Death Holds the Key by Alexander Thorpe

Author:Alexander Thorpe
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Fremantle Press
Published: 2024-08-15T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

So it was that, against his initial better judgement, Detective Constable James Hartley found himself crawling facedown through a field of wheat. His role in the farce was to approach the shearing shed from the east, coming quietly upon the side door which Winnie had pointed out from the top of the hill. At the same time, Miss O’Donnell was creeping around to the structure’s open western wall, it being assumed that her discovery, should it occur, would cause the inhabitants of the shed more annoyance than alarm. The mendicant had been assigned the rather less physical task of keeping Kaiser at a distance from the other dogs, facilitating the surreptitious approach of his comrades.

Hartley’s share of the work, ridiculous though it made him feel, progressed easily enough at the outset. He made his way towards the shed in a wide arc so as to stay out of sight, keeping to the cover of fences and trees. It was only the last fifty yards or so that he had to crawl, popping his head up every now and then over the rows of wheat to check his bearings. Whenever he did this, he was also sure to throw a glance towards the hill where the friar was hidden. If either Hartley or Miss O’Donnell showed signs of being spotted, the friar was to release Kaiser. The dog would then – her role having been patiently explained to her by an endearingly earnest Winnie – bound down to the shed, signalling the remaining infiltrator to rush forward with all haste in the hope of pre-empting any attempts at concealment on the part of the shearers.

Despite the ignominious method of locomotion and the attendant risk of damage to his treasured uniform, Hartley was surprised to find himself enjoying the caper. There was an element of adventure inherent in crawling towards an enemy position, even if said fortress was filled with a ton or two of matted wool in lieu of artillery shells. He was also aware, though he would never admit to it, of a certain buoyancy, a lightness of spirit which correlated rather neatly with the presence of Winifred O’Donnell. There was a sort of pure joy in the young woman’s cavalier approach to reality which enabled Hartley to forget, however briefly, that he was in the process of investigating a brutal murder and had yet to meet with anything significant in the way of success. This dreamlike state persisted for a fair stretch of time even after Winnie had taken her leave, or on the odd occasion when she was separated from him by – to take just any old thing as an example – a field or two of wheat and an enormous corrugated-iron shed.

The heightening sun warmed Hartley’s back as he crawled forward through the grain, and the lilting warble of a magpie floated on the spring air. The detective looked up to see a single towering wandoo near the south-east corner of the shed. The magpie

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