Free Grave Matters by Margaret Yorke Page A

agreed. They walked on, following the course of the stream which looped round close to the boundary of Abbot’s Lodge; they were near enough to see the stout fence that kept the grazing cattle away from the menace of the yew hedge. Just as they were about to turn back, Patrick caught sight of something in the water.
    ‘Hullo, what’s that?’ he muttered, and strode forward to the edge of the little stream. He clambered down towards the water, the bank crumbling a little under his weight, and pulled aside some reeds that grew at the edge. Ellen, close behind him, saw it almost as soon as he did.
    ‘Oh no!’ she cried. ‘Oh, it’s Rufus.’
    The Bruces’ golden retriever lay on his side underneath the water, quite sodden, and quite dead.

 
III
     
    Patrick lifted the dog out and laid him on the bank. Water streamed from his thick coat which clung to his body. He was surprisingly heavy, and he was very cold. Bits of weed and vegetation were tangled in his hair, and his tail drooped, its fine featheriness totally obliterated.
    ‘He’s been dead for some time,’ Patrick said. But he had been alive at twenty minutes to twelve that morning.
    ‘How could it have happened?’ Ellen’s face was white with shock and her eyes huge. ‘Dogs can swim. Anyway, the water’s not deep, he could stand in it. He hasn’t been shot or anything, has he? There might have been boys out with air guns.’
    Patrick carefully turned the body over. There seemed to be no mark anywhere.
    ‘We’d better get Bruce,’ he said. ‘We’ll need a sack or something to carry him. I suppose he’s at home? Are you all right, Ellen?’
    She nodded.
    ‘Just horrified,’ she said. ‘We can get through the hedge over there and go across the garden.’
    They walked together, without talking, along the path that he had earlier seen David Bruce take. Here the grass was worn into a definite track; either this route was often taken from the house, or it was the way the cattle used. There was a stile in the wooden fence which separated the yew hedge from the field; they climbed it, and opened a wrought-iron gate that led into the garden of Abbot’s Lodge.
    ‘We’d better go round and ring the front door bell, I suppose,’ said Ellen, a little uncertainly.
    ‘Perhaps they’ll see us coming,’ Patrick said.
    Someone had clearly been busy in the garden since he was last there; the grass had been cut, and several of the beds were ready for planting, though others were still over-grown. They walked up the stone steps where Carol had twisted her ankle and round the side of the house. David Bruce was there in the yard, washing his car. He had the hose on, and did not hear them coming. They went round to the far side of the car and he started with surprise when he saw them suddenly appear. He could tell at once from their expressions that something was wrong, and immediately laid down the hosepipe and turned off the tap.
    ‘What’s up, Ellen? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost,’ he said.
    ‘It’s your dog,’ Patrick said bluntly. ‘I’m afraid there’s been some sort of accident. We found him in the stream. He seems to have been drowned.’
    ‘Drowned? Rufus? But how could he—it’s impossible . . .’ David gaped at them.
    ‘I know. It seems like that, but it’s true. We were walking by the stream and we found him,’ Ellen said. ‘Patrick got him out, but he’s very wet indeed and it needs two people to carry him.’
    ‘He was Carol’s dog,’ David said.
    Patrick saw Ellen’s look of surprise at this information, but she said nothing.
    ‘We’d better tell her then,’ he suggested. He had already noticed that both the garage doors were open and there was no sign of the second car; Ellen had said Carol had a Lancia.
    ‘She’s out,’ David said. ‘She’s visiting some house she wants to write about.’
    ‘Perhaps it’s just as well, since the dog is a rather pathetic sight,’ said Patrick. ‘We can deal with it before