The Greatest Murder Mysteries - Dorothy Fielding Collection. Dorothy Fielding

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СКАЧАТЬ knew that Mrs. Tangye's early life in her father's parish till she was nineteen had been searched by Scotland Yard without any result, so her grandfather had told her. But what about France? As a true Briton, the girl had a feeling that if anything odd, or out of the way, had happened in Mrs. Tangye's past, it would be abroad. But there was no use in her going to France. Her command of that tricky but charming language was such as a high-school education generally leaves with its pupils. It was all right in England, but seemed all wrong in France. The replies of the natives even to the simplest of statements, failed to restrict themselves to a vocabulary, which surely was voluminous enough, judging by the years that it had taken to acquire.

      Barbara reluctantly decided that she was foredoomed to failure, since she must clearly confine herself to her home land. But where to begin? How to begin?

      Common sense told her that everything had been already sifted. Yet the Chief Inspector had questioned her as though he were not entirely satisfied. If she had a chance, Barbara decided that it would be found in some unnoticed corner. But how find that corner? She sat cleaning her brushes and thinking. Had she any knowledge, any forgotten, overlaid, scrap of information which would help?

      It was when she had given it up as hopeless, and started on her work again, that she remembered some old songs.

      When Mr. Branscombe died, now four years ago, Mrs. Branscombe, as she then was, had sent his Broadwood piano to Sir Richard Ash, saying that Cecil Branscombe had wanted his old partner to have it as a souvenir of their friendship. A music bench had accompanied the gift. In it the Ashes had found an armful of old songs. They were still lying somewhere in the attic. Lady Ash had spoken at once of sending them back. But the widow had said, with obvious sincerity, that though she had no idea of their preserice in the bench, she never sang them, and had no use for them.

      Barbara seemed to remember an inscription of some sort on one of them.

      She disinterred the tattered bundle at home after a considerable hunt. One only was marked, and that with a round rubber stamp, "W. Griffith, Cathedral Road, Newport." It was a little Welsh song, very dog-eared. At one time or other it had been a favourite. It was a man's song. Set for a tenor voice.

      Still it suggested to her a possible starting point. Newport itself seemed too commercial to figure on any girl's itinerary, but Caerlean was close by, the home of the Round Table Knights. Close, too, was beautiful Llandaff Cathedral of which her father had often spoke to her. Tintern Abbey was not far off. Raglan Castle was within reach. Yes, to Newport Barbara would go, and since whatever it may be for the man, this world emphatically holds that still less is it good for a girl to be alone, she decided to take her mother's advice in yet another respect, and let Olive come with her. Poor Olive was still badly in need of bracing up.

      Dorset Steele was out of town, she was rather glad of that. The critic on the hearth is apt to be avoided in times of doubt.

      As to funds, she had just sold a dinner service for eighteen guineas. Eighteen and five are twenty-three. With that in hand, Barbara felt sure that she and Olive could stay a fortnight in some quiet spot.

      Not even November can take the beauty out of South Wales. And through that land of dingle and dell, glen and mountain torrent, waterfall and wooded hill, ferny dale, and sweeping uplands runs the Usk; broad and winding. The river, beloved alike by Welshman, and artist, historian, salmon and trout.

      The Wye may equal it, but nothing in the wide world can surpass—in its own way—the sweep between two rivers.

      Just now the only colours were soft aquamarine and gray, but in its proper season all would be bright with orchards and hop fields, drooping willows and golden wheatfields set among the shimmering green of fragrant meadows belted by hills, and ringed by distant mountains. And all down the valley other little rippling streams branch out, each with its waterfalls, and bending arms of ferns. The Country of Castles, and of Arthur's Knights this. Of tales that circle every hillock and sit on every stone. Wealhas Tales; tales of fairies. Tales of fighting by the score. The very dust is the dust of bards, of sweet singers to the harp.

      The Usk runs between curving banks, and broadens here and there into dusky pools with gay, one-storeyed homesteads set at intervals along it; their thatched roofs a joy to the eye.

      Pointer thought of the reams of paper covered by rhapsodies about the beauties of other lands, beauties far below those of this little corner of Britain.

      The town of Usk is a charming nook in summer, but it looked rather forlorn on a wet November day. Fishermen by trade, or inclination, seemed to be its only male inhabitants.

      Pointer went first to the police station. No one of the name of Headly was remembered there. No photograph of the Riverview circle awoke any recollection in Inspector or constable. Remained Father William.

      The day was fine, yet not too fine. A perfect angler's day. Pointer followed his Ollie down to the hurrying river, where he speedily put his rod together. It had not been used for over a year now. He tested it, limbering his wrists, and snapping them to get the right flip, the little flip which would send the fly dancing up again when almost on the water, to alight as though by its own volition.

      He took out his book of flies. The gillie pointed to one, and mumbled something about its being from Father William, oh, yes.

      Pointer knotted on one of the local celebrity's masterpieces and set to work. It was over an hour later when he got his chance. There came a surging plunge, a tug, the line flew screaming off the reel. Pointer was fast in a salmon. Whir-r-r went the line as the fish tore in a mad rush down the stream. Then up he came. A mighty form that rose with a swirl. One of those strange, mysterious creatures who live in an element, a world of their own, where men die, and who die where men live. He shot clear of the water in a great leap. More beautiful than anything that breathes in the open air. Beautiful as a fairy's dream. His whole splendid length one curve of glistening silver with mauve shadows, a twirling, splashing, like a living water-wheel. Almost translucent he looked, showing purple and azure, and green, and always that molten, living silver.

      Again and again he leaped, sending the water high into the air. Each time Pointer dropped the tip of his rod, and so saved the cast. This salmon knew the game. There was a last year's spawning ring marked on those bright flanks. He struck a smashing blow with his tail to free himself. Another scream from the reel, and off he flew. Pointer had to race to keep below him as he made down-stream with what seemed the speed of an express train. From slippery rock to mossy stone Pointer jumped, and scrambled.

      Then the salmon took a breather. He burrowed, trying to free his lip from the barb. He sulked. He circled heavily round and round this new pool with a vigour that told the rage in his heart.

      Again came the flash of silver lightning, swirling, diving, leaping, shaking, in a frantic effort to get free, then came another rush that bent the rod like a bow, that cut a feather of spray as the line ripped through the water.

      Skilfully Pointer parried each stroke, his finger on the snapping reel to check the play. At every turn, and tumble, and toss, Pointer's rod held him, played him, wound him in or reeled him out. Then came a rest, Pointer wiped the sweat from his eyes. The fish was not sulking now. The line was too taut for that. Like a cross thoroughbred in a dull stable, he was thinking out some fresh devilment for the next round. It came suddenly. The salmon rose like a whirlwind. The water seemed lifeless compared to the beautiful lights and shadows of him. Living light, and living shadow.

      With a break that was like a punch he was off. This time there was even more method. He was trying to catch the gut between two sharp stones. He gave another wonderful exhibition of a silver Catherine's wheel on the churned and broken surface of the СКАЧАТЬ