Read Online The Drowning Ground by James Marrison - Free Book Online

advertising exec from London. Didn’t know any better. Wanted to buy the house.’
    I grinned happily in the warm darkness of the car and crossed my arms, liking Frank Hurst for that and hoping that Hurst’s dog had bitten the advertising executive, no doubt a commuter and yuppie of the first order, right in the arse. Then my eyes caught what looked to be a lane branching off to the right through the falling snow.
    Graves drew to a stop by the sign, which stood by the side of a battered-looking wooden gate. Etched into a tall column of grey limestone were the words DASHWOOD MANOR .
    Graves undid his seatbelt, ran out into the snow and dragged open the wooden gate. It snagged on a stone, and he had to lift it up; then he drew it back and left it snug against some bushes. We drove on.
    Branches arched across the lane, forming a long, dark tunnel. There were no longer any points of light visible on the horizon; ahead of us lay a solid darkness, broken only occasionally by the flashing lights of cars glimpsed through the woods. The village suddenly seemed very far away, as the lane led us inevitably to the house that could now be seen rising above the tops of the trees.
    â€˜You know what I think,’ Graves said, ‘I think we need to talk to everyone who was around when Hurst’s wife died – those who think that he murdered his wife and got away with it.’
    â€˜So you think it was revenge, then,’ I said, interested. ‘Revenge for his dead wife.’
    â€˜Well, maybe. But I don’t think it really went like that.’
    â€˜So how did it happen?’
    Graves paused, uncertain. For a moment it looked as if he had changed his mind, and he slowed down as we drew close to a steep bend in the lane. ‘Well, okay,’ he began a little sheepishly, ‘let’s say I’m one of the villagers, right, and I’m out walking my dog – just as I do every afternoon – and there right in front of me is our man Hurst. I haven’t seen him for years and years, and suddenly there he is. And, as I’m walking my mutt along that field, I start thinking about Hurst’s dead wife, and this big old house of his, and all the fields he owns, and the way people like him always seem to get away with it. So I decide to have a little word with him now that I’ve got the chance – let him know that people like him don’t fool me. So I go and tell him – tell him I know what he’s done.’
    â€˜You tell him he’s a murderer?’ I said bluntly.
    â€˜Yes, right to his face. Hurst obviously doesn’t like that and so –’
    â€˜And so there’s a fight. Our indignant villager finds he’s on the losing end, grabs the pitchfork, panics and heads for the hills.’
    â€˜Yes. That would make sense, wouldn’t it? And it doesn’t even have to be a dog-walker. Word might easily have got round the village that Hurst was out in that field. Someone getting their groceries in the village shop overhears a conversation. Or it could even be a dog-walker’s husband,’ Graves said, gaining enthusiasm. ‘The missus gets back home and she’s like, “You’ll never guess who I just saw.” Killed because of stupid gossip,’ Graves said, before adding, without much sincerity, ‘tragic really.’
    I didn’t say anything for a while. I had considered this myself. ‘I’m afraid you’re forgetting about the dog,’ I said, not unkindly. ‘Whoever killed Hurst seems to have strung the poor thing up. Why do something like that?’
    â€˜Oh,’ Graves said, put out.
    I gave him a hard sideways look and said, ‘But you might not be that far off. There’s something else. Something the village doesn’t know about.’
    There was a patrol car standing in front of the black wrought-iron gates that led to the gravelled driveway. It had slipped my mind that I had ordered