The Glimpses of the Moon

by Edmund Crispin

  ‘I shall have to borrow some of your tools, sir.’

  ‘Borrow anything you like, but for God’s sake, man, get weaving.’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ said Rankine, recovering from his uncharacteristic stupor and at once becoming a blur of purposeful activity. Flinging the handcuffs into the back of the Cortina, he rushed to its boot, opened it, and abstracted the tool-kit which the manufacturers had thoughtfully provided in case their workmanship should fall to bits the moment it got on the road. Armed with this, he ran to the estate wagon, flung himself on to his back on the ground, and wriggled underneath until only his shoes, socks and trouser-ends remained visible. He set to work, and from time to time his muffled voice could be heard giving a blow-by-blow account of his procedures (‘I select a spanner of the correct size. I apply it to the nut. I take a half turn to the right.’) while his large audience looked on sceptically.

  ‘Charles, hadn’t we better turn and go round some other way?’ Ling said restively from his seat in the Cortina.

  ‘It’s a long distance, Eddie,’ said Widger. ‘And I think Rankine will be able to manage,’ he added without much confidence.

  ‘If only he didn’t talk so much.’

  ‘Yes. I know. But he just gets bewildered if you try to stop him.’

  A helicopter marked SWEB ground its way towards them, appearing suddenly from beyond a distant rise in the terrain, and although originally flying at a height of about five hundred feet, dipped to examine the snarl-up in the lane below; like all helicopters, it sounded like an inexpensive clockwork toy enormously amplified, and inevitably its uproar panicked the cows again. Serenely unconscious, like all his kind, of the obnoxiousness of his tawdry expertise to the vast majority of the public, the pilot waved through his Plexiglas. Then his machine lifted again, its damage done, and made off in the direction of the Pisser, where it could remittently be glimpsed buzzing round in circles, no doubt making some sort of inspection from above. Collecting his cows together for what seemed the umpteenth time, Alan Tully now sensibly gave up all attempt to get them to their proper destination, instead driving them up the lane opposite the Rector’s house, where the Mini was parked. Here a second gate gave on to the field in which, for some time now, the more enterprising leader of the herd had been peaceably stuffing her rumen, honeycomb, manyplies and abomasum with Farmer Droridge’s grass, and here Alan Tully harried her companions to join her. They could go to their proper pasture later. Meanwhile, Alan knew that his father, returning from the hunt, wouldn’t when he heard all the circumstances in the least blame him. And as to Farmer Droridge, to hell with the old fool.

  Noted initially only by Fen (the Major was eyeing Miss Mimms, Mr Dodd in the estate wagon was nursing an aura of gloom, Alan and the cows were gone, Enoch the cowman was too preoccupied with his ankle to have any attention to spare for anything else, and the remainder of the participants were on the wrong side of the estate wagon, or, in Rankine’s case, active underneath it) - noted only by Fen, a new phenomenon was at this point added to the situation. In the Rector’s gateway there materialized a familiar pink blob; apart from shining black shoes, a white shirt and a conservative navy-blue tie, it was surmounted and underpinned entirely by palest grey; it was the man from Sweb. In his arms he was lugging an ornate metal coffer, and this, though not particularly large, evidently weighed a good deal. He looked back anxiously over his shoulder; he gaped in some dismay at the brouhaha up along the lane. Then, summoning up his determination, he scuttled across to where his Mini was parked, levered himself and the coffer into it, started the engine, reversed rapidly, and drove off towards Burraford. By this time the Major’s interest was aroused, and he and Fen watched in some fascination as the Rector himself emerged, beamed up the lane and down it (where the Mini was just disappearing from sight), and abruptly gave tongue.

  ‘Stop Thief!’ shouted the Rector. ‘Stop - Thieeeeef!’

  The Rector’s voice, at the best of times stentorian, when fully exerted was of a colossal volume. Its effect - except upon Rankine, who continued to hold forth about cogs, crankshafts and joints - was to arrest instantly the squabbling which had again broken out on the Glazebridge side of the estate wagon, and to bring about a virtually complete silence during which policemen, huntsmen, motor-cyclists and hunt saboteurs all craned their necks to peer over and around the obstructive estate wagon in an effort to discover what was going on now.

