Embarrassment of Corpses, An (13 page)

There were no questions.

“Then that's it. Meet back here at six o'clock. Oh, somebody tell the Press Office to cancel the scorpion stories.”

“Actually, I do have one question,” said Oliver, after the detectives filed out of the room. Mallard and Effie had stayed behind. “Can I buy you two lunch before I go back to work? I'm starving.”

***

That Susie Beamish loved food was evident from the several shelves of cookbooks in her bedroom and from the obscenities that Oliver and Geoffrey could hear every morning through the door of their shared bathroom, when her bare feet made contact with the rusting scale. But that Susie couldn't actually cook partly explained the failure of every one of her theme restaurants, beginning with a bistro called Très Tables, where she had tried to duplicate the taste of airline food (and succeeded only too well).

After this initial disaster, she had started a restaurant featuring English gourmet cooking called Not As Bad As You Think, moved on to a brasserie serving appetizers and desserts only (No Entree), and even opened a snack bar on Baker Street that offered food mentioned in the Sherlock Holmes stories (Alimentary, My Dear Watson). But these and several other novelty restaurants had all met their various Waterloos, including an ice cream parlor at Waterloo called Ticket 'N Lick It.

Susie's latest bid for another fifteen minutes' fame was in Pimlico, close enough to New Scotland Yard for Oliver to suggest it as a place for lunch. (He never went so far as to “recommend” Susie's establishments, even though her loyal assistant chefs had become quite adept at keeping her out of the kitchen.) Mallard agreed, mainly because Susie adored him, and her attention would be a welcome distraction from his stalled case.

“Uncle Tim!” she had cried boisterously, catching sight of him across the sparsely patronized restaurant. “Welcome to Raisin D'Etre!” She ran over and hugged Mallard with unrestrained affection. A gentleman to the end, he tried to ignore the fleshy contours pressing against his jacket and patted her lightly on the shoulder blades in return.

Susie was Oliver's age—the four who lived in Edwardes Square had all been friends at university. She possessed remarkable coal-black hair and huge, chocolate-colored eyes, in a face that was otherwise totally Anglo-Saxon and fixed in a permanent beam of delight. When he first met her, Oliver had fallen deeply in unrequited love for a week, but cured himself by admitting that if Susie and he had ever become an item, her unfailing energy and optimism would have driven him to strangle her within another week.

“Hello, Ollie,” she exclaimed, skipping the hug, to Oliver's relief. “Haven't seen you in the bathroom recently. Is it you who's been using my depilatory?”

“Probably Geoffrey.”

“Can't be. Geoff hasn't passed puberty yet. Who is this lovely lady?” Susie asked, turning her attention to Effie.

“This is Detective Sergeant Strongitharm,” Mallard told her, knowing that Oliver would botch the introduction. He always seemed to lisp Effie's name when it was attached to her rank.

“Oh, you're the famous Effie,” cried Susie cheerfully. “Ollie was talking about you. So was Ben. And so was Geoff, incidentally. You've made quite an impression on our little group. Ah, Ollie, I see what you mean about her hair.”

“Three for lunch, please, Susie,” said Oliver hurriedly.

“Four, actually,” said Mallard. “There's still one to come.”

“Whom did you invite?” asked Oliver, after Susie had shown them to a table in front of the window and brought a complimentary carafe of lemon-colored wine. He was sitting next to Effie, who was unconsciously patting her springy hair.

“Someone who can give us some technical advice,” Mallard answered vaguely as he studied the menu. “What the hell is all this stuff?”

“It's Susie's latest theme restaurant, Raisin D'Etre,” Oliver informed him. “Everything has raisins or sultanas in it. So you can start with a Waldorf salad or a fruit compote, then go on to an English-style curry, and finish with bread-and-butter pudding.”

“Why do the English insist on throwing fruit into Indian food?” Effie commented scornfully.

“Oliver, you go ahead and order if you're in a hurry to get back to work,” Mallard said, before Oliver had time to follow up on Effie's comment.

“There's no rush,” he replied. “Mr. Woodcock said I can take as much time as I like. I think he's pleased to see me busy, after two years of staring into space.”

“Why do you need to work as anybody's assistant, Oliver?” Effie asked, a little disdainfully. “I've never read any of your books about Finchley the ferret—”

“Finsbury.”

