Chapter Eleven
Whale and Coffin
“Why, what a disgraceful catalogue of cutthroats is here!”
OTWAY
By some miracle, the shot went wide. Looking back on it afterwards, Geoffrey thought that the Celebrants arm became entangled in his robes; and there was no doubt that he was extremely nervous. Fen, who had fought in the Great War, fell flat on his face, with well-drilled precision. Geoffrey, who had not, remained immobile, gaping in frank stupefaction. And the Celebrant was seized with panic. There was no logical reason why he should not have killed both of them there and then. But he hesitated, and as he hesitated, there came a sound of running footsteps outside; someone had heard the shot. Grotesque in his robes and mask the Celebrant rushed to an outer door, flung it open, and vanished. Almost at the same instant someone pounded across the hall, and came in through the door by which they themselves had entered. It was Dallow, dishevelled and alarmed. More automatically than courageously, Geoffrey followed the Celebrant out. As he went, he was aware of Fen climbing to his feet and grumbling quietly to himself.
The Celebrant had a good start. Like some fantastic crow, with his black robes flapping in the wind, he was running across the wet fields into the gathering dusk. Grimly Geoffrey set off in pursuit, though with no very clear plan of action in mind. The chase proved abortive, for before very long the Celebrant stopped, turned, and fired his automatic at Geoffrey. As an offensive measure this was perfectly useless, since the shot must have fallen at least a hundred yards short. But as a deterrent it was good enough. Geoffrey slowed down, stopped, and stood watching as the figure plunged on and was eventually lost to view in a small clump of trees. Then he returned to the hut. It was not heroic, but it was sensible.
“I don’t know what good you expected chasing him to do,” said Fen peevishly when he reappeared. “I am covered,” he added with more concentrated malevolence, “in bruises.”
He inspected himself tenderly.
“I lost him,” said Geoffrey rather obviously.
Dallow, who apparently was now acquainted with the situation, moaned faintly in deprecation. “I confess, my de-ear Professor,” he said, “that I lingered, fearing trouble of some kind. But this I did not anticipate.”
Fen pressed himself experimentally, and let out a sudden howl.
“Perhaps you might tell us,” he said when the noise had subsided, “why you were so anxious.”
The Chancellor had his answer ready—almost too ready, it seemed to Geoffrey. “In the first place,” he pronounced, with the air of one embarking on a lecture, “there were ritual considerations. In the second, the compelling need of anonymity in this business. I suspected your intrusion would not be welcome, though I never thought…” He stopped, not even pretending to simulate incoherence.
Fen grunted. He inspected the place where the bullet had buried itself in a wooden joist, and then the room. It contained absolutely nothing beyond the table, the chair, a quantity of dust, and themselves.
“Useless,” he exclaimed disgustedly. “Lets go.”
“You will perhaps allow me, my de-ear Professor, to accompany you as far as my house?”
Fen gave a grudging and uncivil permission. They set off, walking moodily and in silence. It was the measure of Fen’s absorption that he passed by three dragon-flies, a golden beetle, and a nest of flying ants -without even deigning to notice them. Geoffrey thought, rather unintelligently and quite fruitlessly, about the case. What Dallow was thinking it was impossible to tell, but he appeared to be reciting sections of The City of Dreadful Night to himself at brief intervals. It was only when they were nearing his house again that Fen exclaimed:
“Oh, my dear paws!”
Dallow was not aware of Fen’s recourse to the White Rabbit in moments of high excitement. He looked round with mild surprise.
“What a fool I’ve been,” said Fen.
“I know this stage,” put in Geoffrey. “You tell us you know who the murderer is, we ask you, and you won’t inform us, though there’s no reason in heaven or earth why you shouldn’t.”
“Of course there’s a reason why I shouldn’t.”
“What is it?”
“Because,” said Fen solemnly, “you did it yourself.”
“Oh, don’t be so daft.”
“All right, I know you didn’t. But seriously, there is a good reason why I shouldn’t. An all-important reason. You’ll know it finally.”
“Are you certain you know what you’re talking about?”
“Logically certain. I can’t think why I didn’t see it before. Unfortunately, there isn’t a shred of material proof—nothing that would hang the person concerned. For that reason I’ve got to go warily. (It’s the Butler murder I’m talking about, by the way.) But the identity of one person concerned is as certain as anything on this earth. Or rather…”
“Well?”
