Biggles stood still, staring in the direction of the shot, which had seemed to come from deep in the wood. At all events, there was no doubt whatever that the shot had been fired by someone in the wood. Who was shooting pheasants by moonlight ? Was this why so many birds were going ? Did it mean that Hervey and Brickwell had now acquired a rifle
?
It may seem a little odd that even then it did not occur to him that there might be someone else engaged in the same unlawful occupation ; but then, the two boys were very much on his mind, and as he knew them to be poachers, and this their hunting-ground, he did not look elsewhere for the culprits.
While he stood there, tense, listening, trying to make up his mind what to do for the best, wondering if it would be possible to bring the gamekeeper to the spot before the poacher had gone, his nerves quivered to the crack of another shot. This time there was no thump, which suggested that the bullet had missed its mark. He stood still, muscles flexed, for this was real poaching within the meaning of the law, a criminal offence, very different from the first occasion, when the snaring, having taken place in daylight, would come under the legal definition of trespass in pursuit of game, for which the penalties were less severe.
He stared back into the black wood. There were no more shots. Nothing moved. An ominous silence brooded.
How long he stood there he did not know, but it could not have been very long—perhaps two or three minutes, which in such circumstances can seem a long time. The silence was then broken by a sound that threw his brain into a whirl, and sent him hurrying back to his tree, beside which he lay with his heart palpitating uncomfortably. Footsteps were coming towards him from the heart of the wood, quick footsteps that made a loud rustle in the dead leaves. Hardly able to breathe for the beating of his heart, he lay still, staring.
A figure emerged from the trees within a dozen paces of him, a figure so burly that he knew at once that it was neither of the boys. For a brief instant, from its bulk, he thought it might be Barnes ; but this hope faded when he saw what the man carried. There were two objects. The first was a pheasant, held by the neck, and the other was a light rifle with a skeleton stock, such as is often supplied with a gun or rifle of the folding type, and is usually known as a poacher's gun, since there is no reason for an honest man to put his gun out of sight.
The man seemed to be in a hurry, and also, judging from his deep breathing, in a state of considerable agitation. He went on towards the fence, and there stopped to stare back into the wood. In doing so the moonlight fell full on his face. Biggles saw a square, pugnacious jaw, a broad, flat nose, shaggy eyebrows, and a low, animal forehead. He knew the man at once, for he had often seen him about. It was Mick Dunnage, the local professional poacher and jail-bird.
Dunnage cleared his throat, spat, and walked right up to the fence—much to Biggles'
surprise, for he wondered how he was going to get over it. The first thing Dunnage did there was to beat the head of the pheasant, which apparently was not quite dead, on one of the thick straining-posts. Satisfied that life was extinct, he put the bird in an inside pocket of his jacket. He then folded the gun across the middle and put it down his corduroy trousers. His next action was to bend and creep through the fence. This astonished Biggles, for there was no sound of breaking wood, as would certainly be necessary to make a gap. On the far side of the fence the man stooped again as if to do something to it. Then he got up and strode away quickly, not towards the Hartbury road, as Biggles expected, but by the footpath that ran across thefields to Hayford.
Biggles gave him five minutes before he moved, for he was—let us admit it—badly scared. Then he went to the fence where Dunnage had used it and the mystery was soon explained. Three of the staves had been broken. After Dunnage had made his exit he had carefully fitted the ends together so that the fractures would not be noticed. It was obvious that the gap had not just been made, for it would be impossible to break the staves without a good deal of noise as the wood splintered. The gap, therefore, had been made on a previous occasion, and it seemed likely that Dunnage had used it regularly to get in and out of the wood at a spot which would seem most unlikely, and would not therefore be watched.