“Finsbury, sorry—but I understand they're very popular. Can't you be a full-time writer?”

“I doubt that I can concentrate long enough to be a full-time anything,” said Oliver, pleased enough with Effie's interest in him to overlook the criticism. Could she have been rehearsing the phrase “My boyfriend, Oliver, is a…” and decided that “writer” was a better conclusion than “under-employed dogsbody”?

“I still work for Woodcock and Oakhampton to pay the rent,” he continued. “My recent income from Tadpole Tomes has been frozen, because I'm being sued by the artist who drew Finsbury.”

“You're being sued by Amelia Flewhardly?” cried Mallard in surprise. “I thought her only goal in life was to climb into a bottle of sloe gin every other day.” He turned to Effie to explain. “Amelia is an eighty-year-old dypso watercolorist from Frinton, who worships Oliver. We're not sure, however, that she realizes his stories about talking animals are fictitious.”

“I'm not being sued by Amelia,” Oliver interrupted. “The poor dear was in for her annual detox when Finsbury first appeared. So the job of illustrating that particular Railway Mice story—copying Amelia's style—was farmed out to some callow art student who doesn't know her Hals from her El Greco. This girl believes the world owes her a living and she intends to get it by the American method: substituting litigation for talent. She's now claiming global rights to Finsbury's visual form, which includes any income from future illustrated books, film and television rights, and merchandising. So while the lawyers are getting rich, Tadpole Tomes for Tiny Tots is legally barred from paying me anything for the Finsbury books.”

“Hoist with your own pet,” murmured Mallard, not unkindly, as he rattled the menu.

“Your guest is here, Uncle Tim.” Susie bounced suddenly into view, leading a tall, thin, middle-aged man wearing khaki slacks, a loose, lavender silk shirt, and despite the heat, a long multicolored cotton scarf, which hung around his neck in a deep loop. His remarkably long gray hair was cut in a way that caused a floppy forelock to cascade over his left eye and cheek.

“Timothy, my esteemed friend,” the man boomed, tossing his head to throw the hair out of his eyes. He extended a hand dramatically. “How's the world of slaughter?”

“Unrelenting, thank you, Miles,” Mallard replied, standing swiftly. “Let me introduce you. My assistant, Detective Sergeant Effie Strongitharm, my nephew Oliver Swithin—this is my old friend Miles Lipsbury-Pinfold.”

“Charmed, my dears,” said Lipsbury-Pinfold, with considerable gallantry. “Effie, your hair is a phenomenon, never change it.” He sat down next to Mallard. “Those cretins who pay my salary have given me an afternoon deadline, so I must drink my lunch quickly before ancient clerks with scourges come to whip me back to the word processor.”

He paused to sip the wine Mallard had poured for him, made an elaborate moue, then drained the glass. Susie reappeared with a notepad and took their orders, which for Lipsbury-Pinfold was another carafe of wine.

“Oliver, you and Miles have something in common,” said Mallard genially, playing host. “You are both better known to the world by your pen names.”

“Ah, a fellow scrivener,” said Lipsbury-Pinfold, tossing his fringe aside again and looking intently at Oliver as if for the first time. Oliver was always reserved when meeting new people and particularly intimidated by anyone with the sense of presence that he lacked. He described himself as shy, which he felt had an endearing quality. Mallard, who had a marked intolerance of weaknesses masquerading as lovable quirks of character, preferred the term “socially inept” and always winced inwardly when forced to introduce his nephew. He winced now at Oliver's vacant expression, but Miles Lipsbury-Pinfold was up to the situation.

“Let's have a pact, dear boy,” he said, dropping his voice to conspiratorial levels. “I'll reveal mine, if you reveal yours. Pseudonym, I mean.” He let a close-lipped smile sidle up his cheeks, and his eyebrows flicked themselves twice.

“Well, I write under the name O.C. Blithely,” Oliver mumbled. The other man gasped loudly.

“Fornicate with a feathered friend!” cried Lipsbury-Pinfold. “You are the creator of the sublime Finsbury! I have read them all. Sir, you are the prince of our profession.” He winked and lifted his glass in salute.

“Thank you,” said Oliver modestly. “And how would we know you?”

