Scales of Justice by Ngaio Marsh Page B

the position the body still holds, one of two things must have happened, wouldn’t you say, Br’er Fox?”
    “Either,” Fox said stolidly, “he was coshed by a left-handed person standing behind him or by a right-handed person standing in front of him and at least three feet away.”
    “Which would place the assailant,” said Alleyn, “about twelve inches out on the surface of the stream. Which is not as absurd as it sounds when you put it that way. All right. Let’s move on. What comes next?”
    The Chief Constable, who had listened to all this in silence, now said, “I gather there’s a cry of possible witnesses waiting for you up at Hammer. That’s Cartarette’s house up here on Watt’s Hill. If you’ll forgive me, Alleyn, I won’t go up with you. Serve no useful purpose. If you want me, I’m five miles away at Tourets. Anything I can do, delighted, but sure you’d rather be left in peace. I would in my day. By the way, I’ve told them at the Boy and Donkey that you’ll probably want beds for what’s left of the night. You’ll find a room at the head of the stairs. They’ll give you an early breakfast if you leave a note. Good-night.”
    He was gone before Alleyn could thank him.
    With the sergeant as guide, Alleyn and Fox prepared to set out for Hammer. Alleyn had succeeded in persuading the spaniel Skip to accept them, and after one or two false starts and whimperings he followed at their heels. They used torches in order to make their way with as little blundering as possible through the grove. Oliphant, who was in the lead, suddenly uttered a violent oath.
    “What is it?” Alleyn asked, startled.
    “
Gawd
!” Oliphant said. “I thought someone was looking at me.
Gawd, d’you see that
!”
    His wavering torchlight flickered on wet willow leaves. A pair of luminous disks stared out at them from the level of a short man’s eyes.
    “Touches of surrealism,” Alleyn muttered, “in Bottom Meadow.” He advanced his own torch, and they saw a pair of spectacles caught up in a broken twig.
    “We’ll pluck this fruit with grateful care,” he said and gathered the spectacles into his handkerchief.
    The moon now shone on Bottom Meadow, turning the bridge and the inky shadow it cast over the broken-down boatshed and punt into a subject for a wood engraving. A group of tall reeds showed up romantically in its light, and the Chyne took on an air of enchantment.
    They climbed the river path up Watt’s Hill. Skip began to whine and to wag his tail. In a moment the cause of his excitement came into view, a large tabby cat sitting on the path in the bright moonlight washing her whiskers. Skip dropped on his haunches and made a ridiculous sound in his throat. Thomasina Twitchett, for it was she, threw him an inimical glance, rolled on her back at Alleyn’s feet and trilled beguilement. Alleyn liked cats. He stooped down and found that she was in the mood to be carried. He picked her up. She kneaded his chest and advanced her nose towards his.
    “My good woman,” Alleyn said, “you’ve been eating fish.”
    Though he was unaware of it at the time, this was an immensely significant discovery.

CHAPTER V
Hammer Farm
    When they approached Hammer Farm, Alleyn saw that the three desmesnes on Watt’s Hill ended in spinneys that separated them from the lower slopes and, as the sergeant had observed, screened them from the reaches of the Chyne below Bottom Bridge. The river path ran upwards through the trees and was met by three private paths serving the three houses. The sergeant led the way up the first of these. Thomasina Twitchett leapt from Alleyn’s embrace and with an ambiguous remark darted into the shadows.
    “That’ll be one of Mr. Phinn’s creatures, no doubt,” said Sergeant Oliphant. “He’s crackers on cats, is Mr. Phinn.”
    “Indeed,” Alleyn said, sniffing at his fingers.
    They emerged in full view of Hammer Farm house with its row of French windows lit behind their