Free Eat, Drink and Be Buried by Peter King Page A

umbrella stand and a bucket of dead flowers adorned this would-be lobby. I was looking to find my next move when a door opened and a large man entered.
    He wore dark blue overalls and stomped loudly in heavy boots. He needed a shave and his hair was short and aggressively bristly. His small eyes regarded me with suspicion. “No salesmen,” he growled. “See the sign?”
    â€œI’m not a salesman—”
    â€œNo visitors either.”
    â€œI’m not a visitor. I want to talk to you about supplies of seafood to Harlington Castle.”
    The name didn’t ring a bell. Even Big Ben would not have penetrated that skull at five yards range. He continued to eye me as if he were trying to decide which limb to break first.
    â€œI’m sure you want to keep on selling us fish,” I said with a smile that required a significant effort. “After all,” I added, “we are your biggest customer.”
    I had no idea if that was true but it sounded impressive, and after some seconds, the message reached its mental destination. “Better talk to Violet,” he muttered. He motioned through the doorway by which he had entered. “Down the end.”
    I lost no time hurrying in that direction. Talking to Violet sounded like a vast improvement over that Neanderthal throwback. Talking to any female sounded good to me. The corridor was lined with more offices. Through most of the windows, silhouettes of human forms could be seen and telephone bells rang shrilly.
    At the end of the corridor was a figure even larger and more menacing than the one I had just left. He was just as unshaven and his eyes were even smaller.
    â€œI’m looking for Violet,” I told him, my eyes roaming in search of a female form.
    â€œMe,” he said gruffly.
    I stared. My disbelief must have been obvious.
    â€œDennis Violet. What do you want?”
    I explained why I was there. He listened with a lack of reaction that told me nothing about what he was thinking—if he was thinking. “So you see,” I wound up my spiel, “I’d like to know what other fish you might be able to supply for us, besides the current ones. Fish that are less common and even unusual. The boats are trawling deeper now than ever before and new species swim into the nets all the time. Some of them are discarded because they are not what the fishermen are going for, but we could have an interest in them at the castle. Save throwing the fish back, and you’d make money from them.”
    The unpleasant fishy smell was as strong in here as outside. Perhaps it softened the brain, I thought. No signs of intelligent life flickered in the tiny eyes of the man in front of me and my doubts about Seven Seas as a reliable supplier were reinforced. I wanted to knock on his forehead and ask if anyone was home.
    â€œWhat do you think?” Maybe a direct question would stir some primal response.
    â€œEels,” he said.
    I was so surprised, I didn’t answer right away. It was a good suggestion and I hastened to tell him so. “Yes, eels—they were very popular in medieval times. Good idea. They’d be even more popular today if only they didn’t look like eels.” Maybe he had heard that one before; at least it prompted no flicker of acknowledgment.
    â€œWhat about freshwater fish?” I asked. “We don’t seem to have served much in that line at the castle.”
    â€œDon’t get much of ʼem,” was the response.
    â€œTench, pike, carp.” I tossed out the names as if throwing out a line but I did not get even a nibble. “Grayling, perch?” The head movement might have been a shake.
    â€œI see from the files that we get oysters from you. They seem to go well but your prices are a little high.”
    â€œGetting to be less of ʼem,” was the comment, and I had to agree.
    â€œThat’s true. So really your supply is cod, haddock, sole, turbot, and