The Colonel would,

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The Colonel would, but he considered it a most morbid and undesirable ambition, and implored young Ashby to think again. So armed with the Colonel¡¯s telephoned introduction, he went to see a highly amused police force, who sat him down in a leather armchair and offered him cigarettes, and set before him the coroner¡¯s report of eight years ago with the empressment of a conjurer who has produced the rabbit from the hat. He read it all through several times. It was merely the Westover Times¡¯ report in greater detail. He thanked the police, offered them cigarettes in his turn, and went away as empty of suggestion as he had come. He went down to the harbour and hung over the wall, staring westward at the cliffs. He had a fixed point, anyhow. A fixed point that could not be altered. Simon Ashby was in Clare that day. That was held to by a man who had no reason for lying, and no suspicion that the fact was of any importance.
The crowd laughed, and so did Roger Clint. He hauled himself back into the saddle from his position round his mount¡¯s neck. He took Stockings round to the other side of the fence and showed him the water. He took him up to it and let him inspect it at close quarters. He walked him round it and let him look at the other edge. And then he took him back to the Coach Outlet Online far end of the ring and turned him to the jump. With an air of Oh, well, let¡¯s get this thing over with Stockings jumped off his haunches, tore down the ring, and fled over the water with a yard or two to spare. The crowd laughed delightedly, and the white teeth showed in Clint¡¯s brown face. He lifted his hat to the applause without looking at them, as a cricketer lifts his cap, and rode out of the ring, well satisfied to have ignored the judge¡¯s disqualifying eye long enough to have induced Stockings to cross the hated obstacle. Number Six had two faults. Number Seven two-and-a-half. Number Eight, please, said the loud-speaker, and Jane shivered and put her hand in Bee¡¯s.
I¡¯m afraid I¡¯m very wet, he said vaguely. The Rector looked down and saw that the grey tweed of his trousers was black, and his shoes an oozing pulp. His eyes went sharply to the boy¡¯s face. Brat had taken off his limp hat and the rain-water from his soaked hair was running down his face. Take off your coat and leave it here, the Rector said. I¡¯ll give you another one when you are ready to go. He went to the hall cloakroom and came back with a towel. Rub your head with that. Brat did as he was told, with the obedient air and fumbling movements of a Coach Handbags child. The Rector went through to the empty kitchen and brought a kettle of water. Come in, he said. Just drop the towel where your wet coat is. He led the way into his study and put the kettle on an electric ring. That will be hot in no time. I often make tea for myself when I sit up late. What was it you wanted to talk to me about? A pit in Dothan. What? I¡¯m sorry. My mind has stopped working. Have you a drink of any kind? The Rector had meant to put the whisky in the tea, as a toddy, but he poured a stiff one now and Brat drank it. Thank you. I am sorry to come and worry you like this, but I had to talk to you.
Why? You never showed much interest. And did Simon? There was a time when I couldn¡¯t keep him out of this place. There wasn¡¯t anything he wasn¡¯t going to make, from a candlestick to gates for the avenue at Latchetts. Far as I remember, all he ever made was a sheep-crook, and that not over-well. But he was always round the place. It was a craze of his for the whole of a summer. Which summer was that? Summer you left us, it was. I¡¯d misremember about it, only he was here seeing us put Coach Outlet an iron on a cartwheel the day you ran away. I had to shoo him home for his supper. Brat considered the shoe he had made, while Mr. Pilbeam made ready to call it a day. I ought to hang that up, Mr. Pilbeam said, nodding at Brat¡¯s handiwork, and label it: Made by Patrick Ashby of Latchetts. And I couldn¡¯t make a better one myself, he added handsomely.
It surprises me, I must admit. I have always considered you to be highly intelligent. Then believe me, I am not here because of a piece of fooling on Simon¡¯s part. Patrick didn¡¯t commit suicide. Simon killed him. Deliberately. And what is more, I know how he did it. And he told him. But Brat, you have no evidence even now. That is theory, what you have just told me. An ingenious and likely theory, I admit. It has the merit of simplicity. But you have no evidence whatsoever. We www.coachoutletstoreonlinesir.com can get the evidence, if the police once know the truth. But that isn¡¯t what I want to know. What I want advice about is ¡ª well, whether to let sleeping dogs lie. And he explained his dilemma. But the Rector, rather surprisingly in view of his silence about his doubts of Brat¡¯s identity, had no doubts on the subject at all. If murder had been done, then the law must be invoked. Anything else was anarchy.
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