Dead on Course Read Free Page A

below them in the woods by the river, the remote, ethereal beauty of its notes stilling the sporadic exchanges of the human company above.
    When they at last broke up, it was after midnight. Sandy Munro, who had rarely sat still for so long at a stretch, strolled alone through the night down the Wye Castle drive to the distant gates. The drive was almost three-quarters of a mile long; his practical mind diverted itself for a while with the cost of resurfacing it. For much of its length it was flanked by an avenue of two-hundred-year-old limes. Towards the gates, there was some undergrowth beneath these; the myriad scratchings of nocturnal wild life as he approached were unnaturally loud in the prevailing silence.
    He strolled over to the nearest green. He had been on thousands of golf greens in the last forty years, but never one by moonlight. The turf was soft as carpet beneath his feet, seeming in this li ght even more immaculately manicured than by day. The innocent place, so obviously man-made amid the natural features dimly visible all around him, seemed in its artificial rectitude almost threatening: it had the groomed, eerie stillness of a well-kept grave. With the thought, he turned and walked more briskly back towards the dark outlines of the main house and the lower shadows of its newly built accommodation lodges.
    As he entered the gr avelled courtyard which was surrounded by the apartments, he heard the muffled sound of voices raised in argument. The flat roof was deserted now; the voices came from somewhere beneath it. At first, he thought Harrington and Nash had renewed their quarrel, and his spirits drooped at the thought of the implications for the rest of their week here. Then it seemed to him that the voices were male and female. He wondered if Meg Peters and Tony Nash were arguing about the vehemence of his reaction earlier in the evening. But there were other people staying here as well as their party, he reminded himself.
    He let himself quietly into his own room. To his surprise, it was empty. He hardly realised how much he relied on the comforting presence of his wife in all he did; perhaps he did not want to acknowledge such dependence. But he was not seriously disturbed.
    Alison ’s absence did not at the time seem significant.

     
    3
     
    TUESDAY
     
    George Goodman had a disturbed night.
    Although it had been late when he crept between the sheets, he woke from an uneasy sleep to the sound of the dawn chorus. It began with a solitary thrush and swelled to a massive avian outburst as the different species added their contributions to the rich and varied sound, and he heard every detail. He knew now that he had overdone himself; he wasn’t as young as he used to be. On those mournful thoughts, he turned away from the light and tried desperately to sleep.
    Two hours later he accepted dolefully that there was no more rest for him. He sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, then padded through his first arthritic groans to the thin flowered curtains, drew them back, and surveyed the scene. Clear blue sky; the sun invisible somewhere to his right, but gilding the trees with its low morning rays. No human presence that he could see; rabbits busy at their eccentric play on the edge of the woods a hundred and fifty yards away. Whether God was in his heaven was debatable, but all seemed well in what he could see of the world.
    He set the electric kettle in the corner of the room to make tea, then shaved carefully with soap and water in the neat little bathroom. He looked with some distaste at the bishop’s face that others found so benign. He had not always looked like this. It was middle age which had whitened his hair and tonsured his dome: within this benign clerical figure he felt a lively and lustful young blood trying ineffectively to avoid eclipse. Why couldn’t the mind and the body keep more effective step with each other on their march through life? He sipped his tea and wondered how many more