impatiently. She remembered. ‘That chap at the pub—he told me that several people in Wren’s Hill had Halcyons.’
So they made for the pub. It was once again a clear and sunny day and with their nice safe police escort, rather pleasant to be driving down the country roads. They passed the fallen elm, now sawn into three with the great centre trunk rolled to one side. ‘My God, what a crash it must have been making—coming down right there in your front.’ Charley, more guileless than the rest, never doubted the story of the man at the tree.
‘If I’d been just a few minutes earlier—!’
They were glad to reach the pub: what with the garage and the cotton-wool and the quick wee, they’d been getting a bit anxious about closing time—and were mildly amused to find themselves followed in by two of the most obvious plain clothes policemen, said Sari, that ever wore size twelve boots—who drank beer unobtrusively in a far corner. She left an order for tomato juice and went off for the inevitable wee, returning to the tomato juice with new eyebrows, lids an exquisite muted sunset and a great lashing-on of a very pale pink lipstick. ‘There’s a most peculiar lady in your loo,’ she confided to the man behind the bar. ‘I never saw anyone with so much hair all over them. Absolutely sprouting through her stockings like mustard and cress on a bit of flannel.’
The landlord looked anxiously into the faces of his patrons to see whether anyone had caught—and might mildly resent—this reference to a nearest and dearest; but their eyes were riveted on Sari’s own hair. He had had a splendid day retailing the events of last Sat’day night and the subsequent police enquiries, and no one present could fail to recognise his vivid descriptions of the lady’s coiffure. He drew the new arrivals down to one end of the counter, and all ears were strained to listen—including, to Sari’s delight, those of the owners of the Size Twelve Boots. But the man could tell them nothing, really. He had perhaps exaggerated a bit, he admitted—one said these things carelessly and his boast of several new Cadmus 3000’s running around in Wren’s Hill amounted really to his having seen one, a day or two before, filling up at the garridge...
‘The garage will know who owned it,’ said Sari, exultant on tomato juice, and dragged Charley away from his Vodka-and-Coca-Cola and the Number Twelves from their beer, and dashed off out to the little green sports car.
Charley’s keys which, as usual, he had left dangling from the dashboard, were gone.
Of the lady with the superfluous hair, there was nothing to be seen. Nor had the landlord observed anyone of the sort in his bar. There was an outside entrance from the car park to the lavatories.
The Number Twelves looked upon one another with a wild surmise; though there was not much to surmise about, as regarded what Mr Charlesworth would say to him when he learned that they had not thought of splitting up, one to watch the suspects, the other to stay outside. ‘Well, meantime, you stay with this lot, Bill, and I’ll go out to the car.’ Bill issued instructions made somewhat sharper than need be by his own inner quakings, and Dawkins, the landlord, with apparently mounting exasperation, shouted ‘Time, gentlemen, please !’ though it was still several minutes too early; and ushered Sari and Charley, both somewhat shaken, into the Snug. ‘As it happens, there’s a doctor here; the wife’s threatening any minute though it never seems to happen. As soon as he comes down, I’ll get him to see to the lady.’ Real shocked she looked, poor girl; like she’d looked when, two nights ago, she’d told him that a car had been following her. He’d doubted it a bit then, but with all that was happening now, well there must have been some truth in it. A small glow burned within him at the thought of all the excitement and profit this would bring to the Fox. His pub was called The Fox
So they made for the pub. It was once again a clear and sunny day and with their nice safe police escort, rather pleasant to be driving down the country roads. They passed the fallen elm, now sawn into three with the great centre trunk rolled to one side. ‘My God, what a crash it must have been making—coming down right there in your front.’ Charley, more guileless than the rest, never doubted the story of the man at the tree.
‘If I’d been just a few minutes earlier—!’
They were glad to reach the pub: what with the garage and the cotton-wool and the quick wee, they’d been getting a bit anxious about closing time—and were mildly amused to find themselves followed in by two of the most obvious plain clothes policemen, said Sari, that ever wore size twelve boots—who drank beer unobtrusively in a far corner. She left an order for tomato juice and went off for the inevitable wee, returning to the tomato juice with new eyebrows, lids an exquisite muted sunset and a great lashing-on of a very pale pink lipstick. ‘There’s a most peculiar lady in your loo,’ she confided to the man behind the bar. ‘I never saw anyone with so much hair all over them. Absolutely sprouting through her stockings like mustard and cress on a bit of flannel.’
The landlord looked anxiously into the faces of his patrons to see whether anyone had caught—and might mildly resent—this reference to a nearest and dearest; but their eyes were riveted on Sari’s own hair. He had had a splendid day retailing the events of last Sat’day night and the subsequent police enquiries, and no one present could fail to recognise his vivid descriptions of the lady’s coiffure. He drew the new arrivals down to one end of the counter, and all ears were strained to listen—including, to Sari’s delight, those of the owners of the Size Twelve Boots. But the man could tell them nothing, really. He had perhaps exaggerated a bit, he admitted—one said these things carelessly and his boast of several new Cadmus 3000’s running around in Wren’s Hill amounted really to his having seen one, a day or two before, filling up at the garridge...
‘The garage will know who owned it,’ said Sari, exultant on tomato juice, and dragged Charley away from his Vodka-and-Coca-Cola and the Number Twelves from their beer, and dashed off out to the little green sports car.
Charley’s keys which, as usual, he had left dangling from the dashboard, were gone.
Of the lady with the superfluous hair, there was nothing to be seen. Nor had the landlord observed anyone of the sort in his bar. There was an outside entrance from the car park to the lavatories.
The Number Twelves looked upon one another with a wild surmise; though there was not much to surmise about, as regarded what Mr Charlesworth would say to him when he learned that they had not thought of splitting up, one to watch the suspects, the other to stay outside. ‘Well, meantime, you stay with this lot, Bill, and I’ll go out to the car.’ Bill issued instructions made somewhat sharper than need be by his own inner quakings, and Dawkins, the landlord, with apparently mounting exasperation, shouted ‘Time, gentlemen, please !’ though it was still several minutes too early; and ushered Sari and Charley, both somewhat shaken, into the Snug. ‘As it happens, there’s a doctor here; the wife’s threatening any minute though it never seems to happen. As soon as he comes down, I’ll get him to see to the lady.’ Real shocked she looked, poor girl; like she’d looked when, two nights ago, she’d told him that a car had been following her. He’d doubted it a bit then, but with all that was happening now, well there must have been some truth in it. A small glow burned within him at the thought of all the excitement and profit this would bring to the Fox. His pub was called The Fox
Similar Books
