“But how on earth can we do that?”
“We will quarter the ground. Isn’t there a riding stables at hand? We shall hire a couple of docile, trustworthy hacks and look for clues.”
“What about Dame Beatrice?”
“Fun first, business later. Must you have still another piece of toast?”
“Yes, really I must. But, about the horses…”
“Unreliable, you think?”
“I don’t think that. I do think we’d be much better off on foot—that is, if we really must look for Colnbrook.”
“Why? I loathe a lot of walking.”
“Very well. You ride, I’ll walk, and we’ll compare notes at lunch.”
“Not a bad idea. Where do I find these riding stables?”
“The other side of the water-splash. Don’t go through the splash or over the footbridge. Keep straight on and then turn left. There’s a footpath across a bit of common.”
“It sounds complicated. I’ll walk with you.”
“All right. It’s a far better idea, really it is.”
So the two young men set out for the site of Richardson’s camp. Denis had a camera and photographed a Forest pony and her half-grown chestnut foal. Three-quarters of the way along the beautiful road which led to the common, he insisted upon stopping at the “pound” to obtain a picture of a farmer, his wife, and his cowman urging an extremely lively bull calf to climb up a ramp into a lorry. Richardson was impatient to get on, and was almost dancing by the time his friend was satisfied.
“Nobody would think I’m threatened with the hangman,” he complained, when at last they were on their way again. “Now don’t waste any more time, and do forget that blasted box camera of yours for a bit. I didn’t even bring mine.”
They soon reached the causeway. It led away from the gravelled road and ran straight and true (and was, in places, extremely muddy) between the sparsely-planted young pines and the heather, by the side of the drainage ditches, until it entered the narrow wood. Here Denis stood still and gazed about him.
“Rather good, isn’t it?” said Richardson.
“How did you find the way here in the first place?” Denis demanded. “You didn’t know the neighbourhood, did you?”
“Oh, I thought I’d told you that I came down one Saturday, ages ago, and nosed around and prospected and so forth. Mind you, I didn’t tell the Superintendent that. It wouldn’t do to let him think I knew the countryside before I got let in for this business.”
“I see. Do we cross this little bridge?”
“We do, and follow the path to the right.”
They did this, and watched the sunshine and shadow on the stream before going on again. After a bit they came upon a gate which led into an enclosure. Denis indicated the gate.
“Can we go this way?”
“I suppose so, although I never have. It’s only on a latch, so it’s all right, so long as we shut it after us. Looks as though the foresters have been busy.”
The inviting path on the other side of the gate was broad and clearly marked, and bore the imprint, here and there, where the ground was soft, of car tyres and caterpillar wheels. Denis produced a magnifying glass and studied the imprints with exaggerated thoroughness.
“No hoof-prints,” he observed. They walked on again, past the grey, smooth trunks of a couple of felled beeches on the right-hand side of the path, and a magnificent Scots pine, prone across the bracken, on the left. The path mounted gradually. Suddenly Denis, who was in the lead, stopped sort. “I’m going back,” he said. A gaggle of geese, eight in all, had formed a line across the path, which led straight into a farmyard. “Geese horrify me. I’d rather face a pride of lions.”
“There’s a dog, too,” said Richardson, in practical tones. “Besides, about geese I really do agree. I told you I’d never been this way, and now you see that my instinct was sound.”
They retraced their steps and again followed the path beside the water. It narrowed and grew lumpy and then muddy. Then it turned almost at right-angles on to a miry track which led across the gravelled road and on to the open heath. Richardson pointed out the big house from which he had tried to telephone.
“You don’t think there’s anything suspicious in the circumstance that the owner of the house happened to be away on the very day you discovered a dead man in your tent?” Denis suggested.
