Death and the Cyprian Society by Pamela Christie

poor fellow had been dangling by one arm, high above the floor, and the porter had gone to fetch one of the state tablecloths, which he instructed the others to use as a net. In the meantime, “Snoodles” had escaped.
    The plasterer’s dilemma had been concluded without injuries; Arabella forgave Mr. Tilbury for leaving his post, and commended him upon his quick thinking. But by the time she found Penderel Skeen, he was fairly well snockered on club wine.
    Arabella guided him back to the little waiting room, whilst Mr. Tilbury went off to arrange for a pot of black coffee. She did not expect to get much helpful information from this fellow, but she had to try, for her leads were few.
    “Mr. Skeen,” said she, “can you tell me, please, about your activities on the night you went with your friends to spy upon a pair of lovers?”
    She opened the pale pink notebook she had brought with her and took a short pencil from behind her ear, wetting the tip of it with her tongue.
    “Call me ‘Snoodles,’ ” he said. “Ev’ryone does.”
    “I’d rather not, if you don’t mind. What can you tell me about that night?”
    “When?”
    “When you watched a couple having sex in a back room.”
    “Wasn’t night. Sun was still up. ’S late afternoon.”
    “Yes?” said Arabella, making a note. “What else do you remember?”
    “Charley wanned t’ go t’ Drury Lane. Tha’s where the girls are, ’f you ever wanna girl, which I don’ expect you ever do. Charley did, though, an’ he’s frens with the chap who runs one o’ the muffin shops there. There’s . . . there’s a song about it; how does it go . . . ?” he trailed off, and his narrative came to a halt.
    “Do get on with it!” said Arabella impatiently.
    “Sorry. Well, it sounded like a fine idea to the res’ of us.
    We thought, you know, we’d get some hot ‘muffins,’ fresh from this fellow’s ‘bakery.’ But then we lost our way . . . that tune. You know the one I mean. We sang it as we were . . . were going along . . .”
    And to Arabella’s annoyance, he began to sing:

    Oh, do you know the muffin man,
the muffin man, the muffin man.
Oh, do you know the muffin man
who lives in Drury Lane?

    “That one.”
    The coffeepot arrived, and Arabella poured a cup for her witless witness, just as he was starting on the next verse:
    “Oh, yes I know the muffin man, the muffin man, the—”
    “But that’s not where you went,” she said, cutting him off.
    “No. Wouldn’ have done us any good. B’cause we were too inc . . . incap . . . incupabble. Y’know . . . y’ gotta be able to get it up, I mean . . . ”
    “I know,” said Arabella.
    “It was Arsy-Varsey’s,” he said suddenly, and gulped down the contents of his cup in a single swig. Then he spluttered an obscenity and grabbed his throat as the coffee scalded his trachea.
    “ What was Arsy-Varsey’s?” asked Arabella, giving him a moment to recover.
    “The idea. Arsy thought of it first. B’cause he knew where it was. An’ he was taking us there when Charley decided we should go to Drury Lane instead.... ‘Then, both of us know the muffin man, the muff—’”
    “That’s enough singing, if you don’t mind.”
    Snoodles shook his head, as if to clear it, and regarded his coffee cup with dislike. “You know, I don’t much care for this wine,” he said in an undertone. “The other vintage was much better. Let’s have some more of that one.”
    “Not just now,” said Arabella, scribbling fiercely in her notebook. “You were saying that Mr. Savory-Pratt originally planned to take you to the live performance, but Charley wanted to go to Drury Lane?”
    “Yeah. But Drury Lane wasn’ open. Too early, y’see. An’ besides, we were too drunk to . . . to be able to . . .”
    “Yes. So Mr. Savory-Pratt took you to the other place, like he’d originally planned. Do you remember where it was that he took you?”
    Snoodles frowned with the strain of remembering. “Shop of