“There’s one snag.” Fen was very thoughtful. “Just one. And it depends on something I must ask Peace. At least—” He hesitated. “Yes, it must depend on that.”
“You mean Peace isn’t guilty?”
“Certainly not.”
“But he’s the only person who could have been in that cathedral…”
Fen groaned. “I know, I know. But just the same, he’s not guilty.”
“He had the best motive.”
“Don’t be so foolish. We know perfectly well what the motive was. And it wasn’t money. I should have thought you would have known how Butler was murdered, if anyone did.”
Geoffrey was blank. “Me?”
“Certainly.”
“But didn’t you say that the police would find incriminating evidence in Peace’s room?”
Fen sighed and shook his head, like one dealing with a particularly backward child. “Oh, Geoffrey, Geoffrey… Perhaps this will give it to you. Peace left to go up to the cathedral before we got back to the chapter-house last evening, didn’t he?’
“That was what Spitshuker said.”
“Well?”
“Well what?”
Fen shook his head again. “Never mind. You ought to know, and so ought everyone else. I expect we shall find Peace at the police station. They’ll have found the stuff in his room by now, and either arrested him or detained him for questioning.”
“I don’t see how you knew anything would be in his room.”
“No,” said Fen rudely. “You wouldn’t.”
At this point the argument ceased, as they had arrived at Dallow’s house. The Chancellor bade them an affected good night, and went in. They continued down the hill into the town.
“It occurs to me,” said Geoffrey, “that this Black Mass business might, if suitably handled, and with the help of drugs, be a very good way of getting military information out of the wives of people in the know—they were mostly women there.”
“Yes, that’s true. In spite of the horrid boredom of the whole business, I really believe the majority of those people must have thought they were doing something wicked and exciting and important.”
They walked on in silence. Thanks to the rain-clouds, it was considerably darker now than it had been on the last evening, when they had gone up to the cathedral and found Butler dead. Looking at his watch, Geoffrey was surprised to see that it was only half-past nine.
“Still time for a drink,” said Fen laconically when informed of this fact.
“Why didn’t you want to tell me who the murderer was?” asked Geoffrey. “Was it because Dallow was with us? Is he in on this business?”
Fen frowned in perplexity. “He may be. That’s just what one doesn’t know. There must be more than one person concerned—perhaps three even, though I doubt if there are likely to be more. All I know is that one person was quite definitely concerned in the murder of Butler, and may be the brains of the whole business.”
“You say concerned in the murder…”
“Well, there must have been more than one of them in the cathedral when Butler went up there, in order to get that radio away.” Fen paused. “Geoffrey, are you very famous as a composer?”
“No. Church musicians would probably know about me. Very few other people. Why the change of subject?”
“I was thinking about the landlord of the ‘Whale and Coffin’ knowing your Christian name. He might just be a knowledgeable music-lover, overwhelmed at being confronted by you in the flesh.” (Geoffrey glared.) “But it doesn’t seem very likely.” (Geoffrey snorted crossly.)
“We must tackle him on the subject. They’re occasionally inefficient, these people. But I’ve no doubt the same idea will have occurred to them, and they’ll be ready for us. Anyway, we must see Peace first.”
They found the Inspector standing on the steps of the police station, smoking a cigarette and gazing blankly and purposelessly up the street. He brightened somewhat when he saw them.
“Ah, here you are, sir,” he said to Fen. “You were right about that stuff in Peace’s room. We found it easily enough, under the traditional loose floor-board: the clergy-house key to the cathedral, a phial of atropine solution and the hypodermic.”
“Any finger-prints?”
“Not a thing. They’d been wiped clean.”
“Yes, I rather expected that. What have you done about it?”
“Arrested him. Or rather the Yard people have. He’s here now, but we haven’t got a thing out of him more than he told us before.”
“Oh,” said Fen. “So the Yard’s come, has it? Appleby?”
“No, unfortunately.” The Inspector looked uneasily over his shoulder, and lowered his voice. “A couple of great churls, they are. Most uncooperative. They think they’ve got the whole business cut-and-dried, now they’ve arrested Peace. Won’t do anything but sit in the station playing rummy and smoking foul pipes.”
“It seems to me,” Geoffrey interposed, “that they’ll have to make up their minds which motive to go for. If they think it was the radio…”
“The point is, sir, that they regard the money motive as simply a cover for the real one.”