Biggles went through the gap, and taking care not to step on the footpath, arranged the broken staves behind him just as Dunnage had done. This completed to his satisfaction he turned his attention to the path. He knew that the heavy rain of the past few days must have obliterated any old tracks that might have been on it. For the same reason the ground would be soft. Any tracks, therefore, would have been made by the man who had just walked on it. Striking a match from the box he carried in his pocket he was not surprised by what he saw. Immediately behind the gap, clearly defined in the mud, was the imprint of the sole of a heavy nailed boot, metal-tipped and heeled. Examining it closely, he observed that the hobnails had been set in groups of three, each making an impression like a shamrock leaf. Two of the nails had come out, leaving these particular clusters incomplete. So clear was the mark, and so outstanding were its peculiarities that Biggles knew that he would have no difficulty in picking it out from a thousand. The marks were repeated down the path which Dunnage had taken.
He had by this time got over his initial shock, but he was still in doubt as to what he should do. His first inclination was to run to Sam Barnes' house, hoping to find him in, to tell him what he had seen. But the cottage was some distance off. Time was getting on, and even now, unless he hurried back to school, he would be late. Moreover, Dunnage had gone, and would no doubt be miles away before Barnes could get to the spot. The chance of catching him that night was remote. A better plan, he decided, would be to go to the gamekeeper's cottage the next day and make his report. That Dunnage would visit the wood again seemed certain, and if Sam Barnes knew the secret of the fence he would be able to wait there and catch the poacher red-handed.
Having made his decision, Biggles walked quickly to the main road, and reaching it, set off at a run for the school. He thought that there was just a chance that he might meet Sam on the way, but he did not, and in due course arrived at school somewhat breathless after his run.
Almost the first boys he saw were Hervey and Brickwell. They looked at him suspiciously. "Where have you been ? " growled Hervey. "We know all about you going to old Barnes' place last Sunday."
Biggles hesitated. Then an idea occurred to him. " Come here," he said in a low voice. "I want to talk to you two."
They followed him without a word of protest, and from the expressions on their faces he judged they were still suffering a good deal of anxiety on account of the Foxley Wood incident. He took them to the cloakroom and shut the door.
"Have you sneaked ? " muttered Brickwell. "If you have I'll—"
"Oh, shut up ! " snapped Biggles. "Of course I haven't sneaked. But I'll tell you this. A pretty awful thing has happened, and if you don't want to be dragged in you'd better tell me the truth."
" What is it ? " burst out Brickwell, in obvious apprehension.
"Have either of you been to Foxley Wood since last Saturday ? " asked Biggles.
"No," answered Hervey, turning pale. "Honest we haven't—have we, Bricks ? " He appealed to his companion in a tone very different from the one he usually employed. It was clear that Biggles' serious expression had alarmed him.
"All right. I'll take your word for it," returned Biggles slowly.
"Why—what's happened ? " asked Hervey. "More birds have disappeared."
"How do you know ? "
"I've just been up and counted them. Five have gone since last Saturday."
"Well, it wasn't us," declared Hervey. "Was it, Bricks ? "
"Not likely," confirmed Brickwell readily. "You won't catch me going near the place in a hurry, I can tell you. My guv'nor would flay the hide off me if he knew about this," he added frankly. He looked at Hervey. "Shall we tell him ? " he whispered.
"If you like," agreed Hervey, although a trifle grudgingly.
Bric
kwell turned to Biggles. "We never did set any snares in Foxley Wood," he asserted.
This was something for which Biggles was not prepared. "You didn't ! "he exclaimed, for he thought he detected a ring of truth in Brickwell's voice.
"No, we didn't," growled Hervey. "The thing started last year. We went to the wood to see if the chestnuts were getting ripe. By accident, we found a pheasant in a snare, so we bagged it. It was Brick-well's idea, not mine."
"I like that ! " cried Brickwell hotly. "My idea, indeed ! Why, you said—"
"Oh, shut up ! " broke in Biggles. "What does it matter who's idea it was ? You were both in it. And you've been going there ever since, I suppose ? "
"On and off," admitted Hervey sullenly. "I told Bricks there'd be a row—"
"You're a liar ! " cried Brickwell. "It was me who said—"
"Will you stop arguing ? " rasped Biggles angrily. "Do you want the whole school to hear
? If you'd had any sense you'd have gone to Barnes and told him what was going on, then you'd have made a friend of him instead of an enemy. Do you know who was setting the snares ? "
"Yes," muttered Brickwell.
