Death at Gallows Green Read Online Free PDF

look was thunderous. Mrs. McGregor flinched and bit her lip, and fumbled the cheese hurriedly onto her husband’s plate.
    â€œWhere are the pistols?” Edward asked. When Mr. McGregor did not speak, his face hardened. “I warn you, McGregor. This is a very serious matter. A constable was found dead at the foot of your garden. I have every right to assume that you know something about his murder.” His tone became flint. “Fetch those pistols.”
    With a venomous look at his wife, McGregor pushed back his chair and got up. Standing, he proved dwarfish, shorter by half a head than Mrs. McGregor, and stooped. He went to a corner cupboard that housed dishes and crockery, a mortar and pestle and several tarnished brass candlesticks, and took from the top shelf a worn leather case, brass-trimmed, with a brass lock. He slapped the case on the table, fished a key out of a cup, and unlocked it.
    â€œYer so cunnin’-like,” he said sourly, sitting down again to his tea, “ye c’n look f’r yerself.”
    Charles watched as Edward opened the case. It was lined with threadbare blue velvet and contained space for two large pistols. Only one—a silver-plated dueling pistol, a muzzleloader—was in the case. Charles glanced at Mrs. McGregor, whose wrinkled face was deeply perplexed.
    â€œWhere’s the other pistol?” Edward asked.
    â€œGone,” said McGregor. “Sold.”
    The perplexity on Mrs. McGregor’s face changed to indignation and her cheeks grew red.
    Edward closed the case. “When?”
    â€œAfore Easter.” McGregor’s eyes slid to his wife. Some of the surliness went out of his mouth, and was replaced by defiance. “Well, I needed the money, din’t I, Tildy?”
    â€œT’wern’t yourn t‘sell, Mr. McGregor,” she said stonily. “T’were Tommy’s. Wot am I t’ tell him when he comes fer his guns? Tell him you sold one o’em? An’ wot’s he gooin’ t’ say t’ that?”
    â€œTo whom did you sell it?” Edward asked.
    The woolly eyebrows made a deep V, and the mouth went surly again. “T’ a navvy,” McGregor growled. “Passin’ through. Give me a gold suv’rin, he did.”
    â€œA suv‘rin!” Mrs. McGregor gasped. “Why, I niver thought ’twere worth—”
    â€œIf you sold it for a sovereign, you were cheated,” Charles remarked. “One of these guns is worth twice that.” He pointed to a pile of red cloth heaped on a workbasket beside the fire. “Is that your coat?”
    McGregor’s scowl deepened. “Wot if it be?”
    Charles picked it up. The coat was old and heavily worn, the red colour faded. On the right sleeve, near the shoulder, a thumbnail-size triangular piece was missing. It was this freshlooking rip that Mrs. McGregor was apparently patching, for a small piece of cloth, of a different weight and shade of red, was being appliqued over it, like a triangular badge.
    â€œHow did you come to rip your coat?” he asked.
    â€œHow should I know?” McGregor growled. “One day ‘twas whole, next ’twas ripped.”
    Edward put the pistol case under his arm. “I’m taking this with me,” he said. He looked at Mrs. McGregor. “You will have it again in due course,” he added, not unkindly.
    â€œAnd the coat,” Charles said, picking it up.
    â€œWot’s a man t‘wear?” McGregor was stormy. “How’s a man t’ keep th’ rain off while th’ bloody coppers has got his coat, is wot I wants t’ know.”
    â€œWhat I want to know,” Edward said sternly, “is whether you’ve seen anything unusual going on in the neighbourhood. Have there been any suspicious goings-on?”
    McGregor shrugged. “Allus somethin gooin’ on, suspicious-like. Allus sheep goin’