Dread Murder Read Free Page A

his daily report. The Major had never got over his military way of expecting a succinct report, and quick too.
    The park was heavily wooded, reminding him that this was once the hunting ground of the first Norman kings. Not an imaginative man, Denny did not waste much thought on the Normans. They hunted for food – no need for King George to do that; but the monarch enjoyed a ride himself when fit, and he still went out when he could escape his doctors, riding until the men of his Household were exhausted.
    Denny looked about him, then decided to take a path through dense bushes and trees. He walked down through a leafy dell. He slowed his pace; he sniffed. He smelt death. Pushing his way through the bushes, he stopped suddenly. At his feet was a pool of blood. It was a kind of basin in the ground which was lined with dried leaves so hard and dense that the blood had not drained away.
    Or not as yet, he thought – but soon it would, becoming thick and sticky.

    Keeping his feet clear, he circled the bloody area. But there was nothing to see except the blood. He considered what he had seen as he walked back to the Castle.
    Mearns was in his room, at his table, writing.
    Denny spoke at once and bluntly: ‘I have come across a pool of blood in the Park.’
    Mearns barely raised his head from his writing. ‘The remains of a fox’s kill,’ he said without interest.
    Denny rapped on the table and stared Mearns in the eye. ‘You and I have seen plenty of blood. We know how it falls. This is no blood from a fox’s kill. Too much blood, and it would have fallen in pear-shaped drops, with a smear as the dead animal was dragged away.’
    The Major stood up. ‘We must look around, Denny.’
    All the time there was a parcel on its way to be delivered to Major Mearns.
    A dead weight, he joked when it was handed over to him.
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    The London to Windsor Coach arrived on time in the late afternoon. It stopped in the Market Square in sight of the Castle; the High Street ran into the Square. Here the coach stopped in front of The Royal George, the big inn which was its staging post before going on to Ascot.
    The coachman climbed down, slashing his whip in the air. ‘On time.’ Punctual to the half-hour, this was promptness enough. The clock was not watched to the minute. With horse, hills and foul weather, you took what came.

    The passengers descended from the coach, each one stiff and cold, glad to have arrived. The first to disembark was a woman. She was young and sprightly; she leapt down onto the paving stones, waved goodbye to the coachman and sped away.
    â€˜Goodbye, Miss Fairface,’ the coachman called. She was an actress, about to perform in the new play at the Theatre Royal.
    The three men who next appeared were slower, especially a plump, well-furred man to whom the others gave way.
    â€˜After you, Mr Pickettwick.’
    The coachman touched his hat and pocketed his tip. ‘Thank you, Sir.’ He shook Mr Pickettwick’s hand. Then he began to turn the coach in the direction of the stables where he would change the horses.
    â€˜Stop, stop,’ cried Mr Pickettwick. ‘Miss Tux is not out yet.’
    Miss Tux. Tall, thin, more bone than flesh, bonneted and shawled, she was at the moment being lowered out of the coach by her maidservant who had a firm grip from behind on her elbows. ‘Now don’t pull away, Miss, or I’ll drop you in the mud.’
    â€˜Libby, Libby, handle me gently,’ a high, old voice was wailing.
    Miss Tux was deposited, upright, on the ground, with Libby still holding on.
    â€˜Come along now, Miss Tux; let me take you in and see you get a little refreshment. A hot one, I advise. Mulled wine is good. And your chair is coming … I
think I see the men pulling it up the hill now.’
    In a low voice to one of his fellow travellers, Pickettwick explained: ‘A lady of some substance in the town …’
    There