Last Tango in Aberystwyth Read Online Free PDF Page B

of boiling cabbage, was a refectory-style dining-room. Five pence for a meal and don’t forget to help with the washing-up. Upstairs there were dormitories and private rooms for those with modest means; and in the corridor outside was a lady in a housecoat and headscarf mopping the tiled floor. I asked after Father Seamus who ran the place but she said he was out. She also said the Amazing Mr Marmalade was in Room 3 at the top of the stairs.
    The door at the top was slightly ajar and the sound of soft sobbing came from within. I hesitated. I could also just hear the squeaky voice that I’d heard coming from the case.
    â€˜There, there, Mister Marmalade. Everything will be all right, just you watch.’
    â€˜It’s finished Señor Rodrigo, I tell you. All gone.’
    â€˜Say not the struggle nought availeth, Mister Marmalade!’
    â€˜Where did the years go, my dear friend?’
    â€˜For a while we held them in our fist, Mister Marmalade, we held them close to our hearts, we did!’
    There was a half-chuckle of remembrance. ‘Yes, we certainly did! But we couldn’t stop them, we couldn’t hold them for long.’
    â€˜They fled like the pages of a torn-up programme blowing down the street.’
    â€˜Yes, that’s exactly it, blowing down the street … staining the cold north wind with … with …’
    â€˜With the shadow of our passing.’
    â€˜Oh the shadow, yes!’ He chuckled again.
    â€˜Happy days, Mister Marmalade.’
    They chinked glasses.
    â€˜We’ve been through a lot, Señor Rodrigo.’
    â€˜We’ve seen them all, we have, we’ve seen them come and seen them take their bow.’
    A floorboard creaked beneath my feet. Mr Marmalade and Señor Rodrigo suddenly stopped talking.
    â€˜Who’s there? Who’s that?’
    â€˜It’s a peeping Tom!’
    I pushed the door open. ‘I heard a cry, so …’
    Mr Marmalade squinted at me and then put on his glasses. ‘Oh, it’s you.’
    I walked in. They were seated on either side of a cheap coffee table with spindly legs sharing a tea. Next to the table was an electric bar-fire, but only the flame-effect bulbs were switched on and the bars were cold and grey like rods of ash. Mr Marmalade was in his undershirt and trousers, braces hanging loose by his sides. Opposite him sat his dummy, Señor Rodrigo. He was wearing a pair of toreador trousers and a little matching jacket was folded neatly over the arm of his chair. He was also in his undershirt, thin wooden arms sticking out. They were sharing a tin of Spam, although Señor Rodrigo had not touched his.
    Mr Marmalade spoke, ‘Heard a cry, did you say? No one crying in here. Did you hear anything, Señor Rodrigo?’
    â€˜Must have been when you got that speck of dirt in your eye.’
    â€˜Oh yes! That would be it. I got a speck of dirt in my eye.’ And then he added uncertainly, ‘Honest I did.’
    I took out the photo of Dean Morgan and held it out. ‘I don’t want to interrupt your party, I’m looking for this man.’
    Mr Marmalade lifted up his specs to rest them on his forehead and brought the photo up to within five inches of his eyes.
    â€˜I don’t think I know him. Is he your friend?’
    â€˜I’m investigating his disappearance. I’m a private detective.’
    â€˜I told you it was a peeping Tom,’ said Señor Rodrigo.
    â€˜Now, now,’ admonished Mr Marmalade, ‘there’s no need for that.’ And then, lowering the photo, ‘I don’t know him – is he in trouble?’
    â€˜He might be. He’s just a harmless old man who might be mixed up in some trouble, the sort he probably doesn’t know how to handle. I think he might be disguised as a ventriloquist.’
    Mr Marmalade pulled a face. ‘An impostor! We don’t like them do we, Señor Rodrigo?’
    â€˜They always