Free Swan Song by Edmund Crispin Page B

spent most of his capital financing his own operas. You know, of course, that no one can possibly make a
living
by writing operas – at any rate in England,’ Adam mused. ‘Edwin must have accumulated a few thousand; and as he isn’t married, I imagine they’ll go to Charles, and pay for the staging of the
Oresteia
.’
    â€˜The
Oresteia
?’
    â€˜It’s a big tetralogy he’s just finishing: Cadogan’s done the libretto. Apparently it pretty well needs a new theatre built to do it in – a second Bayreuth, as it were.’
    â€˜Then Charles Shorthouse is a suspect,’ said Fen with a certain satisfaction. ‘There goes C. S. Lewis again.’
    â€˜Except that he lives at Amersham,’ Sir Richard interposed.
    â€˜There is transport. Obviously we shall have to find out what he was doing last night. He may bave an alibi.’
    By now the little bar was beginning to empty again, as people drifted out for lunch. The opening of the door admitted blasts of cold wind, and they could just glimpse the grey stone front of St John’s standing against a sky of more luminous grey, and tall, bare trees, spattered with little wisps of white, and one of the robot-like lamp-posts which are lined along the centre of St Giles’. It was growing so dark as to seem like evening. In the halls of Colleges, tasteless soups or sinister, bloated sausages, reminiscent of financiers in a socialist cartoon, were being set on tables. Fen’s thoughts were turning to food.
    â€˜My thoughts,’ he told them, ‘are turning to food.’
    â€˜And my feet,’ said Elizabeth firmly, ‘are turning to ice . . . Adam darling, I supose you realize you’re keeping
all
the fire off me?’
    Two newcomers entered the bar. Adam, caught midway in a complex movement which drew wails of annoyance from Fen, greeted them in a harassed and absent manner. They drew near, diffidently.
    â€˜Come and share the fire,’ said Sir Richard agreeably.
    The young man smiled in tacit apology for disturbing them. He was handsome in a dark, foreign fashion, and wiry, with alert, imaginative eys, but his face was disfigured by some sort of skin disease, and he looked far from well. With him was Judith Haynes. Though she was very young, her manner was aloof and mistrustful, with a veneer of sophistication which gave evidence of careful cultivation. Beneath a heavy brown coat she wore slacks and a jersey which emphasized the slenderness, almost the fragility, of her figure. A few flecks of half-melted snow glittered in her fair hair. She stood a little behind the young man, watching him with a trace of anxiety in her eyes. It was not difficult to see that she was very much in love with him.
    â€˜Let me introduce you,’ said Adam, suddenly mindful of his responsibilities. ‘Mr—?’
    â€˜Stapleton,’ said the young man. ‘Boris Stapleton. And this is Judith Haynes.’
    â€˜My wife,’ Adam responded. ‘Professor Fen, Sir Richard Freeman, Inspector Mudge.’ It was as though he were reeling off a list of malefactors.
    A conventional murmur of gratification went up. Hierophantically, Fen rearranged the circle round the fire and ordered a new round of drinks. A momentary blankness fell upon all their minds. It was clear, too, that the potential relevance of Stapleton to the matter in hand had not revealed itself to Mudge. He was finishing his beer in surreptitious haste, plainly considering that the time for his departure had arrived. Adam observed this.
    â€˜Miss Haynes and Mr Stapleton’ – his tones were significantly informative – ‘are both in
Die Meistersinger
.’
    Mudge became instantly less fretful. He opened his mouth to speak, but Stapleton unwittingly forestalled him.
    â€˜What’s going to happen, sir?’ he asked of Adam. ‘Will the first night be postponed?’
    â€˜I imagine so.’ Adam nodded.