For some reason, Mallard tensed. Lipsbury-Pinfold put down his drink slowly and sighed, pushing himself back from the table.

“I too have an androgynous alter ego, Oliver. If your intellect ever slums its way through the
London Daily Mercury
, then you will find me next to a singularly distasteful comic strip called ‘Attila the Nun.' I compose the horoscope. I am Beverly of the Stars.”

As his eyes lowered in mock humility, causing the lock of hair to mask his face again, Oliver glared at Mallard across the table. The superintendent spoke quickly.

“Miles, as I told you on the phone, we're dealing with a very challenging case. We have a serial killer who uses the zodiac as a theme. Now this is apparently quite common in the United States—New York had its own Zodiac Killer a few years ago. But in those cases, the timings of the murders or attacks could be related to aspects of the sidereal calendar. Our man is different. He seems more interested in the mythology of the zodiac than its astrological significance. But today, he's shifted his pattern, and we were wondering if we've missed something. What can you tell us about the sign of Scorpio?”

“Scorpio,” the astrologer mused. “The sign of the scorpion, which should be fairly obvious even to someone with the mentality of my devoted readers. There was rather a lot about the vile creatures in this morning's edition.” He poured himself another drink while he rattled off the information. “Let's see, Scorpio covers the period of late October to late November. A water sign, governed by Pluto. Said to have a strong influence over the genitals and the anus. If you believe in the foolishness of associating personality with birth sign, you'll find your Johnny Scorpio is a secretive and self-protective cove, tenacious, unchanging, capable of great aggressiveness, intuitive, and prone to perfectionism. But then, aren't we all. They make good friends and passionate lovers, although they are inclined to violence. Death is not alien to the Scorpio—in fact, now I think of it, they make good serial killers. And detectives, incidentally. Is this what you're looking for?”

“We're really looking for some association between scorpions and the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square,” Mallard said as the food arrived, distributed by a laconic waiter wearing gumshoes, who spoke no English.

“Let me think about it,” said Lipsbury-Pinfold. “But I pontificate better on an empty bladder, so while you're tucking into this appetizing but depressingly solid fare, I'll see a man about a man. Excuse me.”

He got up from the table and enquired noisily about the location of the toilet.

“I don't believe this,” exclaimed Oliver, after he'd watched the astrologer's lithe frame disappear through a curtain of plastic strips.

“Now, Oliver, I've known Miles a long time and I want you to give him a chance,” said Mallard. “He writes for the
Mercury
because it pays his bills. But he's also an expert on the serious side of astrology.”

“Serious side?” echoed Oliver, dropping his fork on the table, and not just because he had tasted the chicken curry. “There is no serious side as far as I'm concerned. I hate all superstition, and it appalls me most of all when a society gives it tacit approval, such as daily horoscopes. Sometimes I think we should just hand civilization back to the witch doctors.”

“I agree with Oliver,” said Effie, to his surprise. “Superstition is dangerous. It encourages us to pass off responsibility for our lives to imaginary powers, or to charlatans and shamans, when we could achieve so much more by having faith in our basic human abilities.”

Mallard, disemboweling a pumpernickel-raisin roll, was staring at them in exasperation. “And do you two bright young things think you're telling your old Uncle Tim something he doesn't know?” he snapped. “Shiver my timbers, I'm desperate. We seem to have lost two threads in the killer's pattern. We've no idea where he's going to strike tomorrow, or who his victim will be. I'll take anything I can get to stop him, and if that means picking the brain of Beverly of the Stars over a lunch of rabbit droppings, then I'll do it.”

Lipsbury-Pinfold reappeared at the table, belatedly checking his zip, and took his seat again, accidentally knocking Mallard's sleeve into his veal Marengo (with raisins).

“So, Oliver, my dear friend,” he continued with a genial grin. “What next for the famous Finsbury? Something truly debauched, I trust. I fancy an ecclesiastical setting. Finsbury making off with the restoration fund, questionable goings-on with choirboys, nude scenes under the rood screen. That should keep the kiddies from playing up in Sunday School.”

“Actually, Mr. Lipsbury-Pinfold, I was thinking of the perils of believing in horoscopes,” Oliver began. Mallard tried to kick him under the table but caught Effie's ankle instead. “I'm intrigued that you used the word ‘foolishness' to describe your work.”