“Oh, I hardly imagine so. Just a coincidence, I would say. And I certainly don’t attach any importance to the fact that the maid wouldn’t let me use the telephone. For all she knew, it might have been an impudent attempt on my part to get into the house with burglarious intentions. Besides, women-servants always think somebody is determined to murder them in their beds, although why in their beds I can’t think. One would suppose the last thing to do on their part would be to stay in bed if a homicidal maniac was loose about the place. Personally, I should want to be up and about, preferably with my shoes on.”
“Yes, it’s odd how helpless one feels with bare feet if there’s any rough stuff going—Judo excepted, of course. Where do we go from here?”
“We follow the main track as far as those gorse bushes and then branch off on to a kind of secondary track which pretty well follows the flow of the river.”
Pursuing this course, they soon came upon the former site of Richardson’s camp. It was marked by two young oak trees, about fifteen yards apart, which formed a landmark against the surrounding gorse and some low-growing thorn trees. More gorse and bracken screened the little clearing from the main track, but Richardson, who had chosen the spot because, besides being easily identifiable, it was secluded, now looked upon it with a different eye. He indicated the gorse and said,
“Somebody could have lain up hidden and watched my movements. I’d never have known he was there.”
Denis did not answer. He searched all the tiny paths which ran among the gorse. Richardson strolled over in the opposite direction, that in which the river, shallow at this point, ran with a quietly insistent murmur over the stones. Denis soon joined him. When they were together again, Richardson remarked,
“You know, it occurs to me that it would have been frightfully easy to have brought the body across the river from the other side. Come and see.”
He led the way to where a loop in the stream had laid bare two spits of gravel. They were not opposite one another, but lay in a long slant with perhaps twelve yards of very shallow water between them. Denis looked long and thoughtfully at this possible ford.
“I don’t know about that,” he said. “Could be, I suppose. Let’s see how the road runs.”
They made their way along the secondary track until it joined the main one. Then, following this until it met the gravelled road, they turned to the left and crossed the bridge.
“This will be it,” said Richardson. They stepped on to rough grass and found themselves among trees. There was no marked path, but the trees, mostly pines, were not very close together and it was easy enough to follow the course of the stream. It was at this point that the hotel collie manifested himself and joined them.
“Damn that dog!” said Richardson. He stooped and fondled the collie. It bounded along, barking joyously.
“Yes, you’re right,” said Denis. “How big and heavy was this chap you saw? Colnbrook, I mean.”
“Oh, I really don’t know! You don’t go trying to judge height and weight when you find a dead man in your tent! All I remember about Colnbrook is that he was about my height and seemed fairly chunky. Why?”
“Oh, well, I was only wondering—if he was murdered, I mean—whether it was the work of only one person. Still, I suppose the police will establish that. Of course, I’m hoping it was accidental, or that he was taken ill. Where do we go now?”
“Well, it’s all a bit circumscribed, really, for all that it looks a vast expanse. You’d think that wood over on the far side would lead somewhere, but, actually, it peters out on this side of the stream. There’s almost a right-angle bend.”
“Let’s have a look, anyway,” said Denis.
“You know,” said Richardson, as they left the stream and took a broad track marked heavily by caterpillar wheels, car tyres, and hoof-prints which led over the heath to the wood, “I do so wish I’d told the police I’d met Colnbrook before. It’ll be absolutely ruinous for me if it comes out now—that is, if the death wasn’t accidental.”
“Oh, the police aren’t going to worry too much about that,” said Denis easily. “They understand panic. Besides, as we learned in our youth, the best way to get out of difficulties is to tell a lie, a good lie, and stick to it. You only had an electric torch, remember, and you certainly weren’t expecting to find a dead man in your tent. How well did you know this blighter, anyway? I know you met him again after you socked him on that cross-country run. You remember telling me about that?”
“I’ve never seen or heard of him since, until this wretched business, except for the railway station episode.”
