Terror by Gaslight Read Free Page B

two fishermen had rods projecting over the water. However, they were sitting quite still in their folding stools, eyes fixed on their floats, which were undisturbed out on the water. The men seemed not to notice her, as she made her way along the narrow beach that fringed the pond.
    Separating the beach from the trees there was a modest margin of turf and, halfway along this, Clare came upon a fallen tree; she found a patch of the trunk where the bark had been broken off to reveal the smooth wood underneath.This would be a comfortable enough perch for forty or fifty minutes.
    She sat down, took a notepad and pencil from her pocket, and began to jot down the things she had seen and heard on her walk: the trees and bushes, the animals and birds, the vistas and views, the latter more extensive now many trees were almost bare. She had seen two hares, not boxing as they would do in the spring, but lolloping around together on the greensward before disappearing into the undergrowth. She had also seen an owl, apparently asleep up a tree, resting before nightfall, when he would begin his relentless hunt for prey.
    When she felt she had captured all the treasures she had met with on the way, Clare began to survey the scene in front of her.
    The lake, protected from the breeze by the surrounding wood, was placid, its calm ruffled only occasionally when the tip of a pike briefly broke the surface. Pike were too big to interest the heron, and the fishermen could only wait and hope that one of them would take one of their lines. So neither heron nor humans reacted.
    All around the pool’s perimeter coots and moorhens were bustling about, forever engaged in some urgent but obscure activity; a total contrast to the elegant heron, which hadn’t moved a feather since Clare arrived.
    As she studied the scene, Clare herself was being observed by the watcher in the wood. The man was leaning against a tree a little way back from the clearing, where he could see and not be seen.
    For a while Clare sat absorbed by the beauty around her. And then last night’s sleepless hours began to take their toll. She had chosen a spot where a gap between two treetops allowed a ray of sunshine to caress her face. She felt her eyelids beginning to close.
    For half an hour she slept, and then was awoken by a fierce burst of quacking from four ducks at the far end of the water. For some reason, few ducks ventured to Heron Pool. But those that did were especially jealous of their territory.
    The altercation ended when one duck went scuttling away into the trees, briefly pursued by the other three, still flapping and squawking.
    Once the intruder had been seen off, silence was restored. The water and the woodland glade resumed dozing in the winter sunshine.
    Then came more excitement.
    Clare was suddenly aware of movement on the pond’s tranquil surface, and saw two small blobs swimming towards her. She watched as they reached the shore in front of her and came out to shake the water off their little bodies. They were water voles. Then, to her delight, they began to sport on the beach, almost as if they were playing catch.
    For more than a minute the game went on, and then a bad thing happened. There was a flutter of wings, followed by squeals of panic from the voles, and then a bird of prey was airborne with one of the little creatures in its beak. The other vole raced for cover under a bush.
    Clare sighed. Then she picked up her notepad again and wrote a few more words: ‘Peregrine active on Heron Pool, 27 November.’
    It was the most dramatic event she had witnessed this morning, as well as the saddest. But there had been many other happenings of a more pleasing nature. Now she must go home and log them all in her Heath file, and then select the items for her December article.
    She stood up, stretched, and put away her notepad and pencil. Across the pool, the two fishermen had also decided it was time to leave. They were starting to secure their rods and