  ’Stop Th1-Eeeeef!’ the Rector continued to bellow -though it occurred to Fen that for a man who had just been robbed he looked unnaturally cheerful, from cracked shoes through bandy legs to apish face and noble brow more like a gorilla at large in an unguarded banana promptuary than the hapless victim of an unscrupulous crime against his possessions. ‘Stop thief!’ he said once more, quite quietly this time. Then with a broad grin he turned and set off at a trot in the wake of the Mini; though how he could ever hope to catch up with it, Fen was unable to imagine.

  3

  ‘D’you know what that is?’ said the Major. ‘It’s the man from Sweb, and he’s burgled the Rector.’ He began sidling along his branch to where it directly overhung the lane. ‘Can’t have goings-on like that. The Rector and I may have our points of disagreement, from time to time, but even so -’

  ‘Major, what are you …’

  ‘Never trusted that fellow,’ said the Major. ‘Too slavish, don’t you know, too slavish by half. Toadying, too. Squeaky. Now, let’s see. I’ve watched John Wayne and so forth do this sort of thing on late-night films on the telly, so it must be possible, but can’t say I’ve ever tried it myself. The trick, apparently, is to …’

  Fen leaned forward and tried to grab the Major by the scruff of his neck, but he was too far away, by now immediately above the man in the caftan’s slumbrous bay, and already edging himself off the branch, legs parted and preparing to jump.

  ‘Major!’ Fen ejaculated loudly and warningly. But the only effect of this was to draw everyone’s attention to their presence in the tree; the Major it left unintimidated and unmoved.

  Immediately above the bay’s saddle, the Major launched himself into air.

  His aim was excellent, but he had apparently forgotten all about his arthritic hip, and let out a vehement howl of anguish as he landed astride the pigskin.

  The bay instantly recovered consciousness. Somnolent she might me; insensitive she was not. Indeed, anyone who knew her was aware of the fact that before she was ridden she had to be coaxed fairly slowly and cautiously from the fringes of sleep, since otherwise there was liable to be trouble. And there was trouble now. For a creature superficially so equable, the bay was very easily excited and upset. She was unused to being violently mounted while still deep in the arms of Morpheus; in particular, she was unused to being mounted by someone who had apparently dropped on to her without warning from the skies. To this phenomenon she reacted violently, kicking and plunging and rearing and whinnying as if a javelin had been thrust into her rump. Groping for reins and stirrups, the Major contrived to hang on somehow or other. Policemen (excepting always Rankine, who was in any case already largely protected by the chassis of the estate wagon), motor-cyclists, hunt saboteurs and huntsmen, even the lachrymose Miss Mimms, all took hasty refuge wherever they could. The bay cavorted wildly in what little space remained, the Major meanwhile managing by sheer horsemanship to gain control of her harness. Fen looked down from the apple tree in solemn wonderment. The man in the caftan emitted an uncouth cry of protest.

  ‘My horse!’ he yelped. ‘What are you doing with my horse? Xantippe! Xantippe!’ - this being seemingly the bay’s name. Her owner had for a long time been neglecting his role as consoler of Miss Mimms, and had now, in his extremity, evidently forgotten about her entirely. ‘Xantippe!’ he shrieked -though it was noticeable that he avoided any attempt to seize his volatile loved one’s head. ‘Bring my horse back! Bring her back, I tell you! Back!’

  But it was doubtful if the Major could have succeeded in doing this, even if
he had wanted to: Xantippe had glimpsed a route to freedom, and was already careering along it, towards the bend in the lane where the field gate stood ajar. However, the Major had her increasingly under discipline: by the time the rearguard of cringing motor-cyclists were passed, she was doing more or less what he ordered. Arriving at the field gate, she skidded to a halt while the Major, loosening his right foot from the stirrup, kicked the rickety structure wide open. Then they were into the field, Then they were turning. Then, just as everyone was beginning to relax slightly, they came thundering back again, through the gateway, across the lane, and thence, in a prodigious leap, over the hedge into the field behind Fen. The Major screeched again as man and horse hit terra firma on the other side, then went on to gallop almost ventre à terre in the direction of the hedge which gave onto the paddock behind the Rector’s garden.

  His purpose was now clear. He was pursuing the man from Sweb through the fields which ran parallel to the lane.

