thrust it into my pocket. That the girl had deliberately drawn my attention to it I did not believe. She had had no more idea than I what it was, but its presence had served her purpose. I could find nothing else of importance.
And now I set to work on the small shuttered window at the back of the ledge upon which those fragments of food remained. I soon had the shutter open, and as I had hoped, the window was unglazed. I climbed through on to a rickety landing stage and from there made my way around to the path. Here I stood stock still, listening.
One mournful boom of that strange solitary bird disturbed the oppressive silence, this and the whispering of reeds in a faint breeze. I could not recall ever to have found myself in a more desolate spot.
Fog was rapidly growing impenetrable.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
AT THE MONKS’ ARMS
I found myself mentally reviewing the ordnance map I had seen at the policeman’s cottage, listening to the discursive instructions of the sinister but well-informed Constable Weldon.
“After you leave the cottage where old Mother Abel hanged herself”—a stubby finger moved over the map—“there’s a path along beside a little stream. You don’t take that”—I had—“you go straight on. This other road, bearin’ left, would bring you to the Monks’ Arms, one of the oldest pubs in Essex. Since the by-pass was made I don’t know what trade is done there. It’s kept by an old prize fighter, a Jerseyman, or claims to be; Jim Pallant they call him—a mighty tough customer; Seaman Pallant was his fightin’ name. The revenue officers have been watchin’ him for years, but he’s too clever for ’em. We’ve checked up on him, of course. He seems to have a clean slate in this business…”
Visualising the map, I decided that the route back via the Monks’ Arms was no longer than the other, and I determined to revive my drooping spirits before facing Nayland Smith. Licensed hours did not apply in my case for I was a “bona-fide traveller” within the meaning of the act.
I set out on my return journey.
At one time I thought I had lost my way again, until presently through the gloom I saw a signboard projecting above a hedge, and found myself before one of those timbered hostelries of which once there were so many in their neighbourhood, but of which few remain today! I saw that the Monks’ Arms stood on the bank of a stream.
I stepped into a stuffy bar. Low, age-blackened beams supported the ceiling; there were some prints of dogs and prize fighters; a full-rigged ship in a glass case. The place might have stood there when all but unbroken forest covered Essex. As a matter of fact though not so old as this, part of it actually dated back to the time of Henry VII.
There was no one in the barroom, dimly lighted by two paper-shaded lamps. In the bar I saw bottle-laden shelves, rows of mugs, beer engines. Beyond was an opening in which hung a curtain composed of strings of coloured rushes. Since no one appeared I banged upon the counter. This produced a sound of footsteps; the rush curtain was parted, and Pallant, the landlord, came out.
He was as fine a specimen of a retired prize fighter as one could hope to find, with short thick nose, slightly out of true, deep-set eyes and several battle scars. His rolled-up shirt sleeves revealed muscular forearms and he had all the appearance of being, as Constable Weldon had said, “a tough customer.”
I called for a double scotch and soda.
“Traveller?”
“Yes. London.”
He stared at me with his curiously unblinking deep-set brown eyes, then turned, tipped out two measures from an inverted bottle, squirted soda into the glass and set it before me. I paid, and he banged down my change on the counter. A cigarette drooping from his thick underlip he stood, arms folded, just in front of therush curtain, watching me with that unmoving stare. I sipped my drink, and:
“Weather bad for trade?” I suggested.
He nodded but did not
And now I set to work on the small shuttered window at the back of the ledge upon which those fragments of food remained. I soon had the shutter open, and as I had hoped, the window was unglazed. I climbed through on to a rickety landing stage and from there made my way around to the path. Here I stood stock still, listening.
One mournful boom of that strange solitary bird disturbed the oppressive silence, this and the whispering of reeds in a faint breeze. I could not recall ever to have found myself in a more desolate spot.
Fog was rapidly growing impenetrable.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
AT THE MONKS’ ARMS
I found myself mentally reviewing the ordnance map I had seen at the policeman’s cottage, listening to the discursive instructions of the sinister but well-informed Constable Weldon.
“After you leave the cottage where old Mother Abel hanged herself”—a stubby finger moved over the map—“there’s a path along beside a little stream. You don’t take that”—I had—“you go straight on. This other road, bearin’ left, would bring you to the Monks’ Arms, one of the oldest pubs in Essex. Since the by-pass was made I don’t know what trade is done there. It’s kept by an old prize fighter, a Jerseyman, or claims to be; Jim Pallant they call him—a mighty tough customer; Seaman Pallant was his fightin’ name. The revenue officers have been watchin’ him for years, but he’s too clever for ’em. We’ve checked up on him, of course. He seems to have a clean slate in this business…”
Visualising the map, I decided that the route back via the Monks’ Arms was no longer than the other, and I determined to revive my drooping spirits before facing Nayland Smith. Licensed hours did not apply in my case for I was a “bona-fide traveller” within the meaning of the act.
I set out on my return journey.
At one time I thought I had lost my way again, until presently through the gloom I saw a signboard projecting above a hedge, and found myself before one of those timbered hostelries of which once there were so many in their neighbourhood, but of which few remain today! I saw that the Monks’ Arms stood on the bank of a stream.
I stepped into a stuffy bar. Low, age-blackened beams supported the ceiling; there were some prints of dogs and prize fighters; a full-rigged ship in a glass case. The place might have stood there when all but unbroken forest covered Essex. As a matter of fact though not so old as this, part of it actually dated back to the time of Henry VII.
There was no one in the barroom, dimly lighted by two paper-shaded lamps. In the bar I saw bottle-laden shelves, rows of mugs, beer engines. Beyond was an opening in which hung a curtain composed of strings of coloured rushes. Since no one appeared I banged upon the counter. This produced a sound of footsteps; the rush curtain was parted, and Pallant, the landlord, came out.
He was as fine a specimen of a retired prize fighter as one could hope to find, with short thick nose, slightly out of true, deep-set eyes and several battle scars. His rolled-up shirt sleeves revealed muscular forearms and he had all the appearance of being, as Constable Weldon had said, “a tough customer.”
I called for a double scotch and soda.
“Traveller?”
“Yes. London.”
He stared at me with his curiously unblinking deep-set brown eyes, then turned, tipped out two measures from an inverted bottle, squirted soda into the glass and set it before me. I paid, and he banged down my change on the counter. A cigarette drooping from his thick underlip he stood, arms folded, just in front of therush curtain, watching me with that unmoving stare. I sipped my drink, and:
“Weather bad for trade?” I suggested.
He nodded but did not
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