Proof - By Dick Francis Page 0,77

said no thank you and she steered the whisky my way and the tomato juice towards Ridger, accepting my money and giving change. We removed ourselves to a pair of armchairs near a small table, where Ridger again initialled our itemised account.

‘What happened with the rugger club?’ I asked interestedly.

His face showed profound disapproval. ‘She knew there’d be trouble. They’re a rowdy lot. They pulled the chandeliers clean out of the ceiling with a lot of plaster besides and she had them lined up against the wall at gunpoint by the time we got here.’

‘Gunpoint?’ I said, astonished.

‘It wasn’t loaded, but the rugger club weren’t taking chances. They knew her reputation against pheasants.’

‘A shotgun?’

‘That’s right. She keeps it there behind the bar. We can’t stop her, though I’d like to, personally, but she’s got a licence for it. She keeps it there to repel villains, she says, though there isn’t a local villain who’d face her.’

‘Did she send to you for help with the rugger club?’

‘Not her. Some of the other customers. She wasn’t much pleased when we turned up. She said there wasn’t a man born she couldn’t deal with.’ Ridger looked as if he believed it. ‘She wouldn’t bring charges for all the damage, but I heard they paid up pretty meekly.’

It would be a brave man, I reflected, who told Mrs Alexis that her Bell’s whisky was Rannoch: but in fact it wasn’t. Bell’s it was: unadulterated.

‘Pity,’ Ridger said, at the news.

I said thoughtfully, ‘She has some Laphroaig up there on the top shelf.’

‘Has she?’ Ridger’s hopes were raised. ‘Are you going to try it?’

I nodded and returned to the bar, but Mrs Alexis had departed again towards the fireplace where Wilfred with the bellows was merely adding to the smog.

‘The chimney seems to be blocked,’ he said anxiously, exonerating himself.

‘Blocked?’ Mrs Alexis demanded. ‘How could it be?’ She thought for barely two seconds. ‘Unless some bloody bird has built a nest in it, same as three years ago.’

‘We’d better wait until it’s swept again,’ Wilfred suggested.

‘Wait? Certainly not.’ She strode towards the bar. ‘I’ll be with you in a moment,’ she said, seeing me waiting there. ‘Bird’s nest. Birds building their bloody nests in my chimney. They did it once before. I’ll shift the little buggers. Give them the shock of their lives.’

I didn’t bother to point out that nests in October were bound to be uninhabited. She was certain to know. She was also smiling with reckless mischief and reappeared from behind the bar carrying the fabled shotgun and feeding a cartridge into the breach. My own feelings at the sight seemed to be shared by most of the people present as she walked towards the fireplace, but no one thought of stopping her.

Ridger’s mouth opened in disbelief.

Mrs Alexis thrust the whole gun up inside the vast chimney and at arm’s length unceremoniously pulled the trigger. There was a muffled bang inside the brickwork and a clatter as she dropped the gun on the recoil onto the logs. The eyes of everyone else in the place were popping out but Mrs Alexis calmly picked up her fallen property and returned to the bar.

‘Another Bell’s?’ she asked, stowing the shotgun lengthways under the counter. ‘Another tomato juice?’

‘Er…’ I said.

She was laughing. ‘Fastest way to clear a chimney. Didn’t you know?’

‘No.’

‘It’s an old gun… the barrel’s not straight. I wouldn’t treat a good gun like that.’ She looked towards the fireplace. ‘The damn smoke’s clearing, anyway.’

It appeared that she was right. Wilfred, again on his knees with the bellows, was producing smoke which rose upwards, not out into the room. The eyes of the onlookers retreated to their accustomed sockets and the mouths slowly closed: even Ridger’s.

‘Laphroaig,’ I said. ‘Please. And could I look at your wine list?’

‘Anything you like.’ She stretched for the Laphroaig bottle and poured a fair measure. ‘You and the policeman… what are you in here for?’ The bright eyes searched my face. ‘That policeman wouldn’t come here just for a drink. Not him. Not tomato juice. Not early.’

I paid for the Laphroaig and took the wine list that she held out. ‘We’re looking for some scotch that turned up in a Bell’s bottle at the Silver Moondance,’ I said. ‘More of the same, that is.’

The sharp gaze intensified. ‘You won’t find any here.’

‘No, I don’t suppose so.’

‘Is this because of those complaints last month?’

‘We’re here because of them, yes.’

‘You’ve shown me no authority.’ No antagonism, I thought: therefore no guilt.

‘I haven’t any.