Read Online The Fox in the Forest by J. M. Gregson - Free Book Online

unspeakable ‘them’ that his use of the phrase implied. But it was plain that his approval of the dead clergyman was as unstinting as Mrs Coleman’s, and from a totally different section of the community — basically male and non-churchgoing.
    They heard about skittles and darts, and how Peter Barton respected beliefs which ran contrary to his own. Harrison polished horse brasses vigorously, and the noise rang round the empty hostelry almost as resonantly as if they were still in the church across the lane. Eventually, Lambert said desperately, “But he must have had enemies. Everyone has.”
    The landlord swept his hand over his balding head, then scratched it thoughtfully, as if he had removed a nonexistent cap to permit himself the indulgence. He prided himself on being a worldly-wise, realistic man, and he collected his share of confidences and freely offered views on the world and its denizens, particularly the local ones. He wanted to offer suggestions to the police, feeling obscurely that his self-image as a village sage might be at stake here.
    Yet in this single respect, Peter Barton failed him: he was unable to scratch up enemies of any kind, let alone any bitter enough to have killed him. Eventually he said gnomically, “No man is an island. Perhaps he had enemies we don’t know about here. I don’t know much about his private life.” For a moment, they thought again that they were about to be offered some speculative thought about Mrs Barton. Then the landlord seemed to reject the idea. He said almost reluctantly, “But you won’t find any to say a word against him around here.”
    As policemen, it was not what they wanted to hear.
    ***
    They came to the village store almost in desperation, and met there the kind of cautious hostility with which as policemen they were more familiar. It was almost a relief.
    After enduring a few moments of surly non-cooperation, Hook produced his notebook and affected a more formal approach. “It’s Mr G. Farr, isn’t it?” he said, flicking to a new page and preparing apparently to record the words of the shopkeeper in detail.
    “Everyone calls me Tommy,” said Farr. It was a small gesture of conciliation, and they took it as such.
    “You see a lot of what goes on around here,” said Lambert.
    “People come in and out. They don’t talk a lot.” Lambert reflected that they were probably not encouraged to do so. As if he read the thought, Farr said, “I run this place on my own, so I don’t have a lot of time for gossip.” In fact, he made it his business to be pleasant, but he saw no reason why he should volunteer so much to the police.
    “Perhaps not. But you don’t strike me as a fool, Mr Farr, so I need scarcely remind you that it is your duty to offer whatever help you can to the police when they are investigating serious crime. I’m asking you what you thought of the Reverend Barton, and what other people thought of him.”
    Farr looked at them coolly. “He weren’t my type. His wife might have been.” He bit his lip, banishing the surly smile of male complicity, regretting immediately the streak of himself which had been betrayed.
    Lambert let the moment stretch, allowing what might have been no more than a rough masculine boast to gather a heavier significance, pushing his man a little more on to the defensive. Then he said, “You didn’t like Peter Barton?”
    “I didn’t like or dislike him. I said he wasn’t my type. That doesn’t mean I took a shotgun to him.”
    They both looked him full in the face then, watching the broken nose, the surprisingly regular white teeth, the blue eyes beneath the tightly curled grey hair which now had only traces of red in it. Lambert said, “So you know how he died, Mr Farr?”
    If Farr thought he had made a mistake, he did not acknowledge it. The steely eyes held theirs, almost insolently. “The kids described the body. Their mothers have been in here.” It was as though he spoke in