Footsteps in the Dark Read Online Free Page B
Author: Georgette Heyer
"I beg your pardon," he said, "I'm afraid I'm trespassing." He spoke in a curt way, as though he were either shy or slightly annoyed. "I've been fishing the Crewel, and a man told me I could get back to the village by a short cut through your grounds. Only I don't seem able to find it."
Charles said: "There is a right-of-way, but you are some distance from it. In fact, your guide seems to have directed you to the wrong side of the house."
The stranger reddened. "I'm sorry," he said stiffly. "Could you point out the way to it?"
Margaret who had come up, and had been listening curiously, said suddenly: "Why you're the man who changed the wheel for me yesterday!"
The stranger raised his hat, slightly bowing.
"Are you staying at the Bell?" Margaret inquired.
"Yes. I've come down for some trout-fishing," he answered.
"There seems to be some quite good fishing here," Peter said, bridging yet another gap in the conversation.
"Quite good," agreed the dark young man. He shifted his rod from one hand to the other. "Er - can I reach the right-of-way from here, or must I get back to the road?"
"Oh no, I'll show you the way," Margaret said, with her friendly smile. "It's only just across the drive."
"It's very good of' you, but really you must not trouble…'
"It's no trouble. And this place is so overgrown with trees and bushes you can easily miss the way. Peter, you'd better go back and tell Celia it's all right. Come on, Mr. - I don't think I know your name?"
"Strange," said the young man. "Michael Strange."
"I'm Margaret Fortescue," she told him. "This is my brother, and this is my brother-in-law, Mr. Malcolm."
Again the young man bowed. "Are you staying long in this part of the world?" asked Charles.
Just for a week or two," Strange replied. "I'm on my holiday."
"Er - won't you come into the house?" Peter suggested. "And have a cocktail or something?"
"Thanks, but I think I must be getting along. If Miss Fortescue will really be so kind as to show me the short cut to the village…'
"Yes, rather," Margaret said. "Perhaps you'll look us up some other time. Come on."
They set off together, leaving the two others to watch them out of sight.
"Well, there you are," said Charles. "Apparently she's got off again. And would you explain to me how a man making for a perfectly well-known right-of-way fetches up under our drawing-room windows?"
Peter was frowning. "He doesn't - if he is looking for the right-of-way. Common sense must tell him that it can't run this side of the house. To tell you the truth, Chas, I don't like your black-browed friend. Just what was he doing, snooping around here?"
"He wasn't exactly communicative, so I can't say. Might have wanted to take a look at the Priory, of course. Lots of people can't keep off a ruin."
"He didn't look to me that sort," Peter said, still frowning.
Charles yawned. "Probably a mere ass without any bump of locality."
"And he didn't look like that either."
"Oh, all right, then, no doubt he came to abduct Margaret. Now what about this groaning door?"
But Michael Strange made no attempt to abduct Margaret. She led him round the corner of the house on to the avenue that ran down to the gates, and cut across this into the wood that lay between the house and the road.
"I'm taking you past the chapel," she said. "The footpath is beyond that, you know. You must have asked the way of one of the yokels. Isn't it odd that they never can direct one intelligibly?"
"They always assume too much local knowledge on one's part," he nodded. A smile, which showed a row of very white teeth, put his rather grim expression to flight. "There's altogether too much of the "past-Parson Gregory's-and-turn-right-handed-when-you-get-to Jackson's-farm" about their directions."
"I know," she said, laughing. "I'm one of those unfortunate people who never know which way I ought to go, too. Tell me, do you know many of the people down here, or is it your first visit?"
"My first," he answered. "I
Charles said: "There is a right-of-way, but you are some distance from it. In fact, your guide seems to have directed you to the wrong side of the house."
The stranger reddened. "I'm sorry," he said stiffly. "Could you point out the way to it?"
Margaret who had come up, and had been listening curiously, said suddenly: "Why you're the man who changed the wheel for me yesterday!"
The stranger raised his hat, slightly bowing.
"Are you staying at the Bell?" Margaret inquired.
"Yes. I've come down for some trout-fishing," he answered.
"There seems to be some quite good fishing here," Peter said, bridging yet another gap in the conversation.
"Quite good," agreed the dark young man. He shifted his rod from one hand to the other. "Er - can I reach the right-of-way from here, or must I get back to the road?"
"Oh no, I'll show you the way," Margaret said, with her friendly smile. "It's only just across the drive."
"It's very good of' you, but really you must not trouble…'
"It's no trouble. And this place is so overgrown with trees and bushes you can easily miss the way. Peter, you'd better go back and tell Celia it's all right. Come on, Mr. - I don't think I know your name?"
"Strange," said the young man. "Michael Strange."
"I'm Margaret Fortescue," she told him. "This is my brother, and this is my brother-in-law, Mr. Malcolm."
Again the young man bowed. "Are you staying long in this part of the world?" asked Charles.
Just for a week or two," Strange replied. "I'm on my holiday."
"Er - won't you come into the house?" Peter suggested. "And have a cocktail or something?"
"Thanks, but I think I must be getting along. If Miss Fortescue will really be so kind as to show me the short cut to the village…'
"Yes, rather," Margaret said. "Perhaps you'll look us up some other time. Come on."
They set off together, leaving the two others to watch them out of sight.
"Well, there you are," said Charles. "Apparently she's got off again. And would you explain to me how a man making for a perfectly well-known right-of-way fetches up under our drawing-room windows?"
Peter was frowning. "He doesn't - if he is looking for the right-of-way. Common sense must tell him that it can't run this side of the house. To tell you the truth, Chas, I don't like your black-browed friend. Just what was he doing, snooping around here?"
"He wasn't exactly communicative, so I can't say. Might have wanted to take a look at the Priory, of course. Lots of people can't keep off a ruin."
"He didn't look to me that sort," Peter said, still frowning.
Charles yawned. "Probably a mere ass without any bump of locality."
"And he didn't look like that either."
"Oh, all right, then, no doubt he came to abduct Margaret. Now what about this groaning door?"
But Michael Strange made no attempt to abduct Margaret. She led him round the corner of the house on to the avenue that ran down to the gates, and cut across this into the wood that lay between the house and the road.
"I'm taking you past the chapel," she said. "The footpath is beyond that, you know. You must have asked the way of one of the yokels. Isn't it odd that they never can direct one intelligibly?"
"They always assume too much local knowledge on one's part," he nodded. A smile, which showed a row of very white teeth, put his rather grim expression to flight. "There's altogether too much of the "past-Parson Gregory's-and-turn-right-handed-when-you-get-to Jackson's-farm" about their directions."
"I know," she said, laughing. "I'm one of those unfortunate people who never know which way I ought to go, too. Tell me, do you know many of the people down here, or is it your first visit?"
"My first," he answered. "I
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