“Then, if you’ll pardon my bluntness of speech, what the hell are you worrying about? Those incidental manifestations of the sporting spirit are two a penny. If he had murdered you, it might have been a bit different, although, I think, not very much. Your socking him could have supplied him with the shadow of a motive, I suppose. But, in the case under review, having put it across him for criticising your birth and breeding, you’d satisfied your ego and had no more use for vengeance, and he responded by landing you with that girl. My advice is to see the facts clearly and see them whole, and then, for God’s sake, to forget all about them.”
There was a silence as they tramped onwards towards the woods. It lasted a full two minutes. Then Richardson said, “Thanks. That clears the air.” He sounded doubtful, however.
“Look here, why have you got it so firmly into your bean that he was murdered?” demanded Denis. “You didn’t notice any injury?”
“I didn’t stop to notice anything much. I do just remember a slight smell of almonds when I tried to revive him, you know.”
“Well, you did what you could when you telephoned from the hotel. Incidentally, I don’t for a moment believe that we’re going to find his body, however much we trek around. The chap or chaps—and I distinctly favour the plural—who exchanged the corpses will have taken him far enough away from here.”
“I’m not so sure,” said Richardson, “that I want to find his body, after all. Won’t the police think it damned fishy if we do?”
Denis considered this point.
“I see what you mean,” he said. “Perhaps I was feeling a bit over-enthusiastic when we started out. I quite see that it’s better, from your point of view, to have your tent connected with a dead bloke whom you didn’t know, than with somebody whom you did. Oh, yes, I think you may have got something there. Nevertheless, I’m enjoying the walk, so, after all, perhaps we needn’t start beating the undergrowth and peering into bushes and all that. We’ll just toddle on and enjoy the scenery.”
They entered the woods and soon found themselves again on the banks of the stream. It was deep and dark-brown here, and it flowed in steady silence under the trees. There was no path. On the opposite side of the water a woodman and his mate were felling a tree. The two young men stayed for a few minutes to watch, and greetings were exchanged across the stream.
“Well,” said Denis, as they turned left and came out of the woods, “whichever way either of those dead men came or was taken, it couldn’t have been this way. Nobody, either on foot or in a car, could have forded the river here-abouts. Let’s do a long cast round and walk our legs off.”
This seemed a reasonable suggestion, but they were not allowed to follow it up. The “long cast round” foreshadowed by Denis brought them to the edge of another and a greater wood. This wood, moreover, was an enclosure and admittance to it was gained by several widely-spaced gates, to one of which a rudimentary track brought the walkers. At this gate Denis paused. The enclosure was bounded by a strong fence, but the gate was on a latch.
“Shall we?” he asked, unfastening the gate without waiting for an answer. The two of them entered the unresisting fastness and Denis closed the gate behind them. The young men found themselves on a kind of raised banking and among trees, undergrowth and—so slowly does water dry away in the thickly-wooded parts of the Forest—pools of considerable size.
“Let’s run,” said Richardson. Denis groaned, but complied with the obliquely-expressed command. He was not a talented runner. He lacked Richardson’s style and easy grace, and, as they jumped a ditch which carried a sluggish stream athwart their path, he slipped on an over-irrigated patch of earth, fell over the dog, and took a toss into some bushes. The dog barked with irrational enthusiasm and then began to howl. Denis picked himself up, but, even so, found that he could not keep his footing.
From somewhere near at hand a voice called,
“Hi, you there! Stop a minute, will yer?” A forester with an axe appeared in the clearing. “There be a dead man here-abouts. Us had to shift un out of our way. You’d best go and fetch the police. Us haven’t got time,” he said.
CHAPTER FIVE
Sacred Status of Great-Aunt
It would be unfaithful to nature, and, therefore, unworthy of my pen, were I to represent my young hero as totally guiltless of those common failings to which inexperienced youth is, for the most part, liable.
The Life of a Sportsman
Nimrod
Laura Gavin (née Menzies) was singing a hymn. Her son Hamish was joining in with more enthusiasm than tonal quality.
