He went to the doorway and, pulling aside the sacking, looked out into the cold. His head buzzed. ‘Damn the fellow,’ he thought irritably and then: ‘Not altogether, though. Do they hark back to a former bout? And is it evidence? Up the side of a ship. Up a gate. Up a companion way. But up what in the vegetable garden?’ He stared down at the dark bulk of the house. Beyond it, out to the right, a giant lombardy poplar made a spearlike pattern against the stars. ‘That can’t be far from the marrow patch,’ Alleyn thought. ‘He said his pants were dirty. He was under a tree. Oh, Lord, what’s the good of a pair of pants that were dirty over a year ago?’

The thrumming in his head cleared. He shivered violently. ‘I’ll catch the thick end of a cold before the night’s out,’ he muttered, and the next second had shrunk back into the shadow of the doorway.

The night was so quiet that the voice of the Moon river, boiling out of its gorge beyond a shoulder of the mountain and sweeping south to a lake out on the plateau, moved like a vague rumour behind the silence and was felt in the ear drums rather than heard. Alleyn had been aware of it once or twice that night, and he heard it now as he listened for the nearer sound that had caught his attention. Down the main track it had been, a tiny rustle, a slipping noise, followed by a faint thud. He remembered how he and Markins had skidded and fallen on the icy ground. He waited and heard a faint metallic clang. ‘That’s the fence,’ he thought. ‘A moment, and whoever it is will come up the track. Now what?’

At that moment, above the men’s quarters, there was a rattle of chains. The Mount Moon dogs, plunging by their kennels, broke into clamorous barking. A man’s voice cursed them: ‘Lie down, Jock! By God, I’ll warm your hide!’ The chains rattled and a faint metallic echo, the wire fence down the track twanged again. A light came bobbing round the annexe.

‘Hell and damnation!’ said Alleyn violently. ‘Am I never to get a clear run!’

CHAPTER TEN

Night Piece

TOMMY JOHNS AND his son Cliff followed Markins through the sacking door and stood blinking in the lamplight. Tommy nodded morosely at Alleyn. ‘What’s the trouble?’ he said.

‘There it is.’

He moved forward. Cliff said loudly: ‘It’s Fabian.’

‘Yes,’ said Alleyn.

‘What’s happened to him?’ He turned on Markins. ‘Why didn’t you say it was Fabian? What’s wrong with you?’

‘Orders,’ said Markins, and Tommy Johns looked sharply at Alleyn.

‘Whose orders?’ Cliff demanded. ‘Has he had another of his queer turns?’ His voice rose shrilly. ‘Is he dead?’

‘No,’ said Alleyn. Cliff strode forward and knelt by Fabian.

‘You keep clear of this,’ said his father.