A Hovering of Vultures by Robert Barnard

he done, found out, achieved? He had attended the inaugural meeting of a literary society that was, to all appearances, completely aboveboard, composed of genuine enthusiasts as well as others with connections, close or peripheral, to the Sneddons, their writings, and their tragedy. He had seen things, heard things, that interested him, but nothing that had got him any further forward. He had also, be it said, had a rather enjoyable couple of hours with Felicity Coggenhoe after the wine and cheese party, but that could hardly be said to have contributed to his investigations—apart, perhaps, from some grisly details that filled in the picture of the awfulness of her parents.
    Perhaps it was just because he felt he had got nowhere that he decided to stay over that night.
    â€œI’d like to do a bit of walking this evening,” he told his landlady when she brought in a laden plate that includedblack pudding and practically everything else that conceivably could be fried. “And perhaps some more tomorrow before I go back to Leeds.”
    â€œI’ll keep the room for you,” Mrs Ludlum said comfortably. “No probs, as they say in Neighbours .”
    Charlie shuddered quietly to himself and got down to making a dent in the pile in front of him.
    When he had finished, or eaten as much as the human stomach could bear, he went to his room and dressed rather more sportily than he had the day before. When he was ready, on an impulse, he sat down at his typewriter and wrote “Manuscripts? Where? Where from?” Then he left the house on the Haworth Road and walked down to Batley Bridge. He didn’t, though, start at once up the hill path to Micklewike. Instead he went to the Duke of Cumberland and, using the phone in the foyer, rang up to Room Twenty-one and Lettie Farraday.
    â€œMy, you are attentive!” she said.
    â€œAttentive—and curious.”
    â€œWell, you don’t have to tell an old woman that a young man who’s attentive has an ulterior motive.”
    â€œAre you going to the meeting?”
    â€œSure. But I need a quarter of an hour or so to turn myself into what my mother would call a painted woman. Are you walking up, Dexter?”
    â€œI made a resolution to walk up every day, to compensate for all the stodge I’m eating.”
    â€œHave you ever yet made a resolution you haven’t broken?”
    â€œNever.”
    â€œCome up in the taxi with me then.”
    â€œYou’re on.”
    â€œWait down there and I’ll see you in fifteen minutes.”
    Once she was settled in the back of the taxi Charlie got in beside her and asked:
    â€œWell, how was your mother?”
    â€œA vicious old crone with a veneer of religion.”
    â€œDid you row?”
    â€œNothing we couldn’t both handle. I managed to stand her for nearly an hour.”
    â€œWhat did you talk about?”
    â€œNever you mind, young man. You’re a good deal too curious for someone who won’t tell me why he’s curious.” She thought for a moment and then asked: “Dexter, has it occurred to you that there’s really not much of the Sneddons at High Maddox Farm?”
    Charlie nodded.
    â€œYes, it has. Oddly enough not when I went around for the first time, but when I was there at the party last night. It’s all ‘typical’ rather than actually things of theirs. ‘Their bedrooms must have looked rather like this,’ rather than ‘This is Susannah’s bed, this is her bedside table.’ Most of it could have been picked up for a song—probably was. But I can see the difficulties, and I suppose he’s hoping that genuine stuff will turn up.”
    â€œHmmm. I may say I recognised nothing from my visits as a child. To me it was more like a stage set than a museum. What is he getting out of it, do you suppose?”
    â€œSearch me. He’s not going to make a fortune from admission charges. It’s hardly