The Dark Lady Read Online Free Page B

the inspector’s chuckle.
    â€œI’m surprised you didn’t find the murder weapon,” Woodend mused. “In my experience, most killers who use a blunt instrument abandon it near the scene of the crime.”
    â€œI’ve got some men out searching the field where we found Fred Foley’s overcoat,” Chatterton said, and pretended not to notice when Woodend shook his head doubtfully.
    They followed the path as it twisted and turned between the trees. “How did the dead man manage to see his way along here at night?” the chief inspector asked. “Did he have a torch with him?”
    â€œWe didn’t find one if he did,” Chatterton said. “But there was a full moon that night, so he wouldn’t have had too much difficulty picking his way between the roots.”
    â€œYou’re sure of that?”
    Chatterton nodded. “I tried it myself the following evening. It wasn’t exactly as light as day, but I managed perfectly well.”
    â€œGlad to hear you’ve not just been sittin’ on your hands, waitin’ for me to arrive,” Woodend said. “There’s some forces I could mention that think just because they’ve called in the Yard . . .” He stopped speaking and came to a sudden halt. “We’re gettin’ close, aren’t we?”
    â€œHow did you know that, sir?”
    â€œI can sense it. I’m a bit psychic on occasion. It’s nothin’ to be proud of – I sometimes think all it means is that I’m slowly goin’ round the twist – but there it is, an’ I use it when I can.”
    â€œThe body was found just round the next bend,” Chatterton said, and when they’d turned the bend he pointed down to the root of a mature chestnut tree. “Just there.”
    Woodend closed his eyes tightly, and tried to conjure up a picture of what had happened on this spot a few nights earlier, but he appeared to have used up all his psychic powers for that day.
    â€œRight, Inspector,” he said, “where’s that pint of best bitter you’ve been promisin’ me?”

Two
    T he bar of the Westbury Social Club was an uneasy mixture of faded elegance and modern practicality, with a moulded ceiling gazing down disapprovingly on a formica-topped bar, and high, elegant windows serving as no more than a backdrop for stacks of empty beer crates. There was a billiard table, such as the one the original inhabitants of the house might have played on, and a dartboard, of which they would definitely have disapproved.
    The only person in evidence in the bar when Woodend, Rutter and Chatterton arrived was the steward, a middle-aged man called Tony, with a bald spot on the crown of his head and watchful, interested eyes.
    Inspector Chatterton ordered three pints. Woodend took a generous sip of his, then smacked his lips contentedly.
    â€œIt’s a good pint is this, Tony,” he told the bar steward.
    â€œThe secret’s in the way you clean your pipes,” the other man said complacently.
    Rutter, watching the exchange, chalked another one up to his boss. By complimenting Tony on his beer, Woodend had won himself a friend for life – and a very useful one indeed. Yet to be fair to his boss, the sergeant thought, he would never have said the beer was good if it hadn’t been, because in Woodend’s eyes telling lies about ale amounted almost to sacrilege.
    â€œWere you on duty yourself the night this German feller went an’ got himself killed?” Woodend asked.
    â€œI was,” the bar steward replied.
    â€œHow many people were there in here at the same time he was, would you say?”
    Tony looked around the room, and Woodend guessed he was counting imaginary heads.
    â€œAbout twenty,” the steward said finally.
    â€œAnd you knew them all?”
    â€œOh yes, they’re all regulars. This is a members-only club, you see – very strict, the