FOREST/JUBILEE FOREST TRAIL /Forestry Commission/2½p. Gently opened it. It commenced with a preamble about the forest, then continued with notes on features of the trail, numerically keyed to a plan at the back. ‘Stop No. 4’ was the critical entry. A woodcut of badger spoor was annexed to it. After some remarks on natural regeneration the text continued thus:
The belt of Scots Pine on your left is known locally as Mogi’s Belt, after a dog called Mogi which was accidentally killed here during a pheasant shoot. Mogi’s Belt, which is W.D. property, is strictly private, and notices warn you of unexploded bombs.
The fence at this point is designed to exclude harmful herbivores, but one animal, the BADGER, is a good friend to the forester, since his diet includes insects which cause harm to the trees. He is a creature of strict habits, especially in routes to and from his sett, so that once he has a path established he will use it in spite of obstacles placed across it. Thus, to avoid the continued expense of fence repairs, it was found necessary to install the gate you see here, which provides two-way access for badgers while discouraging rabbits and hares.
These two paragraphs had been marked with a red ballpen; and the plan had been similarly marked, where it showed the trail passing Mogi’s Belt. Also drawn in was a small circle, presumably indicating the badger sett.
Gently laid the pamphlet on the desk. ‘Where do you buy these?’ he asked.
Metfield shrugged. ‘You can buy them at the Forest Centre, or from self-service units at some of the car parks. But they have them here in town, too. One of the newsagents stocks them. I put a man on trying to trace this one, but he was beat before he started.’
‘Let me see Stoll’s personal effects.’
Metfield fetched a plastic bag from a locker. Among the bits and pieces was a Parker ballpen. Gently scribbled with it. Red.
Metfield stared at the red scribble. ‘It doesn’t prove anything,’ he said. ‘Stoll may have marked it up himself, but somebody must have told him where to put the circle.’
‘He might have guessed where it went from the text.’
‘That circle is near enough spot-on.’
‘So,’ Gently shrugged. ‘Someone told him. Gave him the pamphlet. Set it up.’
He checked through the rest of the effects, an expensive but oddly anonymous collection, as though Stoll had lately gone out with a thick bank roll and kitted himself out from scratch. Nothing personalized by wear, and a minimum of documents. A notebook, charmingly bound in crimson lambskin, contained only a handful of scribbled memos – ‘Shoot Ps. Wed.’ ‘Rs. Fri.’ etc. It confirmed what Gently had seen at the flat, which was similarly expensive and impersonal – the
pied à terre
of a highly paid worker, with the tools of his trade, and little else. For example, no personal letters, but a batch of truly stupendous phone bills. While matters domestic and secretarial had been taken care of by agencies. Stoll had been a loner: outside his vocation, very little of him had overflowed.
Metfield produced the will. It was dated October, 1965, the year of Stoll’s divorce and the purchase of Brayling. It left no doubt that at the time it was drawn, Maryon Britton stood high in Stoll’s regard. Probably more than one-half of his estate was being willed to her, and away from his own child, while the bequests to her daughter and to Edwin Keynes cut a fat slice from the remainder. Stoll’s ex-wife, Rosalind Rix, was conspicuously absent from the carve-up.
‘Enough motive there, sir,’ Metfield murmured, reading the will over Gently’s shoulder.
‘If they knew the size of it,’ Gently grunted. ‘And we’ve no reason yet to suppose they did.’
‘He’d have told her at the time, sir. He was barmy about her.’
‘He doesn’t strike me as having been that sort of man.’
‘At least he would have told her she was getting the house.’
But would he? They were dealing
The belt of Scots Pine on your left is known locally as Mogi’s Belt, after a dog called Mogi which was accidentally killed here during a pheasant shoot. Mogi’s Belt, which is W.D. property, is strictly private, and notices warn you of unexploded bombs.
The fence at this point is designed to exclude harmful herbivores, but one animal, the BADGER, is a good friend to the forester, since his diet includes insects which cause harm to the trees. He is a creature of strict habits, especially in routes to and from his sett, so that once he has a path established he will use it in spite of obstacles placed across it. Thus, to avoid the continued expense of fence repairs, it was found necessary to install the gate you see here, which provides two-way access for badgers while discouraging rabbits and hares.
These two paragraphs had been marked with a red ballpen; and the plan had been similarly marked, where it showed the trail passing Mogi’s Belt. Also drawn in was a small circle, presumably indicating the badger sett.
Gently laid the pamphlet on the desk. ‘Where do you buy these?’ he asked.
Metfield shrugged. ‘You can buy them at the Forest Centre, or from self-service units at some of the car parks. But they have them here in town, too. One of the newsagents stocks them. I put a man on trying to trace this one, but he was beat before he started.’
‘Let me see Stoll’s personal effects.’
Metfield fetched a plastic bag from a locker. Among the bits and pieces was a Parker ballpen. Gently scribbled with it. Red.
Metfield stared at the red scribble. ‘It doesn’t prove anything,’ he said. ‘Stoll may have marked it up himself, but somebody must have told him where to put the circle.’
‘He might have guessed where it went from the text.’
‘That circle is near enough spot-on.’
‘So,’ Gently shrugged. ‘Someone told him. Gave him the pamphlet. Set it up.’
He checked through the rest of the effects, an expensive but oddly anonymous collection, as though Stoll had lately gone out with a thick bank roll and kitted himself out from scratch. Nothing personalized by wear, and a minimum of documents. A notebook, charmingly bound in crimson lambskin, contained only a handful of scribbled memos – ‘Shoot Ps. Wed.’ ‘Rs. Fri.’ etc. It confirmed what Gently had seen at the flat, which was similarly expensive and impersonal – the
pied à terre
of a highly paid worker, with the tools of his trade, and little else. For example, no personal letters, but a batch of truly stupendous phone bills. While matters domestic and secretarial had been taken care of by agencies. Stoll had been a loner: outside his vocation, very little of him had overflowed.
Metfield produced the will. It was dated October, 1965, the year of Stoll’s divorce and the purchase of Brayling. It left no doubt that at the time it was drawn, Maryon Britton stood high in Stoll’s regard. Probably more than one-half of his estate was being willed to her, and away from his own child, while the bequests to her daughter and to Edwin Keynes cut a fat slice from the remainder. Stoll’s ex-wife, Rosalind Rix, was conspicuously absent from the carve-up.
‘Enough motive there, sir,’ Metfield murmured, reading the will over Gently’s shoulder.
‘If they knew the size of it,’ Gently grunted. ‘And we’ve no reason yet to suppose they did.’
‘He’d have told her at the time, sir. He was barmy about her.’
‘He doesn’t strike me as having been that sort of man.’
‘At least he would have told her she was getting the house.’
But would he? They were dealing
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