The House Of The Bears by John Creasey

second policeman.
    Neither man was badly hurt. After ten minutes both were conscious and one was talking freely, defending himself desperately. He had not seen or heard anyone; he had just been knocked over the head on the way to the minstrel gallery, after Palfrey. One man was to stay within sight of Palfrey’s room, to make sure no one went inside if Palfrey were out; the other was to dog Palfrey’s footsteps. Hardy had forgotten nothing, but the silent prowler at Morne House had outmatched them both.
    ‘I’ll find out who it was,’ growled one of Hardy’s men.
    Palfrey said sharply: ‘Not yet. I don’t want it known that I was prowling tonight. Nurse your heads and report to the inspector as soon as you can, but don’t give anything away here. You’re Sergeant Whittle, aren’t you?’
    ‘Yes, sir.’
    ‘Will you do as I ask?’
    ‘I suppose it is best,’ said Whittle, reluctantly. ‘It’s not much use us being here as far as I can see. You have to be born in the place to know every door and passage.’
    ‘Never did man speak truer words,’ declared McDonald. ‘Give it up, except for one thing. Look after Dr. Palfrey!’
     
    Not even the bright sun of next morning could rid the moor of its aspect of utter desolation.
    A mile beyond the gateway. Palfrey glanced over his shoulder and looked back at Morne House. It was taller than he had realized, dark and forbidding, and it seemed to absorb the rays of the sun, getting no light from them.
    An A.A. box stood at some cross-roads, at the foot of a hill which led towards the main Wenlock Range. The range looked bright and friendly in the sun; nothing suggested the brooding menace of the cliff. Had the cliff incident happened only last night?
    Palfrey was on edge now to see Drusilla. But first he must ring Hardy. He talked of Ross.
    ‘Oh, yes,’ said Hardy. ‘I’m on to that poisoning, of course, but I ought to say that Ross has a first-class reputation.’
    ‘How did you get on to it?’ asked Palfrey, sharply.
    ‘Whittle’s reported,’ said Hardy. ‘The man drank your tea; obviously you were to go to sleep while driving. You needn’t worry about it. I’ll tell you everything I find out when I see you. Unless you’re still thinking of returning to London today,’ Hardy added, slyly.
    ‘It will have to be tomorrow,’ said Palfrey.
    ‘Splendid! By the way, I telephoned your wife a couple of hours ago. She’s fully recovered.’
    Thanks very much,’ said Palfrey, gratefully.
    When he rejoined McDonald, Palfrey explained to him how he came to be at Morne House. ‘Now it’s my turn to put a question,’ he finished. ‘Did you know there was trouble brewing?’
    ‘I had no idea,’ said McDonald. ‘I’ve been abroad, you know. Navy. I’m on long leave now. I arrived in London ten days ago, dropped Loretta a line and asked her when she was coming to Town. The next I knew was Loretta’s accident. I came down immediately, and heard the whole story.’
    They were on the top of the hill, looking down into Wenlock, which was at its best in the midday sun. Over the town, the twin towers of the seventeenth-century abbey watched with the benevolence of benign, unquestioned authority. Out of the wooded grounds, now bare of leaves, peeped the roofs of houses, red, green, blue and soft yellow; all seemed to face the bay. Out to sea, brown sails fully spread, a fishing fleet was moving slowly homewards. To the north, the gaunt edges of the cliffs gave the only sombre note.
    ‘Before the flare-up last night there was a family pow-wow,’ McDonald went on. ‘Rufus, my mother and Dinah – you know Dinah, don’t you – on the one side, and Uncle Claude and Gerry on the other. I was neutral. Uncle Claude and Gerry stuck to the theory that Loretta’s fall was an accident and that Halsted’s death had nothing to do with his coming visit to the house. Rufus led the faction which believed it was murder. The upshot was that Rufus said he had faith in your