" Who ? "
"Dunnage. We saw him at it once. That was before he went to jail."
"You let him set the snares and then went round and pinched the birds," sneered Biggles.
"You're a bright pair."
"They weren't his birds," protested Hervey.
"They weren't yours, either," retorted Biggles. "But I don't want to stand here arguing with you about it. I'll take your word that you haven't been to the wood this week. There's going to be a row presently, but if you'll stay clear of the wood, and keep your mouths shut, I'll keep mine shut as far as you're concerned."
Hervey put a hand in his pocket and pulled out a bag of sweets. "Have some," he invited.
"No, thanks," answered Biggles coldly. "I don't need bribing. I haven't forgotten that you once gave me some monkey nuts," he added grimly.
"I'm sorry about that," murmured Hervey uncomfortably.
"You may be, now it can't do any good," Biggles told him as he turned away.
"Is it pax ? " asked Hervey, almost imploringly.
"Paz est—while you keep out of the wood, and stop bullying the kids," said Biggles. And with that he walked away.
XII
TRAGIC NEWS
As Biggles dressed the following morning his frame of mind was more one of pleasurable anticipation than anything else. In the first place he was relieved to know that the continuance of the poaching was not to be attributed to Hervey and Brickwell. He believed
them, because what he had seen went a long way to confirm their story. While not excusing them for what they had done he was glad that they were not quite as bad as he had at first every reason to suppose. He was glad, too, that he could now be of some service to Sam Barnes, who was, in spite of his reputation, a kindly old man who was only doing the job for which he was paid. In his own experience Sam had behaved decently, and he was looking forward to another chat with him—one which, he thought, should justify his confidence in him. Wherefore, at Divine Service, Biggles put his heart into his singing.
The crash came immediately afterwards. A number of boys were standing about as usual, pushing, arguing, jostling, some playing conkers. Into the yard came running a boy named Thompson, who, being of a different religious denomination from the majority, had been allowed to go to his own church in the town. He was pale, and obviously in a state of excitement.
"Hi, chaps ! " he shouted shrilly. "Have you heard the news ? "
"What is it ? " asked someone casually.
"It's old Barnes."
"What about him ? " asked somebody else. "He's been shot ! "
Biggles, who heard this, felt his muscles weaken as if they had been made of jelly. He could feel the blood draining from his face. He walked forward. "What did you say ? " he asked, in a voice that he did not recognise as his own.
"Old Barnes has been shot."
"Do you mean—he's dead ? "
"Of course he's dead, you fool ! " cried Thompson, taking advantage of his brief moment of fame as a news-bearer. "Didn't I say he was shot ? "
Voices buzzed on all sides.
"Where did it happen ? " asked Biggles above the uproar, although in his heart he knew the answer.
"They found his body in Foxley Wood early this morning. Some men carried him home on a hurdle. I heard all about it in the town. Everybody's talking about it. When he didn't come home last night they went out to look for him. Grumble found him. They say the bullet went slap into his heart."
Feeling weak and ill, Biggles went to the nearest wall and leaned against it. He needed support, for the shock had produced a sensation of numbness, of unreality, such as he had never before experienced. His brain whirled, unable, it seemed, to grasp the dreadful truth. Sam Barnes was dead. The poor old man had been murdered, shot down in full health by a poacher's bullet. He would never see him again. It seemed impossible.
Biggles closed his eyes, tears that he could not restrain oozing through the closed lids.
"Look at Biggles ! " cried a boy, laughing. "He's blubbing."
Biggles sprang at him like a tiger, but the boy bolted, so he went back to the wall, fighting to recover his composure, for he wanted to think.
