Death by the Gaff_Black Heath Classic Crime
Page 1
First published by Skeffington and Son (London, 1932)
This electronic edition published by Black Heath Editions, 2015
Version 1
Please note: this title was originally published under the author’s real name, John Haslette Vahey.
Contents
Chapter I
Notes from the Scene
Chapter II
The Double Crusade
Chapter III
Wint Loses a Gaff
Chapter IV
Head Down
Chapter V
Mrs. Hayes is Calm
Chapter VI
Anonymous!
Chapter VII
The Wrong Knot
Chapter VIII
A Woman in the Case
Chapter IX
Another Missing
Chapter X
The Corpse in the Llyn
Chapter XI
Hoad Seems Disturbed
Chapter XII
Traces on the Sleepers
Chapter XIII
Whose Gaff?
Chapter XIV
Mrs. Hayes Explains a Little
Chapter XV
The Ring
Chapter XVI
Bow Hesitates
Chapter XVII
A Prior Attachment
Chapter XVIII
Was it the Truth?
Chapter XIX
A New Theory
Chapter XX
Parfitt Makes an Arrest
Chapter XXI
The Water Hunt
Chapter XXII
A House Divided
Chapter XXIII
The Magistrates
Chapter XXIV
Joan’s Idea
Chapter XXV
The First Attempt
Chapter XXVI
A Gaff is Found
Chapter XXVII
Or Was it Murder?
Chapter XXVIII
Proof Enough?
Chapter XXIX
Happy Release
Chapter XXX
Parfitt Moves
Chapter XXXI
On the Bank
Chapter I
Notes from the Scene
A Letter Received by Mr. Henry Wint
“The Horn Hotel,
“Pengellert.
“Friday.
“DEAR OLD MAN,
“Thanks for your note. I thought my description of the sewin fishing would fetch you, but I didn’t know you would rise so smartly, and propose to put yourself on the bank here next Monday. You should have a good time, for the water is just right after the floods, and the sewin are running. I saw two salmon yesterday in a pool, and the ‘Teal and Silver’ is the fly to fetch ’em!
“Unfortunately, we have a snag here. It isn’t in the water, as you might imagine, but in this hotel. Its name is Solly Hayes, and it is very rich, very high-and-mighty, and a perfect pig. Let me expound!
“This is an Association water, as you know. Inhabitants and visitors take tickets, and most of the anglers (bless ’em!) are decent sorts, with an idea of give-and-take, which is absolutely necessary in this kind of water. Solly isn’t imbued with the common ideals!
“From the first day, he got ‘upsides’ with half a dozen people; for he suffers from an obsession about his rights, and appears to want a clear bank for half a mile above and below him when he condescends to woo the fish. In other words, he is the sort of chap who ought to take a private preserve, or give up fishing.
“Then he came down here with the idea that all the inhabitants are rank poachers, and he an honorary keeper; he ‘high-hats’ the natives, as our American friends call it, and has already threatened one of them with some fishing protection association which only exists in his own mind!
“This last chappie is a tough lot, a jolly good angler, but a local artisan who is not the type to stand bullying. I hear he was with difficulty dissuaded from throwing Solly into the river; a feat which the rest of the guests here would have applauded, had it come off. One or two of them have already told the proprietor that they go, or Solly does, for he’s a crabbed beast even among his fellows in the hotel.
“However, as I think I must leave on Tuesday, I shall soon be rid of the wasp. I thought you might like a warning, for Solly has booked his room for another three weeks, and the landlord doesn’t like to turn him out.
“Well, I’ll see you on Monday. Take my tip and get in a stock of ‘Teal and Silver,’ medium size, and small hooks; and fine, tapered casts. You can’t catch sewin here with heavy casts.
“Till then, old dear,
“Yours,
“BOB.”
A Letter Received by Mrs. Solomon Hayes
“The Horn Hotel,
“Pengellert.
“N. Wales.
“DEAR CAROLINE,
“Sport continues to be good, in spite of the rascally ways of some of the so-called sportsmen here. I have had to warn one or two already that this type of thing has got to stop. I am afraid that, had the fishing not been so good, I should not have remained here another day, for the men in this place are a common lot, and I do not, and have never cared for vulgar society, as you know.
“I am, of course, not referring to two of the guests when I speak of vulgarity, or lack of breeding, as distinct from lack of manners. One of these exceptions is a man called Robert Chance, whom I met some years ago. I have reasons for disliking him, and do not converse with him or recognise him. He is decently brought up, and of respectable family, though his ideas of sporting etiquette are far from those I was inculcated with in my youth.
