But she wouldn't come. Instead, she whined disconsolately and turned away to vanish behind the big kitchen table. I followed her and found her standing drooping over the body of Bob.
His hand was cold, but not dead cold, and there was a faint flutter of a pulse beat at his wrist. Fresh blood oozed from the ugly wound in his chest and soaked the front, of his shirt. I knew enough about serious injuries not to attempt to move him; instead, I ran upstairs, stripped the blankets from his bed and brought them down to cover him and keep him warm.
Then I went to the telephone and dialled 999. 'This is Jemmy Wheale of Hay Tree Farm. There's been a shooting on 'the farm; one man dead and another seriously wounded. I want a doctor, an ambulance and the police -- in that order.'
II
An hour later I was talking to Dave Goosan. The doctor and the ambulance had come and gone, and Bob was in hospital. He was in a bad way and Dr. Grierson had dissuaded me from going with him. 'It's no use, Jemmy. You'd only get in the way and make a nuisance of yourself. You know we'll do the best we can.'
I nodded. 'What are his chances?' I asked.
Grierson shook his head. 'Not good. But I'll be able to tell better when I've had a closer look at him.'
So I was talking to Dave Goosan who was a policeman. The last time I had met him he was a detective sergeant; now he was a detective inspector. I went to school with his young brother, Harry, who was also in the force. Police work was the Goosans' family business.
This is bad, Jemmy,' he said. 'It's too much for me. They're sending over a superintendent from Newton Abbot. I haven't the rank to handle a murder case.'
I stared at him. 'Who has been murdered?'
He flung out his arm to indicate the farmyard, then became confused. 'I'm sorry,' he said. 'I didn't mean to say your brother had murdered anyone. But there's been a killing, anyway.'
We were in the living-room and through the window I could see the activity in the yard. The body was still there, though covered with a plastic sheet. There were a dozen coppers, some in plain clothes and others in uniform, a few seemed to be doing nothing but chat, but the others were giving the yard a thorough going over.
I said, 'Who was he, Dave?'
'We don't know.' He frowned. 'Now, tell me the story all over again -- right from the beginning. We've got to get this right, Jemmy, or the super will blow hell out of me. This is the first killing I've worked on.' He looked worried.
So I told my story again, how I had come to the farm, found the dead man and then Bob. When I had finished Dave said. 'You just rolled the body over -- no more than that?'
'I thought it was Bob,' I said. The build was the same and so was the haircut.'
'I'll tell you one thing,' said Dave. 'He might be an American. His clothes are American, anyway. Does that mean anything to you?'
'Nothing.'
He sighed. 'Ah, well, we'll find out all about him sooner or later. He was killed by a blast from a shotgun at close range. Grierson says he thinks the aorta was cut through -- that's why he bled like that. Your brother's shotgun had both barrels fired.'
'So Bob shot him,' I said. 'That doesn't make it murder.'
'Of course it doesn't. We've reconstructed pretty well what happened and it seems to be a case of self defence. The man was a thief; we know that much.' I looked up. 'What did he steal?'
Dave jerked his head. 'Come with me and I'll show you. But just walk where I walk and don't go straying about.'
I followed him out into the yard, keeping close to his heels as he made a circuitous approach to the wall of the kitchen. He stopped and said, 'Have you ever seen that before?'
I looked to where he indicated and saw the tray that had always stood on the top shelf of the dresser in the kitchen ever since I can remember. My mother used to take it down and polish it once in a while, but it was only really used on highdays and feast days. At Christmas it used to be put in the middle of the dining-table and was heaped with fruit.
'Do you mean to tell me he got killed trying to pinch a brass tray? That he nearly killed Bob because of that thing?' I bent down to pick it up and Dave grabbed me hastily. 'Don't touch it.' He looked at me thoughtfully. 'Maybe you wouldn't know. That's not brass. Jemmy; it's gold!' I gaped at him, then closed my mouth before the flies got in. 'But it's always been a brass tray,' I said inanely. 'So Bob thought.' agreed Dave. 'It happened this way. The museum in Totnes was putting on a special show of local bygones and Bob was asked if he'd lend the tray. I believe it's been in the family for a long time.'
I nodded. 'I can remember my grandfather telling me that his grandfather had mentioned it.'
'Well, that's going back a while. Anyway, Bob lent it to the museum and it was put on show with the other stuff. Then someone said it was gold, and by God, it was! The people at the museum got worried about it and asked Dave to take it back. It wasn't insured, you see, and there was a flap on about it might be stolen. It had been reported in the papers complete with photographs, and any wide boy could open the Totnes museum with a hairpin.'
'I didn't see the newspaper reports.'
'It didn't make the national press,' said Dave. 'Just the local papers. Anyway, Bob took it back. Tell me, did he know you were coming down this weekend?'
I nodded. 'I phoned him on Thursday. I'd worked out a scheme for the farm that I thought he might be interested in.'
