Bleeding Hooks

by Harriet Rutland

  “In the same place as the gut off that salmon fly,” replied Mr. Winkley. “Miss Partridge says that there was nothing round her neck when she recovered consciousness early this morning, and there was no sign of it in the bedroom. I imagine that the same delayed slip-knot was used again. It would account for the sudden pressure and gradual release. I’ve an idea that I’ve seen something of the kind, but at the moment I don’t remember where. It’s tucked away in a pigeon-hole in my mind, and will pop out one day. I’ve got that kind of brain.”

  “This is all very fine,” said Pussy suddenly, “but how do you explain the fact that I heard Piggy’s voice before I lost consciousness?”

  “You didn’t,” replied Gunn. “You lost consciousness straight away, then you revived a bit when I came into your room, and fainted off again. Isn’t that right, Mr. Winkley?”

  “I believe it is,” he replied. “You see, Miss Partridge, if Mr. Gunn didn’t murder Mrs. Mumsby, he wasn’t the person who attacked you last night. You can be quite sure of that.”

  “Is that so?” said Pussy vindictively. “You’re quite sure? Then perhaps you’d better ask him, Mr. Winkley, where he was when Mrs. Mumsby died.”

  Mr. Winkley looked inquiringly at Gunn, and this time he, also, saw murder in his eyes.

  “You filthy little rotter!” Gunn exclaimed. “You know that I can’t answer that question!”

  Chapter 30

  Mr. Winkley went away from Pussy’s bedroom feeling that he would never elicit the truth about Mrs. Mumsby’s murder by indirect questioning. Fitting oddly assorted pieces of facts into one complete whole was his forte; he was unaccustomed to having to find out those facts for himself. And if, he thought, he could not rely on the straightforwardness of the two young people who had agreed to help him, how could he hope to prise the truth from others in the hotel who would almost certainly regard his inquiries with suspicion?

  The worst aspect of the affair was that it was having a bad effect on his fishing. From being feted as the most brilliant fisherman in the hotel, who could be relied upon to bring in the best bag whatever the weather, he had become the Jonah of the party. For when his mind should have been devoid of anything but the thought of catching bigger and better fish than anyone else on the lake, it was filled instead with theories about Mrs. Mumsby’s murder. When he should have had eyes for nothing except the top-dropper of his cast as he drew it through the water, he saw only the fly which had pierced Mrs. Mumsby’s hand. The consequence was that his line never had that taut expectancy which is the essence of successful fishing. He was never quite ready for the first mild swirl of the water which betokens a rising trout, so that he struck too late. Therefore he only hooked and landed the head-and-tail risers which were all too few at this late part of the season, for even fish are human enough to behave in a more sedate fashion when they settle down to rear a family.

  He felt his lack of skill all the more since he could offer no excuse to his nightly critics in the hall. He knew only too well that, at this time of the year, a hooked fish should be a dead fish. Only in spring and early summer could you explain that the fish had a soft mouth and “broke away with a toothache – a two-pounder if he was an ounce, my dear fellow”. But towards the end of the season, both salmon and trout were tough in more senses than one, and the cock-fish in particular had strong jaws, the lower one developed already into a pronounced hook with which to dig holes in the gravel bed of his favourite spawning ground.

  After a few blank days, Mr. Winkley was filled with the kind of exasperation which, before the days of steel shafts, prompted golfers to break their clubs over their knees.

  But fishing has truly been named “the gentle art”. No fisherman would give way to his temper at the expense of his rod; it is the darling of his heart and he puts its safety ever before his own. Should unhallowed feet walk near the ground where it is resting, he will rush to the spot and hold it upright at attention, until they have passed. Should he have to negotiate a tricky hazard over rock or ditch, he will hand his rod first to the ghillie, and risk a tumble or wetting, alone. When he returns from his day’s sport, his rod must be tenderly wiped, unscrewed, and tied away in its divided case. During the winter, he hangs it on a special hook, lest any warp should appear on its svelte surface. And if, on taking it out for the first time at the beginning of a new season, he does not bestow upon it the kiss which the crusader of olden times used to bestow upon his sword, you may be sure that he feels like doing so.