“The other man is called Edward Bow. He went to one of the best public schools, but I know more about him than he imagines. However, that is not a subject which can interest you. I like to write of those things in which we take a common interest.
“Yesterday I hooked and lost a salmon, owing to most unwarrantable crowding by one of the ruffians here—an artisan, my dear, who does not know his place. I was, however, fortunate enough to get half a dozen sewin, ranging from one pound to two and a quarter.
“Your husband,
“SOLOMON.”
A Letter Received by Mr. James McTaggart
“The Pub,
“Pengellert.
“DEAR MAC,
“All nice here; landlord one of the best, fish running in their liveliest style; every prospect pleasing, and but one ‘gentleman’ who is vile.
“I knew him years ago. I must not say how many, but not many, as Edgar Allan Poe observes. He knows me, and I him. But what I know about Mr. Solomon Hayes is neither here nor there. Cryptic? So be it! There are laws of libel, my son, and various obscure torts (a lawyer’s touch after your own heart) I have no intention of committing.
“I wish you could throw over your conveyancing for a week or two, come down here, and, in your inimitable Scots’ way—for wha’s like ye!—convey a few sewin to bank. Incidentally, you might remember the boxing at which you were such a dab in the old shop, and uppercut Solly into the middle of next week; at any rate, out of here—into the everywhere, if you like.
“But sure to bring a supply of the ‘Professor,’ on medium hooks. That’s the fly for the beasties in this water, though an awfully decent bloke here has the lunatic idea that ‘Teal and Silver’ is the right thing. He means well, but you stick to the ‘Professor,’ if you come. And bring down a Jock Scott or two in a small size. The saumon are aboot, man!
“Cheerio,
“NED.”
A Letter Received by Miss Arna Payson
“The Hotel,
“Pengellert.
“MY DEAR ARNA,
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“Here I am, among the sportsmen, and anglers at that! They seem almost human, in spite of your idea that only denizens of another world would waste their time trying to make fish rise by throwing a worm at them. By the way, it appears that they don’t. Such a nice young fellow here spent yesterday evening explaining it to me. It seems that only common people throw worms, the others cast flies. As I tried to tell him, as they are both insects it is the same thing. But he would not agree. He says the fly is an insect, but the worm is a bactrachian, or mammal, or something.
“At any rate, it was all very interesting and exciting, and I am to have a lesson to-morrow. His flies are charming, red and blue and all colours, with silver and gold bodies, and the absurdest names. One is called ‘Major Bather,’ but the young man could not tell me if that meant a fat man in the water or a senior officer.
“When I say the anglers are almost human I mean that they quarrel just like the rest of us over the smallest thing. And one dear old gentleman, with a bottle-nose which even his enemies admit is due to indigestion, was frightfully cheery all evening because he had caught a sewin—or sea-trout—an ounce bigger than the man with no chin. An ounce! The man with no chin does not require comment. He is an obvious dud. But I haven’t come to the exciting part.
“There is a man here called Solomon Hayes, and he looks just as wise as his first name. He says I am the only intelligent creature in the hotel, just because I agreed with him that as he is the oldest guest it is not fair for the younger men to get up earlier, and so be on the best pools before him.
“I admit that I like him, but no one else does. He almost had a fight with a local fisher—Mr. Hayes says he is nothing but a poacher—and he has had several rows with two men here. One is called Edward Bow. He is about thirty, and I am sure he is engaged, or a misogynist. At any rate, he only cares about fishing. He is rather good-looking, but I see very little of him, so it is wasted. The other enemy of Mr. Hayes is a Mr. Robert Chance. He is six feet high, blond and smiling, but Mr. Hayes says he is supercilious. He is always fishing, too, or else sitting smoking outside, and plotting against Solomon with the Bow man.
“It is a pity two presentable men waste themselves on the ungrateful fish, but they will not look my way, and Mr. Solomon Hayes generally gives me his company after dinner, and tells me what he did, and what the other people ought to have done. I may say he is forty or more, so don’t be alarmed! He is very rich, I hear, and looks distinguished, but has the makings of a terrible snob.
“By the way, what justifies you in being one? I often wonder, for it generally turns out that such people are nobodies. Perhaps to be a nobody properly you have to treat other people as minus that. Still, Solomon is rather a dear, and it may only be his way.
“Lastly, darling, the anglers’ wives. I admit that they are not so hardly done by as golfers’ wives, but how patient they are! One always carries her husband’s gaff—a big steel hook on a stick—to land a salmon if he gets one. But they say he has come for ten years and his wife is still posing that gaff, and hoping to stick it into something before they die. It sounds cruel, but she is quite jolly, and removes worms from the path before she walks on them.
