The Ghosts of Sleath by James Herbert Read Free Book Online Page A

friends’ laughter.
    All three were roughly dressed, one in a fake oil-skin coat still glistening from the rain, the other two in jackets that had seen better days. Ash noted that their boots were muddy when they had entered and he assumed they were farm- or landworkers. The shortest of the three wore a maroon baseball cap, a red-Indian chief its colourful motif; he was unshaven and his hair hung long and lank beneath the headgear. ‘Come on, Ruthy,’ he called down to the barmaid. ‘You got men dyin of thirst down ’ere.’
    She moved towards them, her smile even less genuine than before. ‘And I don’t want to know what you’ve been up to,’ she said, stooping for the pint glasses on a shelf under the counter.
    ‘An we won’t be tellin,’ the one next to the youth replied with a leary grin.
    Ash took more vodka and cooled the burn with two large swallows of bitter. A thick-bellied man wearing a tie but whose shirtsleeves were rolled up to the elbow emerged from the door behind the bar. His face was broad and not particularly friendly, the pores on his nose and cheeks puncturing his rough skin like pin-pricks; his sparse hair was slicked back across his scalp and Ash guessed he used Brylcreem rather than gel. The landlord gave the three newcomers at the end of the bar a brief scowl and they immediately became less raucous, although their bantering and laughter continued.
    He stopped by Ash. ‘You’re looking for a room?’ His manner was neither solicitous nor bluff: at the moment it was appraising.
    ‘D’you have one available?’ Ash replied.
    ‘Oh, we’ve more than one available. How many nights would that be for, sir?’ As he leaned on the bar towards Ash, loud laughter erupted from the other room. He turned towards the source, a flicker of annoyance crossing his features, and the laughter instantly became more subdued. ‘Mouchers,’ he said in a confidential tone to Ash.
    The investigator raised his eyebrows. ‘Mouchers?’
    The landlord’s voice was even lower. ‘Part-time poachers. Rest of the time, they collect dole money and steal. Their day’s work is done. No doubt what they bagged last night -’ his accent made it ‘las’noight’ - ‘or early this morning is stashed away in their garden sheds.’ He gave a rueful grin. ‘Steady enough work for those willing to risk a backside full of gamekeeper’s buckshot, I suppose. Now then, sir, how many nights did you say?’
    ‘I’m not sure.’ Ash was watching the men with more interest. The one with the cap was curling his finger for the barmaid to come closer, but she wasn’t having any of it. She placed the last pint on the bar, standing well back as she did so. The youth looked uncomfortable, as if he wasn’t enjoying their fun at all. Ash turned back to the landlord. ‘It could be for a couple of nights,’ he said, ‘or it might be a whole week. I could probably let you know for sure sometime tomorrow.’
    ‘Fair enough.’ The landlord straightened. ‘I’ll get a room aired for you while you finish your drink. Ruth,’ he called to the barmaid who came back down the bar to them, ‘ask Mrs Ginty to get the main guest room ready, will you, dear?’
    She smiled distractedly at Ash and went off to find the landlord’s wife.
    ‘Now, if you’ve come by car,’ the landlord resumed, ‘which I assume you have, you can park it just ’cross the road next to the green. Only room enough for my own car round the back, I’m afraid, but yours’ll be perfectly safe over there. My name’s Tom Ginty, by the way, or Thomas as it says over the door, proprietor of the Black Boar Inn, as was my father before me, and his father before him.’ He extended a large hand and Ash reached across to shake it. The man’s grip was hard, but the greeting was perfunctory and quickly over. ‘You can bring your bags in when you’re ready, and I’ll take them up to your room for you. We do full lunches in the bar and for dinner there’s a small