The Blood of an Englishman Read Online Free Page B

years ago and Harry took on the extra work.”
    Agatha and Gareth sat on a couple of battered chairs in the workshop. Gates and railings, grills and pieces of wrought ironwork lay about them.
    A thin wintry sun slanted through the open door where hens, sounding like rusty gates, pecked in the yard outside. Harry had trimmed the hoof and was attaching the horseshoe. I wonder what it would be like, thought Agatha, to work with one’s hands and never have to exercise one’s brain about who it was murdered whom.
    â€œI’m amazed the horse is so patient,” said Agatha.
    â€œDoesn’t hurt. Like getting your nails manicured,” said Gareth.
    At last the blacksmith had finished. “What is it?” he demanded.
    Gareth introduced Agatha. Harry was a powerful man and loomed threateningly over Agatha.
    â€œLook here,” he said. “You find out who murdered Bert and I’ll shake that man’s hand. The world’s a better place without him.”
    â€œBut what a horrible way to die!” protested Agatha.
    â€œAar, right up the goolies he got it. Serves him right. Got a decent wife. No reason to get his leg over half the village.”
    â€œAnyone in particular?” asked Agatha.
    â€œI ain’t one to spread the muck around now that bastard’s dead. You’re a detective, ain’t you? Find out yourself.”
    A thin woman huddled in a shabby tweed coat came into the shed carrying a flask and a mug. “I brought your tea, Harry,” she said.
    â€œPut it down on the bench and get out o’ here,” he said.
    She scuttled off, her head bent. I would like to get her alone, thought Agatha. She’s been crying.
    â€œWell, go on,” roared the blacksmith.
    *   *   *
    â€œThat’s his work,” said Agatha outside. “Where’s his home?”
    â€œIt’s a cottage round the back. I wouldn’t go there if I were you. If Harry catches you, he’ll be furious.”
    â€œOh, come on,” said Agatha impatiently.
    â€œActually, I’ve got a lot to do.” Gareth hurried off, leaving Agatha glaring after him.
    She squared her shoulders and went round the back of the shed.
    The blacksmith’s home was a plain redbrick building with a scarred front door that looked as if someone had periodically tried to kick their way in. The window frames were badly in need of painting.
    The door was standing open. Agatha rapped on it and called out, “Anyone home?”
    Mrs. Crosswith emerged from the dark nether regions of the house. She had discarded her coat and was wearing an apron made out of an old sack. From her straggly unkempt hair down to her old cracked shoes she looked like a photograph of rural poverty in the forties. Her faded face showed vestiges of what had once been a pretty woman. There was a purple bruise on one cheek.
    Impulsively, Agatha asked, “Does your husband beat you?”
    One red hand crept up to cover the bruise. “Only when he has had the drink taken,” she said mournfully.
    â€œDo you have children?” demanded Agatha.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œThen let’s get you into a shelter for battered women. You don’t need to put up with this treatment.”
    â€œYou leave my Harry alone,” she shrieked. “You come round here, interfering. Get yourself a man.”
    Agatha turned away in disgust. A clod of earth struck her on the back of the head. She swung round, picked up the clod and hurled it straight at the blacksmith’s wife. It struck her full in the face.
    Running back to her car, Agatha drove off as quickly as possible and then parked some distance away, switched off the engine and began to claw bits of earth from her hair.
    There was a rap at the car window and Agatha shied nervously, expecting to see the furious face of the blacksmith. But it was Charles Fraith, smiling at her. Agatha lowered the window. “Have you been rolling on the