Free Doctor Illuminatus by Martin Booth Page A

spot where the bank descended gently to a shallow shelf of stones and river gravel, Tim put down his fly rod and landing net and studied the surrounding countryside. Everything seemed in order. There was no one in sight and no black swans either.
    Fixing the reel onto his rod, he threaded the line and attached a leader with two droppers, tying on three wet flies — a black butcher, a green nymph and a nondescript brown fly his father had made which he called Dad’s Deliverer. In the height of summer, he had discovered, trout could not resist it.
    There were trout in the river. Tim could see them swimming by off the end of the shelf, but they seemed not to be feeding. Being within easy casting range of a pool in which at least one was rising regularly, he cast again and again, yet he could not entice it to take a fly. For half an hour he fished in vain before deciding to move upstream.
    Passing the knoll, he called out, to be answered by Pip’s voice from within the trees. Keeping her promise to Sebastian, she had gone to the clearing straight after returning home. She was trimming the grass, cutting back weeds and pruning any bushes that needed it.
    Beyond the knoll, the river ran for about a hundred and fifty meters through meadowland that was a riot of yellow buttercups. On the Rawne Barton side of the river, the bank was broken only by a few trees but, opposite, woodland came right down to the water’s edge, the land rising sharply behind the trees to a height of at least sixty meters. Tim could see that a quarry had been cut into this hillside, although it was quite obvious that it had not been worked for many years. In places, creepers hung down the vertical rock slopes, the stone dark and blotched where water ran down it. Wild flowers and bushes had established themselves in some of the crannies. Some way upstream were the stone piers of what had once been a bridge, the arch long since destroyed by time or flood. A flash of brilliant blue across the space between them told him that one of the piers was being used as a perch by a kingfisher.
    This, Tim decided, was a good stretch to fish. He knew that where trees hang over the river there would be a large number of insects falling from the leaves into the water. What was more, the river ran deep and dark under the far bank: the deeper and darker it was, the bigger the fish could be. He thought he might even be lucky enough to get a salmon.
    On his fourth cast, Tim hooked a large brown trout. No sooner had he struck than it leaped from the water, dived and headed upstream towards a large wych elm growing on the far bank, its roots exposed and arching into the river. Knowing that the fish was heading for the protection of the tangle of submarine roots, Tim fought to turn it, halt its run and bring it back downstream. For three or four minutes, he tussled with the fish before, at last, it began to tire. Gradually, he brought it to the bank and into his landing net.
    It was a big fish, weighing well over a kilo, in fine condition. Its back was almost black while its flanks were gray-green with dark-brown and deep-red spots. Holding it still, he hit it on the head with his priest, dispatching it immediately.
    “Nice fish!”
    Tim jumped, got quickly to his feet and looked around. There was no one in the meadow. Nor was there anyone on the bank. He squinted into the trees, his heart thumping.
    “Over ’ere, mate.”
    The voice was coming from the direction of the wych elm.
    “I can’t see you,” Tim answered, hoping his voice did not betray his fear.
    “’Ang on, then,” came the reply.
    Tim caught a movement in the shadows beneath the trees. Someone was walking down to a point on the bank opposite him. He waited, the branches parted and a young man stepped into view. He was about twenty years old, wearing open-toed sandals, dirty jeans, a T-shirt with a large sunflower printed on it and a very battered black top hat beneath which his hair hung down in