“Is all that money business a fake, then?”
“No, it isn’t: and that’s what worries me. We’ve checked on it, and things are exactly as Peace said, even to the fact that Butler was trying to get his wife to transfer the dibs to himself. Now it’s all very well to say that’s a cover for the spy business. But it seems to me the crisis over the money came up pretty conveniently just at the time when the murder was necessary. Somehow, it doesn’t really seem plausible. Not that they haven’t got a pretty good case without that.”
“For instance?” queried Fen.
“Well, the stuff that was found in his room.”
“Could have been a plant. The fact that there were no fingerprints suggests it, in fact.”
“That might have been only an additional precaution. But I agree, mechanically speaking it could have been a plant. I’ve checked times, access to Peace’s room, and so on, and you can take it from me that anyone remotely connected with the case could have put the things there. But there’s other things, the chief being that only Peace could have been in that cathedral when Butler was murdered. They had it in for me, I can tell you, for not searching him for the key immediately afterwards.” The Inspector stared aggrievedly. “Not that he couldn’t have hidden it somewhere, and recovered it afterwards.”
“The point is,” said Geoffrey, “that one can’t see why he kept it at all. He could quite easily have put it back in the clergy-house or left it where he’d hidden it. He didn’t need it again.”
“Exactly, sir. That’s another point in his favour. But there’s more to it yet. According to his own account, Peace got to Dr. Butler’s house at five past six, and was there till a quarter past, when Dr. Butler and Mrs. Butler returned. Now, the poison was put in Brooks’ medicine at six o’clock, and we’ve no proof at all that Peace didn’t go straight down there from the station and then back to Dr. Butler’s house, since there weren’t even any servants in to receive him. Mr. Vintner, you didn’t happen to notice which way he went when he left the station?”
“I didn’t, I’m afraid.”
“Well, there it is. It’s possible, though it doesn’t seem to me likely.”
Fen, who had been shuffling his feet and showing other signs of impatience, now demanded:
“But what about the first attack on Brooks—in the cathedral? I thought it was quite certain Peace was in town that night. And why should be have the hypodermic in his room?”
“Yes,” said the Inspector, scratching his nose thoughtfully. “If your theory about a plant is right, that was a serious mistake. Even those ruffians from London”—he pointed a thumb at the interior of the police station—“admit that he couldn’t have been responsible for that. But then, we know there’s more than one person concerned, don’t we? And the evidence against Peace on the other two accounts is pretty black.”
“Except,” said Fen, “for the business about the key and the mixed motives. But I suppose there are ways of getting round that.”
“The trouble is, sir, that I don’t know where else to look, even though I’m inclined to agree with you that Peace isn’t guilty. They’re mainly concerned with the spy business, mind you, and of course that’s quite right. But they think they can get at it through Peace, and they’re hardly bothering about anything else.”
“Can I see Peace? There are a couple of rather important questions I want to ask him. If I get the answer I want to the first of them, I think I shall be on to something at last.”
“I don’t see why you shouldn’t, sir. I shall have to ask those churls’ permission, though. And they’ll probably want to be present.”
Fen nodded, and all three passed inside. As they went, Fen asked if Josephine had been got away safely.
“Nasty business that, sir,” said the Inspector. “What decent person’d want to do a thing like that to a little kid? It was clever of you to tumble to it. Yes, we got the doctor to look at her, and she’s been sent to a private nursing-home up north for expert treatment. Mrs. Butler wanted to go with her, but we headed her off. She was in a rare taking when she heard about it, I can tell you. I don’t think she had anything to do with it, though.”
“No. Still, it was wiser not to let her go. Did you get anything more out of the girl?”
“No, the doctor wouldn’t let us ask any questions.”
The churls were, as the Inspector had predicted, playing rummy and smoking foul pipes. He went over and engaged in a muttered colloquy with them, while Fen stood with a poker-faced expression which made him look like something loose from a mental home, but which was evidently intended to be noncommittal. After a while they all set off to Peace’s cell, which was small and comfortable-looking. Peace was sitting on the bed, smoking a cigarette and reading The Mind and Society. He seemed pleased to see them.