  Fen sighed. He didn’t think that the Major on horseback was any more likely to catch up with the Mini than was the Rector on foot. He decided that the time had come to climb down and reveal himself to Widger and to Ling.

  Ling too had meanwhile come to a decision - namely, that his superior rank made it now obligatory for him to take a hand in the extraordinary occurrences which he had so far witnessed -admittedly ducking out of sight at the Major’s passing - only from the passenger seat of the Cortina. He lurched into the lane, where Miss Mimms and the man in the caftan were presently weeping in synchronization, eyed with disgust by their companion in the beard. To Widger he said, ‘Charles, what the hell is going on here?’

  ‘Don’t ask me.’

  ‘Who was that man on the horse?’

  ‘That was the Major.’

  ‘The Major. What was he - what was he - ’

  ‘I think he was trying to chase after the man in the Mini.’

  ‘I see. Well then, who’s that other person up in the tree?’

  ‘It looks like Professor Fen.’

  ‘Good God, is it really? What’s he doing there?’

  ‘ don’t know, Eddie. He seems to be coming down now, so we can ask him.’

  ‘Everyone’s mad.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Deranged.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And so, to conclude, a weeny squeeze of the oil-can,’ came Rankine’s voice from the depths, ‘and the task is completed. Not that what I have been enabled to do is more than provisional. An inspection pit is required, welding equipment, at least two engineers. And there is more. For perfect safety, we undoubtedly need - ’

  ‘Never you mind about perfect safety, Rankine,’ Widger shouted from the stooped position he thought likeliest to reach his subordinate’s ears, and to interrupt his flow. ‘Just do enough to get that thing into the side of the road, and let us pass.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ling, scrutinizing his wrist-watch from a serviceable distance. ‘Yes. We really must get on. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again -’

  ‘And again and again and again.’ Fen had joined them, mopping fragments of mud, grit, and apple tree from his person. ‘Any chance of a lift, Inspector?’

  ‘Yes, of course, sir. I mean, no, certainly not.’

  ‘Dear me,’ said Fen.

  ‘Confidential police business, sir, I’m afraid,’ said Widger, distressed; he was remembering what he owed Fen - remembering, too (which increased his embarrassment) that he had not yet been able to bring himself to confide the fact of his indebtedness to Ling. With a hasty glance at this individual, who was glaring contumaciously at Mr Dodd in the back of the estate wagon, he muttered, ‘Come and tell you all about it, sir, as soon as it’s tied up.’

  Ling had lowered his gaze, and was now contemplating Rankine’s protruding feet, which were showing signs of motion. ‘I think he’s finished now, thank God. I think he’s coming out.’

  This projection seemed to be correct, for first Rankine’s turnups came into view, then his flies, then his hands (the one scrabbling for a purchase on the lane’s surface, the other clutching Widger’s toolbag), then his belly, then his tie, then his shoulders, and finally his face and dishevelled hair. He had spots of grease all over him, and to these, smudges of dust had adhered.

  ‘My God, Rankine, you do look a sight,’ said Ling.

  Unabashed, Rankine lurched to his feet, beaming. ‘All present and correct, sir,’ he told them. ‘I don’t think you’ll be having any more trouble there, not for the time being. You’ll be anxious to know the method I used. My first step -’

  ‘Get back in the car, Rankine,’ said Widger, exasperated, ‘or I’ll put you on a charge.’

  ‘Yes, sir, but I thought you’d be bound to want to hear -’

  ‘Back in the car, I said.’

  ‘Oh, very good, sir, if that’s orders,’ said Rankine pathetically. ‘All I was thinking - ’

  ‘Back!’

  ‘Your tools, sir,’ said Rankine. ‘First of all I shall have to-’

  ‘No, you won’t, Rankine. You can take them into the car with you.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘And for heaven’s sake, try and clean yourself up a bit. You look as if you’d been crawling through a pig-bin.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Move, Rankine, move.’

  ‘Sir,’ said Rankine, wounded. He moved, thrusting himself into the back of the Cortina, where they saw him pick up the handcuffs and attempt to scrape some of the oil off himself with them. Ling swung round on the bald youth and the hunt saboteuse.

  ‘Now,’ he said.