  It is easily understandable, therefore, that when an ardent fisherman becomes exasperated with his lack of prowess, there is no course open to him except to admit that he is stale, and to give up fishing for a day or two. This is what Mr. Winkley decided to do.

  Dressed in his most reputable tweeds, he sauntered one morning to the door of the hotel to wave off the others with a smile apparently redolent of pity.

  But the morning lacked zest.

  He had a late breakfast, wrote an unnecessary letter, and set off for a sharp walk along the sea-shore. But after an hour, his resolution weakened, and he found himself retracing his steps towards the hotel. As he drew near, he came upon the bustle of a late departure, and found a little group consisting of Mr. Pindar, Dr. Rippington Roberts, a ghillie who, he was interested to note, was the same John Jones who had been in Mrs. Mumsby’s employ, and three dogs, preparing for a day’s shooting.

  The dogs were by far the most excited members of the expedition. They consisted of a red setter and two liver-and- white spaniels belonging to the doctor, and named respectively, Lock, Stock, and Barrel. The similarity of the first two names did not cause the confusion one might have expected between setting and retrieving, for all three dogs were skilfully controlled by their appropriate whistles.

  Mr. Pindar and the doctor were deep in an argument about the merits of different brands of cartridges when Mr. Winkley joined them.

  “Hallo!” he greeted them. “Have you gone stale, too?”

  Pindar lifted his dark, handsome face and smiled, but to Mr. Winkley’s keen eyes, the smile looked forced, and the face worried.

  “Not exactly,” he replied. “The doctor here had promised me a day’s shooting, and as I may have to cut my holiday short, I thought I’d ferret him out today.”

  The doctor looked up through shaggy grey brows, which stuck out in untidy wisps overhanging his eyes, and gave him the appearance of an old English sheepdog.

  “Gone stale, have ye?” he barked, thus completing the illusion. “Well, so’ve I. Yes. I haven’t caught a fish since Mrs. Mumsby died. Seems to have put a curse on the fishing, that woman. I wouldn’t mind so much if she’d been anything of a fisherman, but I grudge an actress like her spoiling things.”

  “It’s strange that women have a reputation for being unlucky in connection with water. Lakes, rivers, the sea, there must be dozens of superstitions connected with them.” remarked Mr. Pindar.

  “If you saw as much of women as I do, you wouldn’t think it so strange.” growled the doctor. “You’d know they’re unlucky.”

  “Was she an actress?’’ asked Mr. Winkley suddenly.

  “Who? Mrs. Mumsby?” replied the doctor. “I’m sure I don’t know. Looked as if she might have been an overgrown lead in a third-rate touring company, or the woman member of one of those old trapeze acts who spends her time wiping her hands and shouting ‘Hola!’, while the men do all the work.”

  Mr. Winkley looked interested.

  “What makes you say that?” he asked.

  “Their figures run to fat in the same places,” was the reply. “As a young man, I used to work in Cardiff, and I saw a good many of ’em.”

  Mr. Winkley watched their preparations for a few minutes, then said:

  “Do you mind if I join you?”

  The doctor looked surprised, and the suggestion seemed unwelcome to Mr. Pindar.

  “Can’t offer you a gun,” said the doctor, “but you’re welcome to come with us. I suppose you know enough t
o keep out of the way. I never withhold fire for anyone, and there’s no time to yell Tore’ with snipe. If you’re in doubt, keep close behind the ghillie. And you’ll need your fishing boots. We’ll be going over boggy ground, and water in Wales has a habit of running uphill. Yes.”

  Mr. Winkley went into the hotel to order sandwiches and change into more serviceable clothes, and some minutes later, the little party moved up the narrow lane beyond the hotel towards the wilder, open country.

  “You’ll remember the day Mrs. Mumsby died, by the twins you delivered, I suppose,” remarked Mr. Winkley casually. “Do you always go fishing after you’ve seen twins into the world?”

  The doctor plodded steadily on, his gun resting lightly in the crook of his arm, and his right hand fondling the smooth bowl of his pipe which wore a metal protector to keep the sparks from flying about. It seemed at first as if he did not hear the question, but at length he parried it with another. “Why do you come to Aberllyn to fish?”

  “For a rest, and because it’s lazy and peaceful,” replied Mr. Winkley. “London life becomes harassing after a time.”

