Tunnel
Tea at Belle Lafcadio’s and afterwards a reasonably charming production of Shaw’s Pygmalion at the ‘Old Vic’. And in the meantime several phone calls from Stanislaus Oates, which I did not answer because I was out, acting as a formidable old lady’s substitute nephew.
Lugg just delivered what I believe is a somewhat shortened version of Oates original message: “He wants me to tell you a local farmer has found a body curled up in some tunnel on the road to Keepsake.” Could I drive out tomorrow morning and clarify whether that was the vagabond I mentioned a few weeks ago during the Anselmo case?
While my mind says that Stanislaus' instinct is probably right, I refuse to believe this. There’s this rather vivid memory that I have of the last time I and that strange, slightly mad elderly fellow met in that tunnel, which is more like a failed, useless building project in the middle of nowhere.
I and the old guy stood leaning against the damp, moist walls, waiting for the showering rain to get just that tiny bit lighter. A awkward place for a meeting, but what do you expect, really?
Lugg just delivered what I believe is a somewhat shortened version of Oates original message: “He wants me to tell you a local farmer has found a body curled up in some tunnel on the road to Keepsake.” Could I drive out tomorrow morning and clarify whether that was the vagabond I mentioned a few weeks ago during the Anselmo case?
While my mind says that Stanislaus' instinct is probably right, I refuse to believe this. There’s this rather vivid memory that I have of the last time I and that strange, slightly mad elderly fellow met in that tunnel, which is more like a failed, useless building project in the middle of nowhere.
I and the old guy stood leaning against the damp, moist walls, waiting for the showering rain to get just that tiny bit lighter. A awkward place for a meeting, but what do you expect, really?