Brought to Light: A Bobby Owen Mystery by E.R. Punshon

Author:E.R. Punshon [Punshon, E.R.]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Dean Street Press
Published: 2017-01-01T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER XIX

CANBAR FARM

NOT INDEED till Bobby came to where a sign-post announced a turning that led to the Canbar and Skeleton farms, did he decide that there he would pay his first visits.

So for another two or three miles or so he bumped over ruts and stones and splashed through puddles—for this he had now entered on was little more than a rough farm-track—till he came to a well-kept, prosperous-looking farm-house. He noticed that the small lawn and flower-beds before it were carefully tended and at the moment showed a rich display of blooms. Unusual, he knew, for most farmers tend to regard it as slightly unethical to give up good land for the production of anything so purely frivolous as flowers, and most farmers’ wives have neither time nor leisure for any such pursuit.

Bobby made a little mental note of this detail. It might be useful to remember it in the future when trying to estimate character and motive. He leaned his motor-cycle against the garden gate post and was walking up the path towards the house when he heard a man shouting to tell him that if he wanted to see the ‘missis’ she was over by the old barn. Towards therefore what from its appearance he took to be the ‘old barn’ he made his way. From it there came striding to meet him a tall, vigorous-looking young woman, wearing breeches and gaiters and such substantial shoes as could certainly never have made those footprints found on the moor.

Not perhaps a very pretty girl in the ordinary sense, with her large, irregular features and highly coloured complexion, for which one guessed the only cosmetics used had been sun, wind, and rain. But the eyes were bright and clear beyond the usual; and she was certainly a fine, handsome, upstanding lass, with about her, too, an air of authority and decision a little strange in one so young, but coming to her naturally as responsible for the working of a fair-sized farm and the employment of some seven or eight men, more at busy seasons. In a clear, strong voice tuned by use and custom to carry far in the open air she greeted him and asked:

“Are you the police, the man from London? Mr Day-Bell told me I might have a visit.”

“Well, we do rather want to know if you can help in any way,” Bobby answered. “I take it you are Miss Christabel Merton? Could you spare me a few minutes, do you think?”

“I suppose so,” she answered resignedly. “You had better come up to the house. I don’t know what I can tell you, though. Anyhow, police can’t be worse than those awful inspectors nosing round and wanting to know why a cow that hasn’t calved isn’t giving any milk any more and will you please fill in a form in triplicate to explain.”

She led the way to the house, entering by a side door, and then introducing Bobby into a fair-sized room that looked as up to date an office as any all London town could show.

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