  “Not half as harassing as twins,” puffed the doctor. “Hey, Lock, come away out of that! They take longer than usual, and if one dies, it’s always the one the mother wanted the most, even if they’re identical. Funny creatures, women. Yes. You need to go fishing after delivering twins.”

  “I get you,” said Mr. Winkley. “The people who ‘never can see what you like about fishing’, don’t realize how restful it is. By the way, I take it that you didn’t mean seriously what you said about Mrs. Mumsby’s death putting a curse on things. I mean, you don’t really think that there was anything unnatural about it, do you?”

  The doctor glared at him.

  “Unnatural? In the name of St. David, what are you yapping about, man?” he asked. “How could it be unnatural for a woman suffering from heart disease to die of it, eh? If you’ve come along to ask silly questions –”

  Mr. Winkley murmured a hasty apology, and turned the conversation into less dangerous channels, but Mr. Pindar remained silent, as if the questions had embarrassed him.

  It was one of those blameless October days when the sky is of summer clearness, and the air touched with the crispness of winter; a perfect day for seeing the birds, and an impossible day for fishing. Mr. Winkley was soon congratulating himself on the sudden impulse which had brought him to the open river country with the guns, but for which he might have been tempted to flog the lake without result, and have been reduced to trolling a minnow, a method of baiting fish which the enthusiastic fly fisherman despises.

  Dr. Rippington Roberts brought down the first bird which Lock had set, and Barrel, only to be distinguished from his half-brother by an appropriately greater girth, retrieved it with satisfied wags of his stumpy fringed tail.

  Mr. Pindar missed his first snipe, and maimed the next, and they all searched for fifteen minutes without finding it. This seemed to upset John Jones, the ghillie, and he cast the dogs, time and time again, through the clumps of wet, reedy grass, until the doctor gave the signal for them to move on.

  By lunch-time, four brace of the long-necked, long-legged, speckled birds had fallen to the doctor’s gun, and he was particularly pleased because two of the smaller Jack-snipe were included in his bag – a sure indication of his accurate shooting. Mr. Pindar, on the other hand, was having an off-day, if indeed he was any shot at all, which the doctor began to doubt.

  The ghillie, again at the doctor’s signal, found a comfortable spot for lunch, pulled the neat packets of sandwiches from his bag, and stood hesitantly in front of the three men as they unwrapped the grease-proof papers.

  The doctor looked at him with a knowing eye.

  “What’s wrong with you, man?” he asked.

  “It’s that bird, Doctor,” was the reply. “I think I’ll take the dogs along to see if we can find it. It might not die till the morning.”

  “Don’t be a fool,” snapped the doctor. “Sit down and get some food into you. We shall be moving off again soon. It isn’t often that I see the birds as clearly as I do today, and I’m not wasting any time.”

  “I think I’ll go all the same,” replied John, “if you have all you want.”

  “I’ve the whisky-flask in my pocket and that’s all that I need at the moment,” returned the doctor. “You always were a soft-hearted fool.” He watched him out of earshot. “Nice fellow, that,” he remarked to the others. “He knows the name and nest of every kind of bird in these parts. He won’t rest until he finds that snipe. He’ll break their necks quite happily when the dogs bring them to hand, but he won’t let one die in agony if he can help it.”

  “Decent of him,” said Mr. Pindar. “A clean, quick death isn’t a bad way out for any of us. It’s the slow, lingering kind that destroys your courage.”

  The doctor regarded him curiously.

  “Oh, he’s decent all right,” he said, “but it takes up too much time.”

  “I suppose you engaged him so that he wouldn’t feel the loss of Mrs. Mumsby’s money so badly,” put in Mr. Winkley.

  “H’m,” said the doctor. “So you think I’m a philanthropist, do you? Most of my patients think the same, but I’m not. I’ve had John as my ghillie for years, and I never go out with another man if I can help it. I used to have his father, till the old fellow went blind.”

  “You had a different man the day Mrs. Mumsby died,” remarked Mr. Winkley.

  “Never have anyone but John,” retorted the doctor.

  “But,” protested Mr. Winkley, “He was with Mrs. Mumsby; we all know that.”