This was not easy, but when he had recovered somewhat his first reaction was alarm. He was alarmed by the knowledge of what he knew. That he knew who the murderer was he never for a moment doubted. In his mind's eye he could still see the picture of Dunnage's brutal face in the moonlight ; could still see him beating the brains out of the luckless pheasant, could see him folding the gun, and his stealthy departure. Slowly Biggles' grief turned to anger. Not for an instant had he any doubts as to what he should do.
As soon as dinner was over, without speaking to anybody, he went out through the school gates and walked straight to the Police Station.
There he found Marshall, the police sergeant, Grimble, the local constable, and an inspector whom he did not know. They broke off talking when he walked in and looked at him inquiringly.
" Yes, sonny, what is it ? " asked the sergeant. "We're busy."
"I know you must be," answered Biggles.
But
I've come to tell you who shot Sam Barnes." "Yes, and who was it ? " asked the sergeant, smiling condescendingly. "Make haste."
"It was Mick Dunnage," stated Biggles.
"That's what we all thought at first, but I'm afraid you've guessed wrong, laddie," said the inspector, and turned away.
"But I'm not guessing," replied Biggles. "I know Dunnage did it."
"Oh, and how do you know ? "
" I was there," asserted Biggles.
"You mean—you saw Dunnage shoot Barnes ? " " Well, no, I didn't exactly see him shoot him, but—"
"Now you run along and play, there's a good boy," said the sergeant patronisingly.
"But I tell you I was in Foxley Wood yesterday
and I saw Dunnage there ! " cried Biggles in an exasperated voice, for this was a very different reception from what he had expected.
"What time was this ? " asked the inspector.
"I hadn't a watch, but it must have been about five."
The inspector shook his head. "It wasn't Dunnage you saw. Dunnage was in Hayford from three o'clock until after midnight. He's got a stone cold alibi—if you know what that means ? "
"Who says he was in Hayford ? "
"Fred Chapman, who keeps the Horse and Hounds public-house. Jeremiah Siggins was there, too. They were all drinking together—got drunk together, from what I can make out. Afterwards Siggins drove Dunnage home in his dogcart."
Somebody's telling lies ! " declared Biggles hotly. "Dunnage hasn't got a rifle, or a gun, if it comes to that. He's no licence."
Biggles laughed scornfully. "That wouldn't stop him from carrying one. In fact, he was carrying one last night, because I saw him."
The sergeant
shook his head. "I'm sorry, sonny, your story won't wash. What we want is facts."
Biggles nearly choked. "If you'll come with me I'll show you Dunnage's tracks," he offered.
" In the wood ? "
"Of course not. How could there be tracks on dead leaves ? I mean on the path to Hayford."
"I said he was in Hayford," answered the sergeant. "He walked there, by the footpath.
Now you trot along and play, like a good boy."
Biggles saw that he was wasting his time. Swallowing his anger, he said: "Will you please tell me this. Have you got the bullet that killed Mr.
Barnes ? "
"Yes, we have."
"What calibre was it ? "
"What's that to you ? "
"I have a reason for wanting to know."
"It was a •44. Now stop asking questions before I get angry."
"I'm sorry I troubled you," said Biggles simply. "One day you'll be sorry you didn't listen to me." He went out into the street.
He walked along to the next corner and then stopped, brooding. "Trot along, sonny," the policeman had said, as if he were a fool. For a little while he lingered, wondering if he should go to the Squire and tell him the story. Perhaps he would be reasonable enough to listen to it.
As he stood there he saw the two very men uppermost in his mind, Dunnage and Siggins, come out of the White Hart tavern. They made a nice pair, he thought bitterly.
Siggins, he knew, was lying, to provide Dunnage with an alibi. That could only mean they were partners in crime. Remembering how he had seen Hervey and Brickwell dispose of a pheasant to Siggins, the thought struck him that Dunnage probably sold his poached pheasants to the same man.
The two men had now parted company, Dunnage walking on towards the house where he lived, and Siggins cutting across the street towards his shop, or the lane that gave access to his back door. Watching the man, Biggles had what he thought was an in spiration.
39 Biggles Goes To School Page 12
