Embarrassment of Corpses, An Read Online Free PDF

printed out the story and sent it, without a glance, to his hungry publisher. His editor, trusting Oliver’s formula, handed the manuscript unseen to a clueless sub-editor, who massaged Finsbury’s transition in and out of the story without a raised eyebrow. And so the Ferret survived, through typesetters, proofreaders, and layout artists. Because the usual illustrator of the Railway Mice series was drying out in hospital, the task of giving Finsbury an appearance went to an arrogant art student on half pay, who felt that any consultation with editor or author was irrelevant to the creative process.
    The first Oliver knew that his creation had survived was when copies of the new book arrived in the mail, smelling of fresh ink. In two minutes, he was on the telephone to his editor, who was also his current girlfriend. For three days, they had gone into hiding, sharing the expense of the hotel room. And then, shortly after the current girlfriend transformed herself into the embittered ex-girlfriend, the reviews appeared.
    â€œMs. Blithely has succeeded where Milton failed,” trumpeted The Times Literary Supplement . “She has created an evil character with no perverse appeal whatsoever.”
    â€œThe sins of Finsbury the Ferret have no vicarious attraction,” cried The Spectator . “Destined to become a classic.”
    â€œJust the thing for the Christmas stocking,” hailed Woman’s Realm . “It’s Lord of the Flies with rodents.”
    Finsbury was acclaimed as the perfect tool for exposing the children of Britain to evil and immorality without making them want to try it. Every publication raved about the ferret’s “refreshing honesty and realism,” a phrase that occurred verbatim in seven reviews. (Only Animal Rights Now! dissented, noting yet another misrepresentation of a mammal that was affectionate and essentially harmless, once would-be handlers had learned the simple pinch that would cause it to release body parts from its relentless bite.) And after Oliver had finished grumbling about the reviewer’s assumption that he was a woman (and about some of the criticism that had been voiced in the hotel room about his intelligence, creative talents, and personal hygiene), he realized he was on to a winner.
    Since then, in successive best-sellers, Finsbury had exposed the infants of England to the evils of alcohol, drugs, pornography, promiscuity, soccer hooliganism, smoking, and country and western music (an unpublished moment of self-indulgence by the author). But this morning, the iniquity wasn’t flowing. All Oliver could think of was the death of his friend and mentor, Sir Harry Random. The symbol scrawled in blue on the dead man’s shirtfront—where had he seen it before?
    â€œHow are my woodland chums today?” asked the ever-gleeful Mr. Woodcock, hovering near Oliver’s cubbyhole as the young man gloomily closed the thesaurus. “That waggish Billy Field Mouse…ah, how I love his antics!”
    Oliver’s employer was a stout man in his late seventies, with as much gray facial hair as it was possible to sprout without actually having a beard and moustache. It was always Mr. Woodcock who represented the firm to Oliver, usually encouraging him to spend all his time writing children’s novels. His partner, Mr. Oakhampton, rarely put in an appearance at the office, and on the one day a month when he did materialize, he would hurry past Oliver’s desk with the merest nod and duck into his own sanctum, where he would remain behind closed doors all day.
    â€œI’m not really in the mood for writing about Finsbury today, Mr. Woodcock,” Oliver said. “Is there anything I can do for you? Some filing perhaps?”
    A look of horror crossed the old man’s face.
    â€œGoodness gracious me, no!” he cried emphatically. “My dear Oliver—I may call you Oliver?—I trust I haven’t indicated that