“Ah,” he said, “you’ve come to visit the condemned man. Have you been hearing about the case against me? It all sounds rather unpleasant. And as I keep telling these people, I’m damned if I know how those things got into my room.” His tone was light, but Geoffrey sensed great strain and anxiety behind it.
“You’ll be out of here in no time,” said Fen. “That is,” he added minatorily, “if you give the right answer to a question I’m going to ask you.”
“Well?”
Fen hesitated. Even Geoffrey, who had no idea of what Fen was getting at, felt somehow the importance of the moment. Even the churls took their pipes from their mouths.
“What time,” Fen asked, “did you leave the clergy-house to go up to the cathedral and meet Butler?”
“It was”—Peace paused—“just before ten.”
Fen turned to the Inspector. “According to Spitshuker, five minutes before we got to the clergy-house.” The Inspector nodded; Fen turned back to Peace.
“Now this is the point.” He leaned forward and spoke with emphasis. “When you left the clergy-house, did you go straight up to the cathedral?”
Peace stared. “Yes—I…”
“Damn!” Fen began pacing about the room. “No, it can’t be. I can’t be wrong. Think again. Think, man, think. Didn’t you delay at all? Everything depends on this.”
Again Peace hesitated. “No, I—wait a minute, though. I did.”
“Well?” There was a fury of impatience in Fen’s voice.
“I went straight out on to the cathedral hill. Then I stopped for five minutes to look at the burning-post. I was thinking about the psychological impulses which go to make witches and witch-burners…”
“Only five minutes?’ Fen broke in. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sorry,” said Peace helplessly. “It couldn’t have been more than that. If as much.”
“That would mean you got up to the cathedral at five past ten—at the latest. It was 10:15 when we arrived and heard the crash. What were you doing in the other ten minutes?”
The two Yard men looked at one another. “It seems to me, sir,” said one of them, “that you’re just doing our work for us. In that time we have reason to believe that he went into the cathedral, knocked Dr. Butler out, dropped the slab on him, and slipped out, locking the door behind him. Then he met you as you rushed round.”
“He did nothing of the sort,” said Fen offensively. “And don’t interrupt.”
“Actually,” said Peace, “I wandered round the cathedral trying all the doors. I couldn’t make out why Butler didn’t hear me.”
“All the doors? On both sides?”
“Yes, of course. Several times.”
Fen took out a handkerchief and mopped his brow; Geoffrey had seldom seen him show so much emotion. “Thank God!” he said. “It is possible, then. Or rather”—he became suddenly anxious again—“it’s possible provided we can find out what that innkeeper was doing all evening.”
“Harry James?” enquired the Inspector.
“Yes. There’s a third conceivable snag, and that is that none of these people we’re thinking of had anything to do with it at all. But no, that’s impossible. It must have been someone connected somehow with the cathedral, for reasons we’ve discussed. One more point,” he added to Peace. “What key did you use to unlock the gate between the clergy-house garden and the cathedral hill?”
“I borrowed Spitshuker’s.”
“Good. Well,” said Fen, recovering something of his normal boisterous manner, “we shall have you out of here in no time. Try not to get into any mischief,” he adjured Peace with tedious facetiousness. Then he nodded farewell, glared at the Yard, and marched out, accompanied by Geoffrey and the Inspector.
They paused on the steps, and the Inspector remarked:
“I didn’t quite see what you were getting at, sir.”
“No,” said Fen rudely; “you’re too stupid. And let me tell you another thing: I have to report an attempted murder.”
The Inspector stared. “What? Attempted murder of who?’
“Of me.”
“Good heavens.” The Inspector stared even more. “But how?… why?…”
Fen explained about the Black Mass, and what had followed.
“Black Mass!” the Inspector exclaimed. “Holy God, what shall we be having next? Here, you’d better come in and make a formal statement about all this.”
“I haven’t time,” said Fen shortly. “They’ll be closed in half an hour. Besides, I’ve got to write things down on pieces of paper, to clear up my ideas a bit. If it’s devil-worship you’re worried about, then you can take it from me that’s not likely to crop up again after this evening’s fracas.”
“But what about you?”
“I’m all right,” said Fen irritably.
“They’ll try it again.”
“No, they won’t. That was just a panic impulse, because the fellow thought we’d find out who he was. Very silly. Come on, Geoffrey, we must go.”