“See here hath been daw-aw-ning another new day,” bawled Hamish, out of tune but enjoyably. He broke off. “But it rains, all the same,” he added, in his ordinary voice.
“So it does,” said mother’s employer, Dame Beatrice Adela Lestrange Bradley, coming into the morning-room of the Stone House, Wandles Parva.
“Good morning, Mrs. Croc., dear,” said Laura.
“Good morning, Mrs. Dame, dear,” said her son, minding his manners.
“The post,” said Laura, producing several letters. “There’s one in Denis’s handwriting. You’d better read it for you-self at breakfast. I haven’t opened it.”
“At breakfast,” said Hamish, with deep meaning. The party took seats at table and Hamish, proud of this accomplishment, poured himself out some coffee. “And then I have to get along to the vicarage. Latin, mathematics, and English literature.” He paused to consider this programme, sighed and then announced that he would have grapefruit, porridge, bacon—and—eggs—and—kidneys—and—sausage—and—mustard—and—toast—and—butter—and—marmalade—and—a—second—cup of coffee.” He drew breath.
“That’s what Daddy has,” he explained, in a confidential aside to Dame Beatrice, his devoted and trusted ally. “Actually, I don’t really like kidneys, but I eat them, just the same. When I go to school after Easter I suppose I shall always be carnivorously hungry.”
Breakfast proceeded smoothly, but Laura cocked an interested eye, from time to time (and in the intervals between the courses of her son’s outrageously enormous meal), on her employer. Automatically dealing with a mushroom omelette which Laura was convinced she did not know she was eating, Dame Beatrice was reading and rereading her grand-nephew’s letter. She finished the omelette in an absent-minded way and took a piece of Melba toast.
“Denis is always anxious to help lame dogs over stiles,” she observed, “although why lame dogs should wish to climb stiles I have never been able to determine. One would think they preferred to find a way through a hedge.”
“What’s Denis got to say?” enquired Laura, ignoring her son’s attempts to float a small piece of bread on the coffee he had poured on to an empty plate. “Is he going to Spitzbergen?”
“No, he is in the New Forest, or so he says, and there is no reason to disbelieve him, for the postmark bears him out. He seems to have uncovered a murder or so.”
“Atta-baby!” said Laura warmly.
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br /> “What does it mean” asked Hamish. His mother took no notice of him, the only effectual way she had ever discovered of blocking difficult questions. Dame Beatrice gave him an answer, however. She believed in being courteous to children.
“It is your mother’s way of stating that she has taken the bit between her teeth, dear boy.”
“Is my mother a horse?”
“No, not even a mare—except in French, of course, when the word is spelt a little differently—but soon she will be riding a horse and for you we shall hire a New Forest pony when you come down at the week-end.”
“Atta-baby!” said Hamish, convinced that this must be a magic word, for he was an observant child and had noted that his mother’s use of the expression always seemed to preface something pleasant and adventurous. “But couldn’t you take Peggy? I’m more used to Peggy, you see.”
“No, because we do not possess a horse-box. Besides, all boys should learn to manage more than one pony. Think of the broncho-busters. They can ride anything.”
Hamish digested this conception of his future and was so entranced by it that he remained silent and ruminative for nearly three minutes. Then he said a rapid grace and slid down from his chair.
“May I leave the table?”
“Certainly. And thank goodness!” said Laura, the first word aloud and the rest sotto voce. “Now, then, Mrs. Croc., come again. What murders, how committed, and by whom?”
“Denis has joined a friend named Tom Richardson for a fortnight’s holiday. He was late getting to the hotel and the friend slept in a small tent until Denis arrived. A dead man was found in the tent one night. Richardson recognised him, but did not tell the police so. However, by the time the police arrived at the tent, the body had been exchanged for another which Richardson did not recognise. Now he and Denis have discovered the first body. They want us to go along and look into the matter.”
“Well, we’re on the border of the New Forest ourselves. What’s stopping us?”
Adders on the Heath (Mrs. Bradley) Page 5