The stranger straightened himself, drew a contemplative stream of smoke from his cigarette, and replied with the self-assurance of a regular visitor.
“Oh, I’ve only just arrived. I hope to get a few tomorrow though, if you people have left any in the lake. What’s the fishing been like lately?”
“Rotten,” replied Mr. Pindar.
“Damned bad as usual,” said General Haddox.
“Hopeless,” said Gunn.
A ghillie who had just come into the hall was adding a string of small sea-trout to the fish already on the floor, and finally laid a large, fat brown trout beneath.
Claude Weston got up, regarded it affectionately.
“An ill-favoured thing, but mine own,” he quoted.
“Why, that’s a lovely fish!” exclaimed Miss Haddox. “Did you catch it all by yourself, Claude?”
“Oh no,” he replied. “It committed suicide on the end of the hook. I swam out to rescue it, but it was too late. But don’t spare a thought for it, lady, it’s only a brown trout – of no value, commercial or otherwise, in these parts!”
A man of average height, with dark, sparse hair, his face rather grey and drawn as if he had had a tiring day, joined them, and put an affectionate arm round Claude’s shoulders.
“More nonsense, Claude?” he asked.
Claude turned.
“Oh, there you are, Dad. What an age you’ve been. Have you been trying to drown old Mother Mumsby in the lake?”
“No, she’s safe so far,” replied his father in the same bantering tones. “She went straight upstairs.”
“She always does,” said Miss Haddox spitefully. “It’s because she’s so annoyed at not catching any fish, though I must say that she ought to be used to the idea by now, for she hasn’t caught more than once since we’ve been here. It just proves what I’ve always said, that the only reason she goes fishing at all is because it’s the only chance she gets of being alone with a man!”
“Whose fish are those?” asked General Haddox hastily as a sturdily built, dark-haired ghillie pulled five fair-sized sea-trout out of his creel, and knelt down to arrange them.
“Mrs. Mumsby’s, sir,” he replied, looking up.
“Yes, we know,” said Miss Haddox. “But how many of them did she really catch?”
“Four,” replied the ghillie. “It was a good day for her indeed.”
“Four?” Miss Haddox was incredulous. “But you don’t mean to say that she’s missed the opportunity of telling us all about them? Why, she –”
“Here’s the Major,” said her brother rather unnecessarily, as Major Jeans trumpeted himself into the hall.
“Hallo, hallo! What ho within, what ho without! But not without fish, I hope. What’s anyone done today? Such a nice, bright, happy day with trout all over the lake and all under the lake and everywhere except out of the lake! Did you have a pleasant picnic, boys and girls? By Jove! I bet those fish are pulling their little whiskers and slapping their fins in glee at being left in peace for another day. What did I get? Gather round me while I tell you. Ten little brownies. Herrings! Sprats! ‘Calloo callay,’ he chortled in his joy. I’m a bloomin’ murderer!”
He slapped his hands together and rubbed the palms against each other as if he were a brewer sampling hops, and his lean, wind-chapped face beamed at them all.
“Major Jeans.”
The stranger moved forward.
“Eh? Who? Why, God bless my fishy soul, if it isn’t Winkley!” He clapped him on the shoulder, and shook the proffered hand. “Come down to tickle the trout, have you, eh? You won’t find them so ticklish this year. Well, well, you’re as welcome as the mayfly in May. Come and have –”
He bustled Mr. Winkley down the corridor leading to the bar.
And now that the last fisherman was safely within the hotel, and the last fish scrutinized, the little group of people dispersed as quickly as clouds on a windy day, and went to their several baths.
Published by Dean Street Press 2015
Copyright © 1938 Harriet Rutland
All Rights Reserved
This ebook is published by licence, issued under the UK Orphan Works Licensing Scheme.
First published in 1940 by Skeffington & Son
Cover by DSP
ISBN 978 1 910570 81 4
www.deanstreetpress.co.uk
Knock, Murderer, Knock! Page 27
