Free The Polo Ground Mystery by Robin Forsythe Page A

main grounds of the house. His head was bent, his eyes scanning the grass through which he brushed and noting the gradual accumulation of buttercup pollen in the creases of his shoes. Suddenly he looked up, to discover a few paces in front of him the back view of a man dressed in a light tweed suit and grey felt hat. His head was thrust forward and downward, so that only the back half of the curved rim of his hat was visible, and on his shoulders could be seen the rosy finger-tips of two slim feminine hands. There followed the sound of an ecstatic kiss, the tweed suit drew itself erect, raised a hat with easy, theatrical grace, and next moment the recipient of the kiss turned and fled across the meadow towards Wild Duck Wood. Vereker stood rooted to the ground in embarrassment, but his eye did not fail to notice the beauty and symmetry of that fast-receding figure. Never had he seen a woman run with such delightful freedom. Most men, he thought, would be willing to play Hippomenes to such an engaging Atalanta. Then her lover, who had stood entranced watching her, seemed suddenly to become aware of an intruding presence, for he turned sharply round and confronted Vereker. The latter, in spite of an effort at detachment and the assumption of a clumsy air of not having witnessed the recent delicate expression of human passion, looked painfully gauche. He expected to see a similar manifestation of discomposure on the stranger’s face, but to his surprise that singularly handsome countenance, after an almost imperceptible frown, made a strong but not quite successful effort to avoid a broad grin.
    â€œA sense of humour!” thought Vereker, and was about to pass unconcernedly on his way when the stranger accosted him with the question:
    â€œI suppose you know you’re trespassing, sir?”
    â€œOh, yes,” replied Vereker, in whom the word trespass always raised a sudden and furious combativeness, “but it’s a confirmed vice of mine. I’m always willing to pay for any damage I may do, and don’t mind being prosecuted in the least. Unless I’m greatly annoying other people, I take it as a right to wander across my own country—shall I be lyrical and say, ‘England, my England, England my own!’?”
    â€œMonopolize it by all means,” said the stranger reflectively and without any show of annoyance. “Personally I raise no objections to your claims; but, as a murder was committed on the adjacent polo ground yesterday morning, the police are rather anxious that no unauthorized persons should be allowed about the place.”
    â€œI understand,” replied Vereker, considerably mollified. “I came up here in company with my friend, Detective-Inspector Heather of Scotland Yard, as a sort of unofficial helper. I’m also a representative of the Daily Report .”
    â€œThen there’s nothing more to be said,” interrupted the stranger quickly, and after a steady scrutiny of Vereker’s face, asked, “Is your name Algernon Vereker, by any chance?”
    â€œAnthony, to be correct, but I’ve always been known to my friends as Algernon—unabbreviated.”
    â€œI thought I couldn’t be mistaken. For two or three terms I was your contemporary at Magdalen.”
    â€œI can’t say I remember you,” replied Vereker.
    â€œAh, well, being forgotten is one of the major advantages of mediocrity. I remember you chiefly through a series of wickedly malicious caricatures. They long outlived your going down. You do draw, don’t you?”
    â€œI’m afraid I do. It has been a bally curse from a worldly point of view. The sarcasm of art is never forgotten, and you can’t give it the lie,” replied Vereker, with a laugh. “Still, I’m annoyed at not remembering—”
    â€œMy name’s Ralli, Basil Ralli. I’m a nephew of the Sutton Armadale who—Of course you’ve heard?”
    â€œOh,