Dead Man's Quarry by Ianthe Jerrold Read Free Book Online

“It always looks a little like an old scar. The brambles that grow in the hollow and the rubbish that people throw into it have a sinister sort of look to me.
    â€˜I hate the dreadful hollow behind the little wood,
Its lips in the field above are dabbled with blood-red heath,
The—’”
    Rampson paused in the act of cutting an apple tart and groaned.
    â€œThere you go again! In my opinion all this poetry’s bad for the brain. It fills the head with preconceived ideas, and prevents the conception of an original thought. You don’t really think disused quarries are sinister. Very likely you’ve never even seen one. Yet as soon as the word’s mentioned, the wheels start going round in your head and out trots a remark that disused quarries are sinister. As for heath being blood-red, such a comparison would never occur to anybody who’d ever seen heath and blood, no, not if a dozen corpses had been hauled up out of the hollow.”
    â€œIt’s a bad comparison, I admit,” said Christmas cheerfully. “In fact, for a long time I imagined that the poet’s heath was literally drenched in gore. It wasn’t till I grew up and began to realize the shifts poets may be put to that it occurred to me he was referring to the natural colour of the heather. . . Yes, waiter? What is it?”
    â€œA phone call for Mr. Price, sir. Would you like me to take a message?”
    â€œI’ll go,” answered Felix, getting up. “I expect it’s Charles,” he added in a relieved tone. “I shan’t be long.”
    He left the room. There was a short silence while Rampson helped himself to another slice of apple tart.
    â€œRather a nice young chap, that,” he observed casually. “He reminds me of a hen who’s lost her one duckling.”
    â€œI suppose he feels responsible for his Colonial cousin,” said Christmas. “But I don’t think he feels any of the hen’s protective love for her duckling. I got the impression that his enthusiasm for his cousin is lukewarm, to say the most of it.”
    â€œI suppose you’ll be suggesting he’s murdered him next,” said Rampson resignedly. “I don’t believe murder’s half so prevalent as you novel-reading people imagine. I warn you, if he’s murdered a dozen cousins, I’m not going to get mixed up in it. As soon as I see you getting interested in a mystery, I go home.”
    â€œHow you do run on,” observed John lightly. “You’d better take the first train in the morning, because I’m interested already. Why should one member of a party of six cyclists suddenly vanish within a few miles of home?”
    â€œOh, Lord! A puncture, a heart attack, a meeting with a friend or a motor-lorry, any one of a hundred things!”
    â€œExactly. I shan’t be happy till I know which. I’ve promised to go out in the car and look for the missing cousin after dinner. You can come, if you like.”
    â€œOh, I shall come, but only for the sake of a breath of air. But I don’t suppose it’ll come to that. Our young friend’s probably heard all about his duckling’s adventures over the phone.”
    â€œProbably,” agreed John. “By the way, the Prices are rather a well-known family in these parts. There’s quite a lot about Rhyllan Hall in the guide-books. It was built by Morgan Ap-Rice in the fifteenth century, and extensively added to in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries by various Evans and Morgans. The facade, which is in the Queen Anne style of architecture, is a magnificent example of early eighteenth century design, and the park— Hullo! Is the mystery solved?”
    With a worried frown Felix entered the room and came across to the table.
    â€œThat was Dr. Browning ringing up,” he said in a depressed voice. “He wanted to know whether Charles had put in an appearance yet. Of course I said he