CLOUD OVER CORATON.

Ashburton Guardian, Volume 65, Issue 205, 12 June 1945, Page 6

CLOUD OVER CORATON.

BY T. C. BRIDGES.

Serial Story.

(Copyright).

Wartime Rural England.

CHAPTER ±l,

GASSED!

‘‘The girl you mean. Yes, I shall certainly see her. And this money will make a difference. I can pay someone to look after her.” “I'll be interested to see her myself,” Peter said quite seriously. “Now you’d better lock up the cash, Derek. I’ve had enough exercise for one day.” Derek put the notes in a drawer of his uncle’s heavy old writing table and locked it. Peter had just lit two candles when there came the all too familiar crash. “Bomb,” snapped Derek. “It’s that infernal fire.” He ran for the front door and Peter followed. They were hardly outside before there came a second boom much louder and closer than the first. The night was lit by a huge flare of leaping flame which ran from the hill side behind the house. “God! He’s coming right over us!” whispered Peter. The two stood together, hardly breathing, wondering where the third bomb would fall. There was no third bomb. The harsh drone of the Hun passed almost directly overhead and slowly died away towards the south-east. Derek drew a long breath. “I"thought the next one would be square on the old house,” he said. “Would you have been sorry?” was Peter’s unexpected quarter. “Yes,” replied Derek frankly. “I've no love for the house, but since you came, I haven’t felt that infernal depression. And that find to-night cheer-

ed me. Not so much the money, but the knowledge that the old man didn’t really hate his son. I’m beginning to think that, when we’ve cleared up all this mystery and got rid of the Farrells, I can be quite happy here.” “The sooner they go the better,” said Peter gruffly. Derek shook his head.

“Not yet, Peter. I couldn’t replace them during the war, and I have a strong feeling that it won’t be long before we get to the bottom of things.” “I hope you’re right,” Peter turned and glanced back up the slope. “Wonder where that last one dropped. It wasn’t far off.”

“We’ll see in the morning,” said Derek. “I can hardly keep my eyes open.” It was Peter who roused Derek in the morning. “Not a drop of water coming into the house,” he told him. “That cursed Hun must have busted up the leat.” Coraton, like many houses on or near the Moor, had its water supply from a leat, an open channel leading from the Merry Brook. The leat curved along the hill side, and was about half a mile long. Derek jumped out of bed.

“Never mind! We can use the well until we get the leat mended.” He pulled up the blind. “Raining,” he remarked in a tone of disgust. Overnight there had not been a cloud in the sky, but within the past few hours the wind had backed, and now a thick drizzle was falling. A chilly, cheerless morning. “Won’t keep you at home, I suppose,” Peter said as Derek began to dress.

“No. I have plenty to do besides buying those rams.” “Are you taking that money in with you?’

“Yes, putting it in the bank.” “You’d better explain about it and pay legacy duties.” “I’ll do that. It’s only playing the game. What are you doing to-day?” “Better have a look at that leat, hadn’t I? I should think it would be safe enough to leave the house. Mrs Farrell had her chance last night.” “Much good that did her,” said Derek. He chuckled. “How sick she and her son would be if they knew of our find.”

"A good thing they don’t know,” Peter replied seriously. “I wouldn’t put it past them to do a spot of burgling if they had found out.” Breakfast was always a hasty meal at Coraton, and soon afterwards Derek was on his way to Taverton. The weather was worse rather than better, and visibility was ohly about fifty yards as the old Ford chugged up the long slope past the quarry. Derek was thankful that the roof was still watertight and that the windscreen wiper worked.

All the way up the hill Derek did not meet a soul. He came to the longlonely level at the top where the rain was driven by a rising wind. A figure loomed up, standing in the middle of the road and signalling. Derek pulled up and opened the door. “Taverton?” he asked.

“That’s where I want t go,” replied the stranger, climbing in. He was a tallish man, who wore a mud-stained Home Guard uniform. He had £ood features, but his face was oddly pale. “No weather for walking,” he remarked to Derek.

“Especially on top of Dartmoor,” Derek agreed. The man fished in his pocket and produced a briar pipe and a tin of tobacco. He filled the pipe, put the tin back in his pocket, and fumbled for a match box. This lie found but, when he opened it, it was empty. “Used the last,” he said. “Can you give me a light, sir?’ Derek had a lighter, but it was in his waistcoat pocket. In order to get it he had to unbutton his coat so he first stopped the car. Before he knew what was happening a burning spray struck his face and he fell back blinded, gasping. When he was able to breathe again and to open his stinging eyes his passenger had gone. The side door was swinging open and the cold rain beating into the car. Still half blind, Derek scrambled out, found a 'road-side puddle, soaked his handkerchief and bathed his face and eyes. He straightened himself and thrust his hand into his breast pocket. As he had fuily expected his wallet was no longer there. He looked up and down the road, but no one was in sight. Then he got back into the car. For a man whose hospitality had been so brutally abused, and whose eyes were still watering from the fumes of the ammonia which had been squirted into his face Derk did not seem specially downcast. “I’d give something to know how

that swine came to stalk me,” lie said, “but I’d give a bit more to see his face when he finds only twenty quid in that wallet.” With that he let in the clutch, started the cai* and drove briskly on to Taverton. 4To 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.