The Lamorna Wink Read Online Free PDF

Ramona died when she was only—what?—twenty-two or twenty-three? It was really sad, that. She was pregnant, too.” He reddened slightly at this passing along of gossip. “Chris told me. Brenda, well, you can imagine. But Brenda and Chris, they’re a good team. Chris works harder than anyone I know.”
    Except you, Melrose wanted to add.
    â€œI know she’d pay my way through university; she’d pay the whole thing. Only I can’t keep taking from her. A fellow’s got to stand on his own two feet, right?”
    â€œWhich you appear to do admirably.”
    â€œShe’s really pretty, too,” Johnny said, following his own line of thought. “Not very old, either . . . your age, maybe.”
    Melrose turned his head toward his window, not wanting the boy to see him smile.
    Johnny went on, enumerating his aunt’s virtues: amiable, wonderful cook, patience of a saint.
    Melrose had never known a person of this age to pay such compliments to a member of the family. It was not that he doubted the virtues of the aunt—after all, someone had provided an excellent role model for this lad—it was the boy’s playing Cupid.
    Melrose was flattered. He did not think Johnny recommended just any unmarried stranger for his aunt.
    â€œIt’ll be nice if you rent Seabourne. We could all get together, maybe.” Johnny looked at Melrose almost imploringly. “Have some chicken, maybe.”
    They both laughed.
    Remember the chickens, Melrose thought, the next time I start going broodingly romantic. Do you remember —?
    But remember was not a good word to turn one’s self away from romantic lunacy.
    Remember was a goad, a bully, and a trap.

4
    T he Drowned Man was a typical country pub, but tipping its hat toward inn, since they let out rooms. It was pleasantly dark and quiet—perhaps a little too much of both, as an inn or pub or hotel calls for a bit of bustle, and it was clear Mr. Pfinn, when he had finally appeared to give Melrose a room assignment, was not the bustling type. Slope-shouldered, wispy-haired, small, and wiry, he had seemed to resent Melrose’s taking him up on the offer made by the sign outside: ROOMS TO LET. It was as if Melrose had burst into a cherished private home, ignoring the black wreath on the door. It was a sad and solemn pub. Over the two days he’d been there, Melrose saw no other people about, but there were dogs. They had all come to an inner doorway to watch Melrose check in and make his way unassisted up the darkling stairs.
    There were five of them, and they liked coming to the door of the lounge bar when Melrose was there. They stood and stared. This appeared to be their chief form of amusement, a bit of cabaret that Melrose supplied. He tried to ignore them, but it is almost impossible not to succumb to a dedicated stare; one simply has to look up. The dogs did not come to the doorway together, but separately. He had identified a caramel-colored Labrador, an Alsatian, a sheepdog, and two huskies. They came one by one as if each were handing back information to the next in a kind of relay. It was disconcerting.
    He had broached this topic of the dogs’ queer behavior to Mr. Pfinn. No joy there. Mr. Pfinn was, for a publican, strangely taciturn. He was a moper, disliking equally every topic introduced, including the weather reports. Small talk, around Mr. Pfinn, was nearly microscopic.
    Melrose sat debating where he would have dinner and decided here was probably as good as anywhere. Last night he’d tried Bletchley’s other pub, the Die Is Cast. Wondering at this penchant for names of ill omen, he remarked on it to the pub regulars but raised no smiles. So he bought a round of drinks and still raised no smiles. Melrose thought of himself as a fair raconteur and a fairly generous one. His ego really took a beating in the Die Is Cast. There was also a café called the Poor Soul up the street in the