CLOUD OVER CORATON.

Ashburton Guardian, Volume 65, Issue 194, 30 May 1945, Page 6

CLOUD OVER CORATON.

Serial Story.

(Copyright). Wartime Rural England.

BY T. C. BRIDGES.

CHAPTER IV. NOiSE IN THE NIGHT. For supper there was a chicken with new potatoes, green peas, and a gooseberry tart with real custard. They drank excellent cider. “I haven’t had such a meal for three years,” said Peter with unusual emphasis. “All off the place,” Derek told him. “Now for a pipe and to bed early. I have to be up at six. We’re singling turnips and then there are two fields of hay to devil. That storm won’t have done it any good.” But next day turned out hot and bright and Peter volunteered to drive the tedder. “I’m too soft for the singling,” he told Derek. Some people would have found it a terribly monotonous business, driving up and down a big field, tossing the hay with the tedder. But not Peter.. He loved the hot sun on his back, the light breeze in his face, the cloud shadows sailing across the valley. At the end of the day he was tired and a bit sore, but lie felt immensely well and magnificently hungry. After an excellent supper he. and Derek sat and smoked and yarned over their Army experiences.

“I didn’t think there was a place in England so remote from the war,” Peter said. “I don’t suppose a bomb has ever been heard here.” “There’s a crater in sight from our front door. It’s up on the side of Glim Tor. I’ll show it to-morrow,” Peter shrugged. “I’ve seen enough of ’em. London’s in a heck of a mess. But Jerry seems to have plenty to waste. A man in the train told me that he’d found three craters on his uncle’s deer forest up in the Monoleaths. Anyhow, it’s heaven to sleep all night without being waked by those cursed sirens,” Derek frowned.

“We don’t always sleep so well down here,” he remarked. “What do you mean? You don’t tell me you’ve got a family ghost?”

“I don’t know what we’ve got, but there are some darned queer noises at night.” Peter sat up straight. “I’ve an open mind on the subject of ghosts, Derek, but if you’re going to tell me that you hear clanking chains j or rattling bones then I’m prepared to assert you were having bad dreams. My mother once saw a ghost, but it was a shadowy thing and she said she could see right through it. Ghosts may be visible but not audible.” “What about poltergeists? There are hundreds of well authenticated cases. They’ve been known to wreck a whole house and make row enough to bring in the neighbours.” Peter grunted. “Can’t say I know much about ’em. what are the noises here?” “If you stay here long enough you’ll hear them. At first I thought they were made by burglars, but there was no sign of anyone breaking in and nothing was stolen.” “Farrells moving about,” Peter suggested. “What for? They work hard all day.” “Trying to scare you out?” “They’d hardly be fools enough for that. Besides, what good would it do them? I pay them well and Mrs Farrell has been here since she married.” “Yet you feel she hates you,” Derek frowned. “Of that I have no doubt whatever, but for the life of me 1 can’t see why.” “Perhaps she thought the old man would leave the place to her and her sou,” Peter suggested. “That has occurred to me, Derek confessed. “But every search was made for a will, and his lawyers, Hedges and Hobday, say that they have no knowledge of his ever making one,” Peter shrugged. “It’s a rum business.” He got up. “I’m for bed. I can hardly keep my eyes open. It‘ll take more than ghostly footsteps to rouse me to-night.” He w’as right. What roused him was a crash that brought him out of bed in one jump, under the impression that he was back in London and that a bomb had fallen. In the passage Peter met Derek, also in pyjamas, carrying a torch. His lips were tight set and there was unusual anger in his eyes. “You’re not telling me that was a ghost,’’ Peter said. “It sounded more like a bomb.’ “It was a gun fired outside the t house,” Derek said curtly. “I’m going to see.” “So as to give the sportsman a chance of filling you with buck shot. Don’t be an ass, Derek.” “I must find out what it is. I’m sick of being turned out of bed every other night.” “Well, get your own gun and find me a torch. Two will have a better chance than one.’ “Gun’s in my office,” Derek said, and hurried downstairs. Below they met Alfred Farrell, a powerfully built man of thirty. “So you heard it this time?” Derek said sharply. “Everyone must have heard it,” said Farrell in a flat voice. “It sounded like a gun.” “A" poacher,” Peter suggested. “No poacher in his senses would fire a gun close to a house. Besides there’s no moon, so he couldn’t see to shoot.” “The fellow might be trying to get you outside,” said Peter. “Waiting to bat you over the head. “Who’d be fool enough to try a stunt like that?” snapped Derek as he loaded the twelve-bore. “I don’t know unless it was the missing heir,” replied Peter as he unbolted the front door and flashed his torch. The night was perfectly still. The only sound was the tinkle of the brook. The three searched the whole place and found nothing. When they came back to the house Derek was grimly silent. Farrell went back to his room, Derek got out a bottle and glasses. (To Be Continued). The characters in this story are entirely imaginary. No reference is intended to any living person or to any public or private company.