by E.
The proprietor of the Tremarden Arms was one of those men who fitted into hotel keeping as a glove fits the hand. Tall, slim and aesthetic looking in countenance, he had run the Arms for just over twenty years. He also ran Tremarden; for not only was he the principal farmer in the district, the chief milk producer, but he was also Mayor, Chairman of the Chamber of Commerce, Chairman of the Conservative Club, and a magistrate.
He was a bundle of nerves, but managed successfully to live on his nerves, and that kept them from breaking point. No frequenter of the hotel had ever seen from him a display of impatience, much less annoyance. “Franky,” as he was called by these anglers who came year after year to the Arms for the fishing, was as popular a figure as a host as he was a good friend.
The group of men who now waited for him were his oldest customers. They had not missed spending July and August at the hotel since the days when Franky was in short trousers, and Old Man Baker was building up the hotel on a mile of water, adding a furlong here and there as it prospered.
“Even’ Major, Even’ Sir Edward, Even’ Reverend,” Franky hailed the company. “Had a good day?”
“Evening, Franky. What’s this I hear about Three Bridges? Padre says you’re cutting the timber back there.”
“Only in a few places, Sir Edward.”
“But, dammit, Franky, look what happened to the Inney when you cut the banks back.”
Franky spread his hands apologetically. “I know, Sir Edward. But then, you and the major, and the Reverend here, are experts. We’re getting a lot of amateurs at the game now. Half of them haven’t learned to cast horizontally, they can’t use a backhand, and haven’t heard of a Spey. I’ve got to give them a reasonable chance of catching fish. And I can make open water more easily at Three Bridges than I can anywhere else. I’m keeping the other streams for the experienced people like yourselves.”
“Well, I suppose if you must, you must, Franky. But I should have thought there was enough open water at Three Bridges, in the fields alongside the quarry and beyond.” He dismissed the subject. “Who’s caught all the fish to-day? Doesn’t seem much from the Tamar. The colonel had another bad day?”
A smile passed round the company. Mention of Colonel Donoughmore and his fishing generally raised a grin.
Franky glanced at the table. His eyes picked out the dark-backed lower Tamar trout. “Fred Emmett brought three brace of these in,” he said, “and I think the major grassed the others. The colonel hasn’t come in yet.”
“Bit late for him, isn’t it? I thought he generally gave up about four o’clock.”
“He does,” Major Smithers said. “He—” His voice ceased as his eyes caught sight of an article leaning against the hall-stand, amid a welter of bagged rods. “Isn’t that the colonel’s landing net?” he asked.
The four stared at the six foot long pole at the top of which was fastened a square-ended net.
“That’s the colonel’s all right,” agreed Sir Edward. “Nobody else would use a ruddy butterfly net—pardon, Padre—to save getting his waders wet.” He walked over to the stand. “That’s funny,” he said. “It’s wet.”
“I’m pretty sure he hasn’t been in,” said Franky. “His rod isn’t there.” He turned to the porter. “Seen the colonel, Walter?”
“Noa, Mister Frank. He hasn’t a ben.”
“Ruddy good job if he never comes back,” said a voice; and Fred Emmett joined the company. “Why all this loving anxiety for the old devil?”
“He doesn’t seem to have returned, and that’s unusual for him. Did you see anything of him down there, Fred?”
“Saw him this morning, edging into my beat. Said he’d been chasing a big ’un and hadn’t noticed that he’d passed the mark. I told him if he didn’t get back into his own kennel I’d chuck him in the ruddy river.”
“What’s all this about throwing people in the river? It is my duty to warn you that anything you may say will be taken down and may be used in evidence.”
“Doctor!”
The exclamation came in a chorus as the little group swung round on the interrupter. He stood in the doorway, a six-foot figure in tweeds, a raincoat over one arm. The smile on his face lit up his wide-spaced, deep-set eyes and the crinkled, pleasant contour of the broad forehead.
For a moment the Doctor stood thus. Then, dropping the raincoat on a basket chair, he stepped to the side of the group with outstretched hands.
“I’m glad you are here, all of you,” he said. “I rather thought you might be.”
He shook hands warmly with the four men; grips that were returned as warmly, for Doctor Manson, though an infrequent visitor to the Arms, was a popular guest when he did pay a visit, not only because of his skill as a fisherman—an achievement which was usually the first consideration of good fellowship in the house—but because his charm as a conversationalist was allied to a scholarly mind, and any argument in which he took part never failed to entertain as well as instruct his company.
His Doctorship had little to do with medicine, though it was in many respects allied to it. His degree was in Science; the alliance with medicine lay in the fact that he was the scientist attached to the Criminal Investigation Department of Scotland Yard; its investigator into pathological mysteries, and its expert in medical jurisprudence.
