Read The Man in the Moss for Free Online Page A

after the other.
                The red sun shone into Shaw's eyes; he didn't blink.
                The selling of the brewery was probably the worst thing
that had happened to Bridelow this century. But not, apparently, the worst
thing that had happened to Shaw Horridge.
                He lowered his forefinger. 'Just remember that, please,'
he said.
                Looking rather commanding, where he used to look shyly
hunched. And this remarkable confidence, as though somebody had turned his
lights on. Letting them all see him - smiling and relaxed - after perpetrating
the sale of the brewery, Bridelow's crime of the century. And indirectly
causing a death.
                Took some nerve, this did, from stuttering Shaw.
                Arthur's lad at last. Maybe.
                'Excuse me,' Shaw said dismissively. 'I have to meet
someone.'
                He turned his back on Young Frank Manifold and walked
away, no quicker than he needed to, the sun turning the bald spot on the crown
of his head into a bright golden coin.
                'By 'eck,' Ernie Dawber said, but he noticed that Milly
Gill was looking worried.
                And she wasn't alone.
     
    'Now then, Ernest. Wha's
tha make of that, then?'
                He hadn't noticed her edging up behind him, although he'd
known she must be here somewhere. She was a Presence.
                Just a little old woman in a pale blue woollen beret, an
old grey cardigan and a lumpy brown woollen skirt.
                'Well,' Ernie Dawber said, 'Arthur might have been
mortified at what he's done with the brewery, but I think he'd be quite
gratified at the way he stood up for himself there. Don't you?'
                'Aye,' said Ma Wagstaff grimly. 'I'm sure his father'd be
right pleased.'
                Ernie looked curiously into the rubbery old features.
Anybody who thought this was just a little old woman hadn't been long in
Bridelow. He took a modest swallow from his half of Black. 'What's wrong then,
Ma?'
                'Everything.' Ma sighed. 'All coming apart.'
            'Oh?' said Ernie. 'Nice night,
though. Look at that sun.'
            'Aye,' said Ma Wagstaff
pessimistically. 'Going down, int it?'
                'Well, yes.' Ernie straightened his glasses. 'It usually
does this time of night.'
                Ma Wagstaff nodded at his glass. 'What's that ale like
now it's Gannons?'
                'Nowt wrong with it as I can taste.' This wasn't true; it
didn't seem to have quite the same brackish bite - or was that his imagination?
                Ma looked up and speared him with her fierce little eyes.
'Got summat to tell me, Ernest Dawber?'
                Ernie coughed. 'Not as I can think of.' She was making
him uneasy.
                'Anythin' in the post today?'
                'This and that, Ma, this and that.'
                'Like one of them big squashy envelopes, for instance?'
                'A jiffy-bag, you mean?'
                'Aye,' said Ma Wagstaff. 'Wi' British Museum stamped on it.'
                Ernie fumed. You couldn't keep anything bloody private in
this place. 'Time that Millicent kept her damn nose out!'
            'Never mind that, lad, what's
it say?'
                'Now, look ...' Ernie backed away, pulling at his
waistcoat. 'In my capacity as local historian, I was able to provide Dr Hall
and the British Museum with a considerable amount
  of information relating to the Moss, and
as a result, following their examination of the body, they've kindly given me a
preview of their findings, which ...'
                'Thought that'd be it.' Ma Wagstaff nodded, satisfied.
                '... which will be published in due course. Until