Read Online Death on Allhallowe’en by Leo Bruce - Free Book Online Page B

the old school. But there are stories. He owns the ground round the Beacon. Been in his family for years.’
    â€˜Then how do you account for his friendship with Matchlow?’
    â€˜To my idea they’re both mad. But then most of us are in this place. Matchlow has been seen walking back from Garries’ farm in the small hours.’
    Carolus shot out one of his disconcerting questions on another subject.
    â€˜I hear you’re fond of shooting, Mr Lark?’
    â€˜I suppose Stainer has been talking to you? Fond of shooting? Not at all. I just can’t stand birds. They’re the con menof the animal world. Telling you all day long how marvellous they are, what sweet little things…’
    â€˜You mean their singing?’
    â€˜They don’t sing. They whistle, squawk, croak, howl, hoot, usually at most inconvenient times and places. They are vermin. Rats with wings. Of course I destroy them. And poor sentimental old Stainer objects!’
    â€˜Perhaps he has seen enough killing,’ suggested Carolus mildly.
    â€˜Could be,’ replied Ron Lark unconcernedly. From that moment Carolus decided that the man’s bonhomie was assumed and that underneath it he loathed Carolus and most other people. He could conceal his bitterness, speaking in a semi-facetious way of his hatred of birds, of the people of Clibburn and so on, but there was not much sincerity or good-nature in him. Perhaps he, too, was a little mad. ‘Most of us are in this place,’ he had said.
    Mrs Lark rejoined them.
    â€˜The Rec’s back,’ she announced. ‘He’s in the gard.’
    â€˜I’ll go to him,’ said Carolus.
    â€˜So like you, Margaret,’ said Ron sourly. ‘I almost never see anyone civilised and when I do you have to drag him away.’
    â€˜I didn’t…’ began Mrs Lark, but Ron waved her aside and tried to bid Carolus a civil farewell.
    Margaret Lark led him out by a side-door and they started towards a door in the wall, evidently leading to the main garden. But as Carolus let her walk ahead on the narrow path there was a ping and he saw Ron Lark, his wheel-chair at the window. He was grinning and his air rifle was in his hand.
    â€˜Just missed!’ he said. ‘Bastard was in the apple-tree.’
    â€˜Better be careful with that toy,’ Carolus warned him. ‘Your pellet went quite near my head.’
    â€˜Don’t worry! It wouldn’t have penetrated the skull,’ said Lark ambiguously. Then, as though he had said too much, added, ‘No power behind it.’
    Carolus said nothing but walked on. When they had passedthrough the garden door he asked Margaret Lark how long her husband had exhibited this obsession with killing birds. Her reply and manner surprised him. She seemed to be near tears.
    â€˜I don’t know,’ she said miserably. ‘Ever since I’ve known him.’
    Another curious interview awaited Carolus that afternoon when he drove out to Garries Farm. The name had lost its apostrophe with the years—it may once have been the farm that belonged to Garries, but after so many generations it owned the name as much as they did and would have been Garries whoever farmed it. The house had been badly restored and enlarged in Victorian times, but there were remnants of a Tudor building.
    He had a feeling from the first that he was expected, but not welcome. In the yard he met a young man, tall, rather handsome and friendly in manner, whom he took to be the son, George.
    â€˜The old man’s in the sitting-room,’ George said. ‘Why not go straight in if you want to see him? Go by the back door—we never use the front. If I took you in he probably wouldn’t see you. He’s like that.’
    Carolus soon realised what he meant. William Garries was not a friendly man. At first sight he looked, as someone had said, like the traditional farmer and into Carolus’s mind came an old