It was two years ago that the Chief Commissioner of Scotland Yard had called him into the Yard’s Service and given him carte blanche to equip a Laboratory in an attempt to stay the growing list of unsolved crimes. Since that date there had been no single case the solution to which had not been reached by the Yard. This, then, was the man who, having been welcomed, now called for a long, cool, drink, which the host himself brought.
“But what the deuce are you doing here, Doctor?” from the major. “Don’t tell us the Squire’s daughter has been foully murdered, and you’re after the villain.”
A roar of laughter greeted the major’s histrionic pose and declamation.
Manson laughed. “No, nothing so important,” he said. “I’ve just got a few days’ leave, and thought I’d like to spend them on the water. Sorry to come without warning, Franky, but I didn’t know until this morning. If you haven’t a bed I’ll sleep in the hayloft.”
A smile crinkled the face of Baker. “Sure, us always has a room for yiew, Doctor.” The words came in the soft sing-song of the Cornishman.
“But you still haven’t told me what this throwing in the river business is about,” said Manson.
“The sleuth on the track already!” Sir Edward chuckled. “Fact is, Doctor, we’ve got an unpleasant gent here named Donoughmore—Colonel Donoughmore—don’t think you’ve met him. He’s usually back from fishing about five o’clock, but hasn’t turned up to-day. Funnily enough, his landing net is in its usual place, and it’s wet. Emmett, here, said the blighter had been poaching on his beat this morning, and threatened to chuck him in the water if he didn’t get out and keep out. What d’ye make of that?”
Franky laughed. “Yieu’d best ’fess, Emmett,” he said. “Doctor will get you in the end.”
The company chuckled at Emmett’s embarrassment. “He’s probably been in with an empty creel, and gone off to avoid the banter. Anyhow, I’m not interested, and the gong has gone.”
“I expect he’ll be in for dinner,” said the major. “He’s a pretty good trencherman, isn’t he, Franky?”
Franky grimaced. “He is,” he agreed.
But dinner came and went, and still the colonel made no appearance. Franky sought the lounge’s advice on his missing guest.
“May have run into a good evening rise and wants to show what he can do.”
“More likely gone after another kind of fish.” The sneer came from Bill Braddock.
“Oh,” from several voices. “Who is she, Braddock?”
“Didn’t know he went in for that kind of fish. Spill her name.”
Braddock shook his head. “I’m saying nothing,” he said. “But what I hope is that he’s fallen i
n the Tamar and drowned his damned self.”
“Well, I think I’ll run down to the river and have a look round,” said Franky. “He may have fallen down and hurt himself, and there’s nobody down there he could call to for help.”
He returned an hour later without the colonel. “No sign of him down there,” he said. “I walked down to the flats at the bottom of our water.”
“It’s what I said. He’s engaged elsewhere,” Braddock said. “And he don’t want any flies for that fish.”
There was a guffaw of laughter. “Well, he’ll have to make an honest woman of her now it’s out. The padre here will see to that, won’t you, Reverend? There’s seventeen-and-six in the kitty for you.”
The padre smiled deprecatingly.
“You’ll fix the lounge out as a chapel, eh, Franky?” The major joined in the joke.
“And give ’em the bridal suite as a wedding present,” added Sir Edward. “That ought to induce the colonel to wed—free board and lodging.”
“Ef so be you make it a funeral, I wud give ’ee a coffin free.” The voice came from the back of the company. If the softness of the Cornish accent belied the words, the look on the face of the speaker removed the impression. He eyed the company. “You be outlanders and friends of his’n. Tell him to kep hisself to hisself.” Turning on his heel, he put his glass on the table, and walked out.
Manson eyed his retreating figure, and then looked inquiringly at Franky.
“Willie Trepol, our carpenter and undertaker.” Franky answered the question in the Doctor’s glance. “He’s a queer chap, and religious, but his bark is worse ’n his bite. There was a mort of trouble atwixt him and the colonel last year.”
“Well, I’m off to bed, Colonel or no Colonel.” The major finished his drink and gathered his papers. “Want to be out early in the morning. Anybody fishing the top beat in the Inney, Franky? I’d like to have another try for Old Glory.”
“I’ll keep the beat for you, Major.”
“Bet you five to one you don’t grass him.” Sir Edward spoke hopefully. “Old Glory” was an institution!
The major grimaced. “I’ve been trying for him for five years,” he said. “I’ll take it, Sir Edward. Lend me a fly, Reverend.”
A chorus of protests rose, followed by a howl of laughter as the padre handed over a Red Spinner. “I’ve used that on him for ten years, Major,” he said.
Still laughing at the joke, the company dispersed to the bedrooms. It was eleven o’clock.
Buy Murder Jigsaw now from Amazon.com
Buy Murder Jigsaw now from Amazon.co.uk
Published by Dean Street Press 2019
Copyright © 1947 E & M.A. Radford
Introduction copyright © 2019 Nigel Moss
All Rights Reserved
First published in 1947 by Andrew Melrose
Cover by DSP
ISBN 978 1 912574 76 6
www.deanstreetpress.co.uk