  The bald youth, at least, needed no additional urging. He shinned without further argument into the estate wagon’s driving seat and started the engine.

  ‘Imperialist running-dogs,’ said the hunt saboteuse to Widger and Ling.

  ‘You just shut yer cake-’ole and get in ’ere with me, Elaine,’ the bald youth told her, ‘or I’ll fetch you a clip on the ear you won’t forget in a ’urry.’

  ‘Capitalist lackeys.’

  The bald youth reached across the estate wagon, pounced on her wrist, and hauled her squealing into the seat beside him, where he slapped her hard on the cheek - so hard as to induce a temporary bemused silence - slammed the door and at once began manoeuvring the estate wagon in the direction of Burraford. Fen sat down on the bank beside the inconsolable man in the caftan; the huntsman with the great buggerly beard collected Miss Mimms’s reins and remounted his own horse; Widger and Ling ran back to the Cortina; the motor-cyclists raised a cheer and their leader, who had observed the comeuppance of the hunt saboteuse with approval and who had stridden forward (but without enough celerity) intent on shaking the bald youth warmly by the hand, a salute which would probably in any case not have been particularly well received, was forced to beat a retreat to his machine, striving to make it appear that this was what he had intended all along. With the departure of the estate wagon the injured Enoch was revealed, still preoccupied with his personal vexation to the exclusion of all else. A hideous amalgam of smells infected the air - horse-droppings, petrol fumes, cow-dung. The Major, astride Xan-tippe, had long since passed out of earshot, not even his ululations provoked by thumping down intermittently on dry turf with an arthritic hip being now audible.

  It rapidly became apparent, by the time the estate wagon had passed Y Wurry, that Rankine’s tinkerings had not merely unjammed the brakes: they had made them inoperable altogether. The lane sloped slightly here, and in order to bring his vehicle under control, the bald youth was forced first to change down as rapidly as possible, and then to bring himself to a stop by nosing - admittedly not at any lethal pace - into the bank. The police cars edged past him and swept away. The man in the caftan heaved himself on to the crupper behind the man with the beard, who with Miss Mimms in tow followed more restrainedly. The motor-cycles sputtered into life and took the turn to the left, where the Mini had been parked and where Alan Tully had eventually disposed of his cows. After a ra
ther long wait a put-putting was heard and Scorer, at last assured of his safety, came in sight at about twenty miles an hour, presently disappearing well to the rearward of his fellow-enthusiasts. The three occupants of the again-immobilized estate wagon had observably lapsed into a violent quarrel on some topic or other, the hunt saboteuse doing most of the talking. Fen went across to the now abandoned Enoch, Clarence Tully’s third cowman.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

  ‘Naw, I bain’t. Broke me bloody leg, that’s what I’ve done. And where’s that boy, that’s what I wants to know. ‘E did ought to ‘a’ come back for me. But they’re all the same nowadays - no ‘eart.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t suppose it’s as bad as that,’ said Fen consolingly. He meant Enoch’s leg, not the callousness of the young. ‘Have you tried standing on it?’

  ‘Wouldn’t dare.’

  ‘Well, you’re never going to find out until you do dare,’ said Fen a shade impatiently.

  ‘Yur, maister.’

  ‘H’m?’

  ‘ ’Ave ’ee got a drop o’ water with ’ee?’

  Fen tried to imagine himself - or anyone else, for the matter of that - tramping the countryside with a small bottle or flask of unfortified water in his pocket, and failed. ‘No, I haven’t, I’m afraid,’ he said.

  ‘Me throat’s fair parched. Tes the shock, see?’

  ‘Yes, I can see that in some circumstances - ’

  ‘Tes the shock, that’s the only reason I arst. The shock, an’ then the pain. Turrible bad, the pain is.’

  ‘I’m very sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Ah. Turrible bad. Dries a man’s throat up. So that’s why I arst, see?’

  Fen stared about him, but no gleam of water met his eye, and he remembered, now, that no stream or even rivulet ran near by. Closest was the Burr, at least two miles off, and even if Fen had been prepared to walk that distance and back again, he still possessed nothing in which he could convey the desired fluid to Tully’s unseated hind, who would in any case probably have been picked up by some passing vehicle by the time he got back. As to human habitations, there was only one in sight, the Rector’s house, Y Wurry.