“Just as you like,” said the Inspector with theatrical resignation. “It’s your own funeral. But you might tell me what this idea of yours is. It won’t be much good to us if you’re bumped off without telling anyone.”
“You go and think up an idea of your own,” Fen replied. And without more ado he strode off towards the ‘Whale and Coffin’
“Seriously, though,” said Geoffrey when they were out of earshot of the Inspector, “why don’t you tell him?”
“Because, my dear Geoffrey, he’d insist on at least detaining the person concerned, and that’s the last thing I want. They’re not quite such fools that they won’t have provided against the contingency of arrest. Whatever work they have to do will be done in any case. By far the best thing is to leave them free, imagining we don’t suspect them, and then see if we can’t somehow ferret out what their methods are. But it’s going to be difficult. Damned difficult.”
The public bar of the ‘Whale and Coffin’ was crowded, and they went round to the lounge, where it was still possible to sit; not, however, before collecting Fielding, whom they found playing darts. A spasm of remorse seized Geoffrey as he realized that he had not once thought of Fielding during the past few hours; after all, the man had twice saved his life. He seemed as dejected and purposeless as ever. Geoffrey resolved to make amends for his past neglect.
They discovered the innkeeper, Harry James, and Fen questioned him. He seemed quite ready to reply, and suspiciously prompt in his details. Last evening, he said, he had been in the bars uninterruptedly from opening time (six o’clock) to closing time (10:30). From 9:30 to 10:30, he said, he had been talking to three regulars, whose names he was prepared to give. (Geoffrey noticed with surprise that Fen heaved a sigh of relief at this intelligence.) Fen asked if he had himself opened the doors at six o’clock. He said he had, and that several customers who had been waiting outside would bear him out. It was all very natural, and not unexpected, but Geoffrey found himself disliking more and more the little man, as he stood there with his small eyes blinking through the thick lenses of his glasses, and fingering incessantly his watch-chain. There was something almost physically repulsive about him.
“I was wondering,” Geoffrey put in, “how it was you came to know my Christian name last night.”
“Why, Mr. Vintner”—James smiled, and his glasses flashed, as he turned, in the electric light—“I know of you as a composer of Church music. I’m afraid you must be too modest about your reputation.”
“You said at the time that you were thinking of someone who was dead.”
“I didn’t wish to embarrass you,” James replied smoothly. “I deplore the habit of pestering well-known men.”
“You’re interested in Church music, then?”
“Very much so. I’ve made it a life-long study.” Geoffrey simulated interest with, he secretly thought, a good deal of success. “It’s unusual to find a layman who knows anything about it. We must have a talk some time. What is your favourite setting of the evening service?”
James smiled again. “I’m a Presbyterian myself, so I’m not well acquainted with the settings of the Anglican service. But of those I’ve heard, I have a sentimental liking for Noble in B minor.”
“Personally I prefer Stanford in E flat.” Geoffrey waited breathless for the answer. But James only raised his eyebrows and said:
“In E flat? I’ve never heard of it. The B flat is delightful, of course, and the less-known G.”
Geoffrey cursed inwardly; the man had the better of him. Aloud he remarked:
“You should come to Matins at the cathedral tomorrow. We’re doing Byrd’s eight-part setting of In Exitu Israel.”
“Ah.” James beamed, and Geoffrey’s spirits rose. “I’m afraid the only one I know is the Wesley.” Geoffrey’s heart sank; his ruse had failed again.
“May I before I go,” James was saying, “thank you for your own delightful Communion Service. The Creed is particularly fine, with that recurrent rising crotchet figure in the accompaniment… Well, gentlemen, if I can’t help you further. Jenny!” He called to a passing waitress. “These gentlemen are my guests for the evening. A glass of the special whisky for Professor Fen here. A very fine liqueur whisky,” he added confidentially to Fen. “You’ll like it, I’m sure. Good night to you all.” He beamed at them, and was gone.
“Whisky!” said Fen with great satisfaction. None the less, he tasted it circumspectly when it came.
“Flummoxed,” said Geoffrey in disgust. “Amazing what a day’s intensive study of the text-books will do.”
“Personally,” Fen remarked, “I like Dyson in D. It’s a battle of religion and romance, of Eros and…” He checked himself abruptly. “Never mind that. I’ve got what I wanted to know. Let’s get down to work now.”