  The doctor took a drink from his flask.

  “Well, there’s no harm in telling you now,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “though I can’t see why it interests you. John was up with the dawn that morning. He knew where I was – the whole village knew, of course – and he was ready to go out with me. We had two clear hours before he had to go to Mrs. Mumsby –”

  “But you never said anything about it at the time.”

  “Why should I? John was doing no harm. He came over to help me at lunch-time, too, while she was asleep, but why should I tell anyone? If Mrs. Mumsby had known that he was ghillying for me, she’d have been peeved. She paid well for his services, and expected full value for her money. But John never would take a penny from me since I pulled him round from a dose of diphtheria, years ago. Well, he’s hoping to marry young Pegi Griffiths in a year or two, and no doubt we can get even again a few months after that. Maybe it’ll be twins – the air of Aberllyn seems to produce them in pairs.”

  “So he had an alibi,” murmured Mr. Winkley.

  “Who? What? Good God, man! Anyone would think the old girl had been murdered!” He peered at Mr. Winkley through the shaggy curtain of his brows, gurgled a drop of the neat whisky down his throat from the silver-topped flask, coughed, and exclaimed, “Huh! So that’s it, eh? Well, Mr. Winkley, I don’t know what your job is, and whether you have any right to poke your nose into other people’s business or not, but I do know that if ever a woman died from natural causes, that woman was my patient, Mrs. Mumsby, and I warn you that the less you say about your suspicions, the better it will be for you.”

  He menaced his flask in the air, and Mr. Winkley, stammering earnest apologies, rose hurriedly to his feet and said: “Mr. Pindar – he must have gone off somewhere – I didn’t see him go. I think I’ll have a look for him. He didn’t look well – might be feeling sick – or something.”

  “Huh!” was the doctor’s only reply. Nevertheless he seemed to be disturbed by Mr. Winkley’s recent words, and, as he was gathering together the few remains of the sandwiches, he stopped several times as if to consider some irritating thought. “Huh!” he exclaimed again. “The meddling fool!”

  He got up and rubbed a rheumatic knee.

  Huh! Getting old, he thought. Ought to know better than to go fishing and shooting in all weathers at my time of lif
e. Always makes me stiff and bad-tempered. Been telling myself that for a good fifteen years, but it has no effect. Well, a doctor can’t die peacefully in his bed. No. He must die in harness like a good horse. People expect it. Still, I can’t expect my patients to obey my orders when I neglect them myself, can I? No. Take Mrs. Mumsby, now. She knew well enough that she’d been playing a dangerous game these last few years. I warned her often enough, but she was a damned obstinate woman. She would have things her own way, and look what it led her to!... I don’t like all this talk about unnatural death. Never expected anyone to start thinking in that way. Damned, impertinent fellow, this Winkley! The best thing is to keep him at arm’s length. Tell him nothing, that’s the way. Let him guess –

  John Jones strode up to him, dangling a dead snipe by its beak, while the dogs panted along behind him less friskily than they had departed.

  “Lock found it, sir,” he cried, a smile lighting up his dark face and oddly assorted eyes. “He set it like a new bird, and had Barrel deceived, too. But Stock knew it for a wounded bird, and brought it to hand in a flash. It would hardly have lived till the morning.”

  The doctor fondled the wet silkiness of Lock’s chestnut- coloured ears. He was too stiff to stoop and stroke the spaniel, but praised him with words.

  “You’re a fool,” said the doctor again. “You always were, ever since the day I delivered you into this poor old world, head first.”

  The ghillie grinned.

  “You’re shooting well today, Doctor,” he said. “You’d have bagged twice as many birds if you’d been alone, instead of giving the honour to Mr. Pindar all the morning.”

  The doctor fingered over the brown-specked bodies of the birds, which would no more drum their wings in acrobatics for the enticement of their mates.

  “Maybe we’re both fools,” he replied. “I should ask a man if he’ll pot a few gulls with me, before inviting him to a decent day’s shooting.”

  “You wouldn’t be mistaken in Mr. Pindar, though,” said John. “He’d be handy with a gun, by the look of him, but this morning he was worried. I thought it was Mr. Winkley, perhaps, for he seemed to move away from him as if he disliked him. I –”