“I like them all and admire them immensely. Between ourselves the Major Bather young man has a look in his eye at times which suggests that he wonders how many years I would carry a gaff before I broke down! He has now joined the conspiracy against Solomon, and the other day I heard him murmuring something about vieux marcheurs. What can he mean?
“He says there is a—a sinister feeling in the air, and makes cryptic jokes about someone having to make a good effort to swim out of one of the nasty deep pools here. When I asked him if he was being personal, he said years ago some poachers had thrown in an interfering old ass, and as they couldn’t get him out in time, he conked out. I though his way of telling the story callous. He might have said expired!
“Now I must cut off short. The young man, whose name is Peter Hoad, wants to show me a fly he has made.
“Ever yours,
“CELIA.”
Chapter II
The Double Crusade
WHEN Harry Wint turned into Hedon’s, the fishing tackle makers, that Saturday morning, he found himself on heels that he thought he recognised; or, to be more correct on ankles, and a straight back, and the glimpse of a shingled dark head, which appeared to him properly to belong to Joan Powis.
He was not surprised to see her there, for she was an ardent angler too, and he followed softly and smilingly behind her, until she went to the counter, and asked the assistant for two dozen “Teal and Silver” sea-trout flies.
“Size six,” he said, over her unconscious shoulder to the assistant, who looked at him with bewilderment. “Morning, Joan!” he added, as the girl swung indignantly round.
She was pretty, but not alarmingly so. For beauty can be alarming, and the average man with sense likes a face which satisfies his æsthetic sense without alarming his advance-proprietary one, if such a phrase may be coined.
She smiled suddenly. “You’ve been shadowing me!”
He grinned. “Pure coincidence; but I can tell you of a better one. I turned in here to get some ‘Teal and Silver.’ What do you think of that?”
The assistant turned to his cases to get the required flies. Joan shook her head. “Coincidences are rare, Harry, and this isn’t one of them. I heard you talking of Pengellert last time you came round, and Dad said you had the straight top about some sewin fishing there. He knows the place, and said ‘Teal and Silver.’”
“I’m going there on Monday,” said Wint, raising his eyebrows.
“I’m going on Tuesday,” she said. She shook her head. “The place will be full of the fishermen’s wives. These places always are. But how ripping! Still, I had better go down alone. I hate broadmindedness, don’t you?”
“Loathe it!” said he. “Generally a sign that you’re trying to pretend you know your world. But here we are.”
The assistant showed them the flies, took their orders, packed them up separately in neat cardboard boxes, and sold them some casts. Then they left the shop together.
“We’ll go to my club for lunch,” said Joan; “I want to hear more about this place.”
They turned that way. “I can tell you all about it,” he replied. “I had a letter from Bob Chance this morning. He’s down there, and it seems decidedly exciting.”
“What, big fish?”
“Yes, but a sort of uncivil war as well. You must hear that before you decide.”
He told her all about it on the way to the club, but she did not seem dismayed.
“Your mountain is a horrid little molehill,” she protested, as they entered her club. “When Dad and I went to that unpronounceable Scottish place, the hotel there was full of ravening wolves, ready to cut throats for preference. You know what a lamb Dad is? Well, even he had to get on his hind legs once, and make a stand. Bob Chance is rather pugnacious, I always think.”
“Well, now you know, and the consequences will be on your own head, Joan. I’m delighted, of course. And, of course, you’re right. I expect Solomon is just the usual pompous mug one runs across everywhere.”
They lunched then he saw her home, and went back to his own rooms. He had rods to pack, and tackle to get ready, lines to attend to, reels to oil, and the thousand and one labours of love that an angler has on his hands before he goes on a foray. When he reached home he found awaiting him a steel telescopic gaff, which he had sent previously to Hedon’s to have the spring-protector mended. If the salmon were running at Pengellert, he might need it.
He was tremendously pleased to hear that Joan was going there too. There was only one hotel in the place, so they would be able to enjoy each other’s society in the evenings. The trouble in Town was that Joan’s home was infested with people. Her father was a very gregarious individual, and very popular; her mother was on all the committees that commit in London, and friends, helpers, and secretaries buzzed li
ke bees about her.
Always, when he called, he would find meetings installed in the library; secretaries, and subscribers, and social workers, burbling in the morning-room. Her father would be hastening from one room to another, in search of friends, or quiet, sitting in the drawing-room where “no winds came,” as Joan put it (referring to the breezes which seem to play so freely over committees), or venturing into the billiards-room, to find the new “Benevolent Flat Building Association” examining plans spread on the green cloth.