Free The Summons by Peter Lovesey Page B

reach the Grenville Monument. A man of his size had to beware of seams splitting. He got over without mishap and set off along a well-trodden grass track toward the stone memorial. No one else was visible.
    Sir Bevil Grenville’s monument stood twenty-five feet high and was probably no more of an eyesore than the average war memorial, but it could not be said to grace the scene. It consisted of a gray, four-sided stone on a gray, four-sided pedestal. A sculptured griffin was mounted on the top. The whole was surrounded by railings eight feet high. Diamond walked around it uncertain what he should be looking for. The eighteenth-century inscription on the side he had first approached was an encomium to the Cavalier who had fallen near this spot on a July day in 1643. If it contained some cryptic message, he was at a loss to decipher it. If this account was reliable the noble Sir Bevil hadn’t much in common with John Mountjoy:
    He was indeed an excellent person . . . his Temper and Affection sopublick that no Accident which happened could make any impression in him and his Example kept others from taking anything ill or at least seeming to do so. In a word a Brighter Courage and a Gentler Disposition were never marryed together to make the most cheerful and innocent conversation.
    No, he didn’t sound like a wife-beater and murderer.
    Beneath the inscription was a modern metal plaque detailing Sir Bevil’s heroic role in the Battle of Lansdown. It had been put there by an organization called the King’s Army, one of the groups who reenacted battles.
    In all probability the people who played war games were also responsible for the potted chrysanthemum plant and the faded wreath at the foot of the monument that must have been pushed through the railings. Diamond wasn’t built for bending or crouching, but he was glad he put a hand on the railings and made the effort to look more closely because he spotted the corner of a scrap of clean white paper which turned out to be a till receipt, tucked under the flowerpot. He got his arm through the bars and picked it up. On one side was a list of food items bought at Sainsbury’s the previous day. On the other, a message printed neatly in pencil: D. WALK OFF SOME WEIGHT. FOLLOW THE PATH ACROSS THE FIELDS. M.
    The gibe annoyed Diamond, mainly because Mountjoy knew that at this stage some personal abuse wouldn’t abort the mission. He pocketed the receipt and looked to his right to see what lay ahead. Another stile, inevitably. In the low moments that sometimes troubled his conscience after stepping off scales he had never contemplated anything so drastic as a country walk. In theory he supported the Ramblers’ Association in their campaigns to keep public footpaths open. He also supported the Lifeboat Association, but he didn’t go to sea in a storm.
    Grudging each step, he ambled toward the stile. Things could be worse, he tried telling himself. It wasn’t raining. In fact for October it was a tolerably good morning, with a pale blue sky and a light breeze. In a raw east wind this place— what, eight hundred feet above sea level—would be bleak in the extreme. Yes, how lucky I am, he thought, to be stepping out in this splendid landscape to meet a murderer I put away. Lucky, my arse.
    Having heaved himself over the stile, he started through the copse, up a gentle rise with glimpses between the trees of the traffic speeding along the Lansdown Road. Common sense told him that Mountjoy would want a view of him alone in open country before he risked coming out of hiding. At the very least he faced a twenty-minute hike.
    There was no chance of missing the route. Numerous signs and arrows marking the Cotswold Way sent him steadily higher to a point where he presently emerged from the wood and started along the track beside a drystone wall speckled with yellow lichen. The direction was still gently upward, making his legs ache, but the terrain had changed to turf uncluttered by trees