Death at the Chase Read Online Free PDF Page B

which that deadly stone had been dropped or flung, Appleby scrutinized the owner of Ashmore Chase anew. Then he thought of the Chief Constable. Colonel Pride had in recent months become quite well known to him, and although there mightbe aspects of police work in which this gallant soldier was distinguishably an amateur Appleby made no question of his being a thoroughly conscientious person. If he had taken no action as a result of Martyn Ashmore’s story it could only be because Ashmore had so told his story as to give the strongest impression of being gently mad. Pride of course had not enjoyed the additional stimulus to action of seeing a sizeable chunk of stone suddenly fragment itself in the vicinity of his feet. Appleby promised himself to relay his own persuasive experience to Pride as rapidly as might be. Pride was not perhaps to be described as an Appleby enthusiast, but he had accepted amiably enough the rather tiresome bobbing up in his neighbourhood of a superannuated top policeman from London. He would certainly not be disposed to assert that Appleby had been imagining things.
    Quite possibly, with the ordinary resources of a detective branch, this deplorable affair could be got to the bottom of almost at once. Failing that, it should be easy to ensure that a year today (whether with Ashmore’s knowledge or not) a disagreeable reception should be awaiting anybody making a felonious approach to Ashmore Chase. Appleby found himself looking forward to this with satisfaction. It was odd how angry he still felt. Often enough in the past, desperation of one sort or another had prompted various people to deliberate attempts on his life. He couldn’t recall ever having been furious about it. There must be something particularly exacerbating in being nearly killed as the mere consequence of a casual encounter during a blameless country walk.
    Meanwhile, he wondered whether an old professional instinct could be aroused in Ashmore as well as in himself. If what Ashmore had recounted was true, tragedy had come to him only as a result of his being in some situation which an active and adventurous man could alone find himself in; the background of his story appeared to be the Résistance in occupied France. It should be possible to coax him into a mood in which his reaction to danger and violence would be other than his present mask (if it was that) of contemptuous disregard.
    ‘Why a stone from your own roof?’ Appleby demanded suddenly. He turned and pointed. ‘I know about that sort of construction, and I’m sure you do too. It’s immemorial, and it’s made to last. One might be able to wrench one of these heavy slabs free, but one couldn’t reckon on it. Why didn’t he bring something handier up with him? Did he want to suggest an accident?’
    ‘Perhaps you want to suggest an accident.’ Suddenly Ashmore’s attention did really seem engaged, and he pointed in his turn. ‘It could have been an accident – if the stone had simply become detached from somewhere up there near the ridge of the roof. By the time it reached this flat platform its momentum might be such as to bounce it over the parapet. That’s it, isn’t it – and all the rest just an old fellow imagining things?’
    ‘To be frank, I rather wish that it was – since your story, you know, is an uncommonly uncomfortable one.’ Appleby smiled disarmingly. ‘Unfortunately it just isn’t so. A sharp-edged stone crashing down on this lead might conceivably bounce, but it would leave a substantial gash or scar in doing so. I wouldn’t believe it to have been an accident even if I hadn’t heard that motor-cycle. Besides, you know, the stone didn’t come from high up. It came from there .’ Appleby’s finger went out straight in front of him. ‘Right by the fellow’s hand.’
    There could be no doubt of it. A slab had successfully been wrenched from the roof, and the underlying stone thus uncovered was lighter in colour than those