled Madame Sosostris, Famous Clairvoyant. A second placard, more laconic, said Free. Fen turned this over so that it read Busy! Keep Out!! This Means You!!!

He went inside.

Inside was murky, lit by an ancient hurricane lantern perched on top of a step-ladder in the right-hand rear corner. Its shielding must have been defective, for it was flickering a good deal, casting alarming shadows on the canvas walls. On a rickety oval table with cigarette burns and beer-glass rings there were playing-cards, a skull, a crystal ball, a stuffed lizard falling to pieces and a packet of ten Guards. Behind the table sat the Rector; to his bombazine dress he had added a wig and a peculiar hat with an impenetrable veil. In front of the table was a chair for clients. In the corner opposite the hurricane lantern, a tarnished rococo thurible, apparently of silver, was emitting equal proportions of incense and thick black smoke.

Fen tripped on a corner of the Rector's cricket bag, which gave out a muffled clinking sound.

‘Careful, damn it!' said the Rector. Then suddenly his voice went falsetto. ‘I mean, careful, damn it,' he soprano-ed.

‘Good heavens,' Fen muttered.

‘Be seated, stranger,' said the Rector, still falsetto. ‘By Sebek, Tagd, Ler and Sokk-mimi,' he hooted, ‘by Bilé, Zer-panitu, Mu-ul-lil, Ubargisi, Ubilulu, say stranger what brings you to this place.'

‘I come to seek help,' Fen hooted back.

‘By Astarte, Gasan-abzu … Listen, if you're not going to be serious, there's no point in my going on with this,' said the Rector waspishly, reverting to his normal tones.

‘Are all those names real?'

‘Certainly they're real: when I was at the Sorbonne, I did Comparative Religion. You don't mind if I drop the voice?'

‘Glad of it.'

‘It hurts my throat.'

‘I should imagine so,' said Fen. ‘And would you mind unveiling as well?'

‘Anything to oblige,' said the Rector, obliging. ‘Wretched things, veils. Stuffy. And when you yawn they get drawn into your mouth, by suction. Well now, what would you like to know?'

‘The future.'

‘Very well.' The Rector extended a huge brown hand. ‘Cross my palm with paper.' Fen gave him a fifty-pence piece. ‘That's not much,' said the Rector.

‘I pay by results.'

‘Do you indeed. Well, now …' The Rector laid out some cards, perfunctorily, and made a pretence of peering first at them and then at the crystal ball. ‘I see you writing a book,' he said.

‘Right.'

‘I see you making a strange dish, of hog's brains, neat's flesh, herbs and spices.'

‘Right again.'

‘I see you making a long journey to a hot country,' the Rector droned oracularly. ‘Beware an unexpected labour. Beware an ancient man.'

‘Sounds more like Padmore,' said Fen. ‘Who do
you
think killed Routh?'

‘Some benefactor.'

‘Hagberd?'

‘Here, have a Guards.' The Rector pushed the packet across the table to Fen. They both lit cigarettes. ‘Hagberd? No. I mean,
probably
not.'

‘Who, then?'

‘I don't know.'

‘And who's Mavis Trent?'

‘Ah, Mavis Trent.' With deliberation, the Rector began building a card-house. ‘Mavis Trent is dead.'

Fen waited.

‘Died six months ago,' said the Rector.

Fen still waited.

‘Fell,' said the Rector. ‘Or possibly was pushed.'

There was a silence while he erected the card-house's second storey.

‘More
crime?' Fen said presently.

‘Could be.' His cigarette projecting centrally from his mandrill face, the Rector, working rapidly, began on the card-house's third storey. The thurible fumed, the lantern-flame wavered, the crystal ball gleamed fitfully. ‘Could be,' the Rector said again. ‘I understand that in the end the police plumped for accident - which was the verdict at the inquest. They had their doubts, though.'

‘What was the boy talking about? Any idea?'

‘Scorer? Yes, I shall have to grill Scorer, when this lot's over,' said the Rector. ‘He's easily terrorized, fortunately. Wonder if he found Doc Mason?'

‘Yes, I think he did.'

‘Nothing the matter with him, actually … No, as to what he was on about, I haven't a clue.' Tiring of the card-house, the Rector brought his hand down on it and squashed it flat. ‘Blackmail, indeed … He obviously wasn't romancing, though.'

‘No.'

‘It was something that had actually happened to him.'

‘Yes… Tell me, why do you call yourself Madame Sosostris, Famous Clairvoyante?'

‘It was the Major. He suggested it.'

‘I see.'

‘I used to be Gypsy Rose Lee, but then I decided it was time for a change. Why?' said the Rector suspiciously. ‘What's wrong with Madame Sosostris, Famous Clairvoyant?'

‘Nothing wrong with it. It's from a poem, that's all.'

‘A
poem!'
The Rector registered acutest disgust.
‘Poem!
Just the other day,' he confided, ‘the Major made me read some
poem
or other, about someone going into a church and donating
an Irish sixpence. As if there weren't enough foreign coins in the offertory-boxes already. Let me just get my hands round that poet's neck,' he said, brooding, ‘and I'll Irish-sixpence him.'