WITH DOVER BETWEEN.

Ashburton Guardian, Volume 63, Issue 247, 29 July 1943, Page 6

WITH DOVER BETWEEN.

SERIAL STORY.

A Secret Service Thriller.

(Copyright).

(By COLIN HOPE).

CHAPTER I.

STRANGERS AT ELSWICH.

Which ever way you come upon it, Elswich, close to the Kentish coast, not far from Dover, manages to spring a surprise. Villages happen at the bottom of hills, at Ihe lop, between hills, and on the flat plains. Sometimes, a river, the junction of roads, or some natural industry gives rise to a collection of houses.

Elswich is different. For no apparent reason, the village is neither up the hill nor down, but midway between the two. Indeed there is no obvious excuse for its existence. It is just a charming English village, a Kentish village. It starts with half a dozen large country houses, mostly belonging to old, well-to-do families. Next follow the smaller, but still desirable residences of the doctor, schoolmaster and the few retired tradesmen from the county town. Then comes the village proper, and when one sees the old world cottages one cannot be sure that the bigger houses are the more desirable.

Bill Lorbrook had an eye for beauty, but any inclination he had to dally was fiercely resisted by his Cockney companion. Benny Conners was hot, and tired, and thirsty. He was cursing the man who decreed that Elswich’s only pub should be hidden away in yet another of those lanes that wandered inconsequently from the main street and finished at the of a wood. At last the oasis, came in sight. Like the remainder of the village there was nothing ordinary and predictable about its appearance. One second it was not there, and the next it was. The winding lane was heavily overhung with large sycamores, and bordered by a root of brambles, so that a dense curtain of green hid The Hopping Man until a sudden break and a? turn in the lane left it exposed. Bill Lorbrook stopped to admire. “Flemish,” he declared. “Perfect.” • “And what if it is?" Benny Conners asked. “So long as they sell good beer ‘—and maybe a piece of real cheese —I don’t mind if it’s Patagonian.” “Which goes to show how much you miss in life,” Bill said. “The history of the countryside—at least in outline —is revealed by the architecture of its buildings.” “I don’t want to know its history or its architecture. I .want a drink.” Ignoring the interruption, Bill went on: “Now, that pub was probably originally a farmhouse, built by the Walloons Elizabeth brought into the country or by Hugenot refugees about the middle 17th Century.”

“Umph. You don’t seem any too sure of it yourself. And what does it matter anyway?”

“Generally speaking, movements of population, whatever the reason, matter quite a lot. The Hugenots brought culture of their own, and introduced a useful amount of industry. They improved our methods of weaving, for example. Moreover, I think you will find they still Aold their own services, in their native language, in Canterbury Cathedral.” “None of which alters the fact that my feet are giving me jip, that my throat is like a sheet of glasspaper, and that my stomach is as empty as a drum,” Benny grumbled. Across the level circle of green the door of the Hopping Man stood invitingly open, and outside on a heavy elm bench two men sat in the sun, drinks in their hands. Bill wanted rest and refreshment as much as did his companion, but he could not resist the temptation to tantalise.

“Is there ever a time when you are quite happy?” he asked.

“Not when I’m with you,” Benny answered. “If I’m not starving, or dying from thirst, or trying to wear my feet down to stumps, I’m following you in some tom-fool game that offers a good chance of a bullet in my napper or a skewer in my ribs. I don’t know why I stick it.” “Neither do I,” Lorbrook answered, truthfully. “Though I have no idea what I should do without you. Anyway, let’s cut the cackle and see what The Hopping Man can do for us.” “And see if Mr Blinkin’ Fenston has turned up after dragging us all over Kent to meet him. Why he had to choose this place is beyond me.” “For many reasons,” Bill said. “Principally, I imagine, because Elswich is near enough to the probable scene of operations. By the way, there won’t be cheese. There’s a war on, Benny.”

Lorbrook was right. There was no cheese, but there was good beer, and some excellent cold lamb. The landlord revealed that he had bought a “drowned ship” which, to those who know, meant that he had bought a sheep or lamb, that had fallen into a “dick,” and which the owner, seizing a chance to sell a little off-ration meat, had not tried very hard to save. “Drowned ship” is a much-prized delicacy in the marshes and surrounding villages. It was warm in the “best” room, and after the two men had put away the sizeable rhubarb tart to follow the lamb, Benny showed his appreciation of the meal and the comfort of the room by sinking down in his chair and beginning to “pop.” This was the nearest he ever got to snoring. Lorbrook lit a pipe, then put it down apologetically as another man entered the room.

“Carry on Bill,” said the newcomer. “Look at Benny.” Fenston sat down. “Bleeson, the landlord here, is all right,” he went on. “He used to be one of our men. He’s keeping watch.” “By the way, anybody been paying you attention on your way here?” “No. I’m reasonably certain wo

haven’t been followed. Did you think we might be?” (To be Continued). Too cnaractcrs in this story are entirely imaginary. No reference is intended to any living pel's on or to any public or private company.