Appleby's Answer by Michael Innes

morose indifference. Miss Pringle, whose modest order was being quite civilly attended to by the man behind the bar, wondered whether the tortoise could be coaxed into conversation. But a suitable initial topic eluded her. Their common ground, after all, was singularly limited; it might be said to consist of a sermon that hadn’t been preached and two or three hymns so execrably sung that no sane person would want to recall them. She was about to turn her attention to the youths playing darts when the bar door opened and Messrs Jenkins and Waterbird walked in.
    Or rather they made to walk in, hesitated, and then did walk in. The hitch had presumably been occasioned by Miss Pringle, whom they hadn’t expected to see. Or had they? Miss Pringle, professionally acute in the reading of small appearances, found that she wasn’t sure. Had they followed her from ‘Kandahar’ out of idle curiosity? Had they made her a subject of ribald talk – and then had the decency a little to falter when thus impertinently once more in her presence? However this might be, she was not going to show herself put out. There might be information to be extracted from them of a more reliable order than from the tattle of rustics. And it might be amusing, at least, a little to take the wind out of their sails.
    â€˜So we meet again!’ Miss Pringle called out cheerfully. ‘It must be to allow me to take the privilege of my years.’ And she laughed what she thought of as a sporting-aunt type of laugh. ‘What would you care to drink?’
    Mr Jenkins (who was the fair and chinless youth) merely let his mouth gape open a little, like a fish feeling a sudden need to extract an extra ration of oxygen from its tank. But Mr Waterbird (who on the other hand might have been proposing to seize and savagely shake the bars of his cage) had more presence of mind.
    â€˜Large gin and small tonic,’ he said briskly. ‘And a large tonic and a small gin for the boy.’ And at this he in his turn laughed so heartily that the tortoise turned round to stare, a sixpence held suspended in his hand. Then, quite abruptly, this simian youth changed, as it were, his persona , and became the best type of English public school boy. ‘I don’t think we were really introduced,’ he said, producing a modest smile. ‘This is my friend Ralph Jenkins. And I’m Adrian Waterbird.’
    â€˜How do you do? My name is Priscilla Pringle.’ Miss Pringle paused for a moment then, finding Mr Ralph Jenkins apparently indisposed to emend his companion’s facetious suggestion, ordered the gin and tonics as proposed. ‘Why,’ she enquired humorously, when the drinks appeared, ‘are you not both busy with those decisive battles of the world?’
    â€˜We nipped out on the quiet,’ Adrian said. ‘Ralph, that’s right?’
    â€˜We nipped out,’ Ralph agreed with a gulp.
    â€˜It’s all we can do. Treated rather like kids, you see. Ralph?’
    â€˜All we can do,’ Ralph said hastily. ‘Kids. That’s it.’
    â€˜I say, Miss Pringle – shall we all go and sit outside? Quieter. I’ll carry your sandwiches. We’ve got half an hour before lunch.’ Adrian was already holding open the door. ‘It’s nice to have somebody to talk to. The old Bulgar doesn’t have many visitors.’
    â€˜The old Bulgar?’ Miss Pringle echoed. She hoped that she had accurately heard this word.
    â€˜Our name for Captain Bulkington. I think Bulgars are the same as Tartars, more or less.’ Adrian had produced this ethnographical statement with confidence. ‘And he’s that, all right. Ralph?’
    â€˜That’s right. He’s an old–’ Ralph seemed a little at sea. ‘Jolly day,’ he said hastily. ‘A shame not to be outside.’
    Â 
    There was an unkempt garden at the side of the inn, with a few benches and tables,