In At The Death by Francis Duncan

Author:Francis Duncan [Duncan, Francis]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Random House UK

12

PANIC ON A CLIFF

TREMAINE LET HIMSELF out of the house and set off in the direction of the downs, some two or three hundred yards distant. Boyce would quite clearly be engaged upon purely routine matters in which he could be of little assistance, and to stay would merely be to wander aimlessly about the house trying to avoid coming in contact with Margaret Royman.

When he reached the road bordering the downs he turned right and for a few minutes he kept to the pavement before crossing over and walking on the open grass. Although an occasional car went by there were few people about; he appeared to have the neighbourhood to himself except for a man, a small boy, and a dog away in the distance.

As he had already noticed during his drives about the city with Boyce, the downs consisted for the most part of a comparatively flat expanse of grass, but here towards the river the ground was uneven and broken up by hollows and by clumps of stunted trees and bushes.

It was clearly a popular strolling place, at least in more favourable seasons of the year, for seats, neatly painted, had been set out at intervals of a few hundred yards, as a rule discreetly screened by the rise of the ground or by the bushes.

He descended the gentle slope of a hollow that lay in his path. It was difficult to believe that he was in the midst of a great city; the houses lining the road behind him were out of sight now and only the sky and the grass remained within his vision. It occurred to him how easily murder might be done in such a place, with human life and activity so near at hand and yet so incredibly remote.

The far slope of the hollow was steeper. He climbed pantingly and halted for a second or two at the top to recover his breath. He saw that two or three hundred yards away across the grass a man was resting on a seat placed against a clump of hawthorns.

As he moved nearer he thought he recognized Martin Slade, and then the sight of the sticks lying against the edge of the seat at the man’s side confirmed his first impression. Some distance beyond the hawthorns, where the road evidently took a wide sweep around a curve of the downs, the other’s black saloon car was parked.

Slade stirred suddenly, and for an instant Tremaine thought the man had seen him. But it seemed that he had only been shifting to a more comfortable position, for his head remained turned away. It was not until Tremaine was no more than a yard or two from him, the sound of his approach now audible, that he looked round.

Slade’s stare was blank as their eyes met, and then a hint of recognition came into his face.

‘Good morning,’ Tremaine said. ‘Mr. Slade, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘My name’s Tremaine. We met yesterday morning—at Doctor Hardene’s house.’

‘Oh—of course. Remember you now.

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