He produced from a pocket a number of grubby, crumpled sheets of blank paper, and from another an assortment of blunt, stubby pencils. Then he and Geoffrey settled down to work out individual timetables for each of the persons likely to be concerned in the case, Fielding proffering valueless conjectures and advice the while. Eventually, after some acrimonious argument and mutual accusations of defective memory, the following list was produced:
Garbin. At 6 p.m. was alone in his house (unconfirmed); about 7:30 arrived at clergy-house; stayed to meeting after dinner.
Left the clergy-house shortly before 9 and went for walk along cliffs (unconfirmed). Arrived home at 10:30.
Spitshuker. At 6 working in his room at home (unconfirmed). At 7 set out with Garbin for the clergy-house, arriving towards 7:30.
Vouched for from then to the end of the meeting (circa 8:50). Walked to the clergy-house gate with Butler.
From then till just before 10 talking to Peace. Met on the point of leaving, at 10, by Geoffrey, Fielding, Fen, Frances, the Inspector.
From 10:05-10:15 talking to the Inspector.
Dutton. At 6 out walking (unconfirmed).
At 7:30 returned to dinner.
After dinner retired to his room, but was seen about when Butler was arranging to meet Peace at the cathedral.
Remained there for the rest of the evening (unconfirmed).
Dallow. At 6 talking to his servant at his house. Had an early dinner, and went down to the hospital to see Brooks. Then returned to clergy-house, arriving about 8. Stayed to meeting, left about 9, and went to see a local contractor on business; found him out, and returned home about 10:30 (unconfirmed).
Savernake. At 6 was walking with Mrs. Garbin from the station to tire house where she was dining, and stayed there for some time. Returned direct to dinner at the clergy-house, only stopping to leave his bag at Butler’s house.
After dinner went for a walk (unconfirmed). Talking to one of the aldermen between 9:45 and 10:20. Returned home just in time to hear the news of Butler’s death.
Peace. At 6 had arrived from the station at Butler’s house and found no one there (unconfirmed), but met Butler and Mrs. Butler when they returned at 6:15. Dinner at the clergy-house at 7:30. After dinner sat in the summer-house (unconfirmed) but went back shortly before 9. Arranged with Butler to meet at the cathedral at 9:20. Stayed talking to Spitshuker till just before 10, then set off for the cathedral. Found outside the cathedral at 10:16.
Butler. At about 6 was smacking Josephine at the clergy-house.
Returned home at 6:15, arrived at clergy-house about 8.
Left meeting to go up to the cathedral about 9. Was found dead at about 10:20-10:25.
James. From 6 to 10:30 in the “Whale and Coffin.”
Frances. At 6, shopping down in the town (unconfirmed). Returned to clergy-house, meeting tail-end of Josephine disturbance and Geoffrey and Fielding at about 6:10. Got dinner, went to her room with a book afterwards, reappeared as the meeting broke up (8:50). Did some work in the kitchen (unconfirmed), set out for a stroll, met Fen, Geoffrey, Fielding, the Inspector at about 9:50 and returned with them to the clergy-house, subsequently going to the kitchen (unconfirmed).
Josephine. At 6 was being spanked by her father in the clergy-house. Subsequent movements uncertain, but took a false message to the police at the cathedral at 8:55.
Mrs. Garbin. At 6 was walking with Savernake to a friend’s for dinner and bridge. Remained there till 11.
Mrs. Butler. Returned at 6:15 from tea with a friend, accompanied by Dr. Butler. Remained at home for the rest of the evening, with Dr. Butler till shortly before 8, after that alone (hence unconfirmed) until Spitshuker brought her the news of her husband’s death.
At the bottom of the last sheet Fen had scribbled:
(1) The police left the Cathedral at 8:55;
(2) The implications of the tomb-slab—unpremeditated;
(3) The plant in Peace’s room—mistake about the hypodermic;
(4) The cathedral grounds are locked in the evenings, but anyone who really wanted to could easily get in without a key (Josephine did). On the point about Geoffrey’s Christian name, and the lasso, James may be involved; one other may be involved.
From the evidence of the timetables and the points listed above, one person was quite definitely involved in Butler’s murder, may have been the murderer, and is almost certainly the brains of the spy-ring.
Fen looked at Geoffrey and Fielding. “Do you get it?” asked.
“No,” said Geoffrey.
“Nincompoop,” said Fen.