Read Online The Hanging Valley by Peter Robinson - Free Book Online

Metcalfe laughed. “Tha could say that. It’s t’oldest, anyroads. And t’Colliers drink ’ere, as did their father before them. Select, if tha likes, but dahn to earth, not stuck up.” He shook his head slowly. “A right lad, were Walter Collier.” Then he leaned forward and whispered, “Not like ’is sons, if tha knows what I mean. Wouldn’t know a cratch from a gripe, neither on ’em. And they was brought up by a farmer, too.”
    Banks, who didn’t know a cratch from a gripe either, asked why. “Eddication,” Metcalfe said, intoning the word as if it were responsible for most of the world’s ills. “Fancy bloody Oxford eddication. Wanted ’em to ’ave a better chance than ’ee’d ’ad, did old Walter. Farming don’t pay much, tha knows, an’ Walter were sharp enough to get out ’imself.” Metcalfe turned up his nose. “Well, tha can see what eddication does.”
    “What are they like, Stephen and Nicholas?” Banks asked. Metcalfe sniffed and lowered his voice. He was clearly enjoying his role as dispenser of local opinion. “Right bloody useless pair, if y’ask me. At least yon Nicholas is. Mr Stephen’s not so bad. Teks after old Walter, ’ee does. Bit of a ladies’ man. Not that t’other’s queer, or owt.” Metcalfe laughed. “There were a bit o’ trouble wi’ aservant lass a few years back, when ’ee were still a young lad, living at ’ome, like. Got ’er up t’spout, Master Nicholas did. Old Walter ’ad to see ’er right, o’ course, and I’ve no doubt ’ee gave t’lad a right good thrashing. But it’s Mr Stephen that’s t’ladies’ man. One after t’other.”
    “What’s the difference in their ages?”
    “Nobbut a couple o’ years. Stephen’s t’eldest.”
    “What happened to the farm land?”
    “Old Walter sold some on it,” Metcalfe said, “and leased t’rest.
    T’Colliers are still t’biggest landowners in t’dale, mind thee. John Fletcher over there bought a goodly chunk on it.” He wagged his chin in the direction of the table. The drinkers were now into the last thirds of their drinks, and Banks decided it would be a good time to approach them.
    “Tha still an’t asked me no real questions,” Metcalfe protested. “Later,” Banks said, turning. “I’d like to talk to these gentlemen here before they leave.” Of the gentlemen in question, he recognized Nicholas Collier and Sam Greenock from the previous day; therefore, the third had to be John Fletcher.
    “Wait on a minute,” Metcalfe said. “Dun’t tha want tha sausage and chips?”
    And as if on cue, a freckled little girl in a red dress, her hair in pigtails, appeared from the kitchens and called out, “Number seventy-five! Sausage, beans and chips.”
    Banks gave her his receipt and took the plate, then he helped himself to condiments from the bar.
    When he walked over to the table, the three men shifted around, scraping their chair-legs on the flagged floor, and made room for him.
    “Do you mind if I eat at your table?” he asked.
    “Not at all. Freddie been giving you a rough time, Inspector?”
    Nicholas Collier asked. His smile showed his prominent teeth to great disadvantage; they were discoloured with nicotine and crooked as a badly built dry-stone wall. His speech, Banks noticed, bore traces of the local accent under its assumed veneer of public-school English.
    “No,” he said, returning the smile. “Just entertaining me. Quite a fellow.”
    “You can say that again. He’s been behind that bar as long as I can remember.” Nicholas leaned forward and lowered his voice, “Between you and me, I don’t think he quite approves of Stephen and myself. Anyway, have you met John, here?”
    The squat man with the five-o’clock shadow was indeed John Fletcher, gentleman farmer. Stephen Collier, his brother said, was away dealing with some factory business.
    “Is this just a social visit or do you have some questions for us?” Sam asked.
    “Just one, really,” Banks