The Case of the Gilded Fly Read Online Free
Author: Edmund Crispin
to take any notice of you in the space of a week, when you donât even know her yet â¦
None the less, he added grimly to himself, youâre going to have a damned good try.
The destinations of these people in Oxford were various: Fen and Donald Fellowes returned to St Christopherâs; Sheila McGaw to her rooms in Walton Street; Sir Richard Freeman to his house on Boarâs Hill; Jean Whitelegge to her college; Helen and Yseut to the theatre and subsequently to their rooms in Beaumont Street; Robert, Rachel, Nigel and Nicholas to the âMace and Sceptreâ in the centre of the town. By Thursday, 11 October, they were all in Oxford.
And within the week that followed three of these eleven died by violence.
2. Yseut
Ahi! Yseut, fille de roi,
Franche, cortoise, bone foi â¦
Beroul
Nigel Blake arrived in Oxford at 5.20 in the afternoon, and went straight to the âMace and Sceptreâ, where he had booked a room. The hotel, he reflected sadly as his taxi drove up to it, was not one of the architectural glories of Oxford. It was built in a curious amalgam of styles which reminded him of nothing so much as an enormously large and horribly depressing night-club-cum-restaurant he had once visited near the Brandenburger Tor in Berlin, where every room impersonated some different national style in an aggressive, romantic, and improbable way. His own room appeared to him like a grotesque parody of the Baptistry in Pisa. He unpacked, washed off the dirt and discomfort which a rail journey always involves, and wandered downstairs in search of a drink.
By now it was half past six. In the bar and lounge, the civilized prolegomena to sex operated a restrained, objectionable puppet-show; a corpse of painted gothic overlooked these proceedings. In general, the place was much the same as Nigel remembered it, though the undergraduate population had dropped, and the military risen, considerably. A few belated theological students of the arty type, who had remained presumably to work during the vacation or who had come up a few days early, whined and gibbered in a discussion of the poetic beauty of the conception of the Virgin Birth. A group of R.A.F. officers by the bar swallowed their beer with noisy, jejune enthusiasm. There were one or two very old men, and a miscellaneous riff-raff of art students, schoolmasters, and visiting celebrities, who sat about hoping to be noticed, and without whom Oxford is never complete. A motley collection of women attached to the younger men and for the most part engaged in manipulating and focusing their attention upon themselves,completed the gathering. One or two Indian students idled rather aggressively about, ostentatiously bearing volumes of the better-known contemporary poets.
Nigel found himself a drink and an empty chair and settled down with a little sigh of relief. Decidedly the place had not altered. In Oxford, he thought, the faces change, but the types persist, doing and saying identical things from one generation to the next. He lit a cigarette, stared about him, and wondered whether to go and see Fen that evening or not.
At twenty to seven Robert Warner and Rachel came in. Nigel knew Robert slightly â a tenuous acquaintance based on a series of literary luncheons, theatrical parties and first nights â and gave him a cheerful little wave.
âMay we join you?â said Robert, âor are you meditating?â
âNot at all,â replied Nigel ambiguously. âLet me get you a drink.â And thanking heaven that Robert was not the kind of man immediately to clamour âNo, let
me
get
you
oneâ, he found out what they wanted and went off to the bar.
On his return he found them talking to Nicholas Barclay. Introductions were performed, and Nigel trailed off again to the bar. Eventually they all got settled, and sat for a moment in silence, gazing expectantly at one another, and sipping their drinks.
âIâm looking forward
None the less, he added grimly to himself, youâre going to have a damned good try.
The destinations of these people in Oxford were various: Fen and Donald Fellowes returned to St Christopherâs; Sheila McGaw to her rooms in Walton Street; Sir Richard Freeman to his house on Boarâs Hill; Jean Whitelegge to her college; Helen and Yseut to the theatre and subsequently to their rooms in Beaumont Street; Robert, Rachel, Nigel and Nicholas to the âMace and Sceptreâ in the centre of the town. By Thursday, 11 October, they were all in Oxford.
And within the week that followed three of these eleven died by violence.
2. Yseut
Ahi! Yseut, fille de roi,
Franche, cortoise, bone foi â¦
Beroul
Nigel Blake arrived in Oxford at 5.20 in the afternoon, and went straight to the âMace and Sceptreâ, where he had booked a room. The hotel, he reflected sadly as his taxi drove up to it, was not one of the architectural glories of Oxford. It was built in a curious amalgam of styles which reminded him of nothing so much as an enormously large and horribly depressing night-club-cum-restaurant he had once visited near the Brandenburger Tor in Berlin, where every room impersonated some different national style in an aggressive, romantic, and improbable way. His own room appeared to him like a grotesque parody of the Baptistry in Pisa. He unpacked, washed off the dirt and discomfort which a rail journey always involves, and wandered downstairs in search of a drink.
By now it was half past six. In the bar and lounge, the civilized prolegomena to sex operated a restrained, objectionable puppet-show; a corpse of painted gothic overlooked these proceedings. In general, the place was much the same as Nigel remembered it, though the undergraduate population had dropped, and the military risen, considerably. A few belated theological students of the arty type, who had remained presumably to work during the vacation or who had come up a few days early, whined and gibbered in a discussion of the poetic beauty of the conception of the Virgin Birth. A group of R.A.F. officers by the bar swallowed their beer with noisy, jejune enthusiasm. There were one or two very old men, and a miscellaneous riff-raff of art students, schoolmasters, and visiting celebrities, who sat about hoping to be noticed, and without whom Oxford is never complete. A motley collection of women attached to the younger men and for the most part engaged in manipulating and focusing their attention upon themselves,completed the gathering. One or two Indian students idled rather aggressively about, ostentatiously bearing volumes of the better-known contemporary poets.
Nigel found himself a drink and an empty chair and settled down with a little sigh of relief. Decidedly the place had not altered. In Oxford, he thought, the faces change, but the types persist, doing and saying identical things from one generation to the next. He lit a cigarette, stared about him, and wondered whether to go and see Fen that evening or not.
At twenty to seven Robert Warner and Rachel came in. Nigel knew Robert slightly â a tenuous acquaintance based on a series of literary luncheons, theatrical parties and first nights â and gave him a cheerful little wave.
âMay we join you?â said Robert, âor are you meditating?â
âNot at all,â replied Nigel ambiguously. âLet me get you a drink.â And thanking heaven that Robert was not the kind of man immediately to clamour âNo, let
me
get
you
oneâ, he found out what they wanted and went off to the bar.
On his return he found them talking to Nicholas Barclay. Introductions were performed, and Nigel trailed off again to the bar. Eventually they all got settled, and sat for a moment in silence, gazing expectantly at one another, and sipping their drinks.
âIâm looking forward
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