the thirty-eight Colt automatics had lain during the run over.
The drive was straight, a broken tarmac road, flat at first across fields that would probably flood, then rising past the bailiff’s cottage to the farmhouse, peeling white and starkly bleak. It was set back behind a row of lurching trees as a windbreak. The drive swung round, then through to the yard.
I had seen no sign of stock. The bare, red mud was still there, but controlled. I decided I’d manage in shoes. There was a Land Rover parked over against the house, and something else darkly tucked into what had been a barn. I knew my way. Over in the corner was a wicket gate. Before I reached it, Crowshaw appeared along the side of the house.
Twelve years had done terrible things to Crowshaw. When I’d known him he’d have been around fifty, a stern and greying man with a small moustache. But now his shoulders were bent and he’d lost a lot of weight. The moustache had gone, leaving a rather deep upper lip, and his lower lip had sunk in. He was gaunt, and now his hair was completely white. A pair of grey slacks hung emptily about his legs and he had on a green roll-top sweater. Only his eyes were the same, greeny-brown, observant, and direct.
‘ My name’s Mallin, sir,’ I said. ‘You probably don’t remember me…’
‘ Of course I do.’ Heavy veins lined his hand. ‘You used to drive for me.’
‘ I drove you up here, that day.’
‘ I remember.’
He led the way round the side. There had been work done on the landscaping that Andy Paterson had commenced. A terrace and then ordered lawns fell to the orchard, beyond which the Clees rose in sombre greys and greens, the pines like a fine saw-edge against the sky.
Paterson had been one of those bluff types that slap you on the shoulder and make bleating noises when they laugh. But he’d been a big, handsome man, and was a generous host. The impression we’d obtained was of a man scrabbling at the edges of county society, with some pretensions of sharpening up the place, possibly to the point of hunting parties. In the meantime he’d had a herd of Jerseys, and the closest he’d got to the hunt was the set of prints on the walls of his living-room.
When we got inside I saw that Crowshaw had kept the prints. But not the Jerseys, apparently.
‘ Grain,’ he said, when I asked him. ‘I never did fancy a stock farm.’
It couldn’t have been an antipathy for animals. He had an Irish Setter and a Golden Retriever absorbing the heat from the fire. They raised their heads and flopped their tails, and then went right on with it.
The room was the focal-point of the house. It was long and low, with black and gnarled beams disappearing in vanishing perspective along the length, giving an impression of immensity. The fireplace was huge, built from sandstone blocks, the old andirons still there. He had a log fire going in it. Beside the fireplace was the long, leaded window which gave such a magnificent view over the hills, with beneath it a wooden settle, bearing a few scattered magazines. On the opposite wall a Welsh dresser carried a display of Crown Derby. There seemed to be no modern comforts such as radio and television. But he had a lot of books and some very large and comfortable chairs. The one he steered me into was a rocker.
Even when I’d known him before, Crowshaw had been a widower. I’d have thought he’d be lonely, in that great empty house all by himself.
‘ What brings you here?’ he asked pleasantly enough, but his eyes were sharp.
I told him I was no longer in the force. He asked me what I was doing, and laughed shortly at that. ‘But there’s nothing for a private detective here,’ he said.
‘ It was you I wanted to see, not the farm.’ He nodded. I went on: ‘I was rather surprised to find the two together.’
‘Not really surprising,’ he said, leaning forward and putting the tips of his fingers together. ‘That case—the Paterson murder—brought me into
The drive was straight, a broken tarmac road, flat at first across fields that would probably flood, then rising past the bailiff’s cottage to the farmhouse, peeling white and starkly bleak. It was set back behind a row of lurching trees as a windbreak. The drive swung round, then through to the yard.
I had seen no sign of stock. The bare, red mud was still there, but controlled. I decided I’d manage in shoes. There was a Land Rover parked over against the house, and something else darkly tucked into what had been a barn. I knew my way. Over in the corner was a wicket gate. Before I reached it, Crowshaw appeared along the side of the house.
Twelve years had done terrible things to Crowshaw. When I’d known him he’d have been around fifty, a stern and greying man with a small moustache. But now his shoulders were bent and he’d lost a lot of weight. The moustache had gone, leaving a rather deep upper lip, and his lower lip had sunk in. He was gaunt, and now his hair was completely white. A pair of grey slacks hung emptily about his legs and he had on a green roll-top sweater. Only his eyes were the same, greeny-brown, observant, and direct.
‘ My name’s Mallin, sir,’ I said. ‘You probably don’t remember me…’
‘ Of course I do.’ Heavy veins lined his hand. ‘You used to drive for me.’
‘ I drove you up here, that day.’
‘ I remember.’
He led the way round the side. There had been work done on the landscaping that Andy Paterson had commenced. A terrace and then ordered lawns fell to the orchard, beyond which the Clees rose in sombre greys and greens, the pines like a fine saw-edge against the sky.
Paterson had been one of those bluff types that slap you on the shoulder and make bleating noises when they laugh. But he’d been a big, handsome man, and was a generous host. The impression we’d obtained was of a man scrabbling at the edges of county society, with some pretensions of sharpening up the place, possibly to the point of hunting parties. In the meantime he’d had a herd of Jerseys, and the closest he’d got to the hunt was the set of prints on the walls of his living-room.
When we got inside I saw that Crowshaw had kept the prints. But not the Jerseys, apparently.
‘ Grain,’ he said, when I asked him. ‘I never did fancy a stock farm.’
It couldn’t have been an antipathy for animals. He had an Irish Setter and a Golden Retriever absorbing the heat from the fire. They raised their heads and flopped their tails, and then went right on with it.
The room was the focal-point of the house. It was long and low, with black and gnarled beams disappearing in vanishing perspective along the length, giving an impression of immensity. The fireplace was huge, built from sandstone blocks, the old andirons still there. He had a log fire going in it. Beside the fireplace was the long, leaded window which gave such a magnificent view over the hills, with beneath it a wooden settle, bearing a few scattered magazines. On the opposite wall a Welsh dresser carried a display of Crown Derby. There seemed to be no modern comforts such as radio and television. But he had a lot of books and some very large and comfortable chairs. The one he steered me into was a rocker.
Even when I’d known him before, Crowshaw had been a widower. I’d have thought he’d be lonely, in that great empty house all by himself.
‘ What brings you here?’ he asked pleasantly enough, but his eyes were sharp.
I told him I was no longer in the force. He asked me what I was doing, and laughed shortly at that. ‘But there’s nothing for a private detective here,’ he said.
‘ It was you I wanted to see, not the farm.’ He nodded. I went on: ‘I was rather surprised to find the two together.’
‘Not really surprising,’ he said, leaning forward and putting the tips of his fingers together. ‘That case—the Paterson murder—brought me into
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