CHAPTER NINEMacdonald drove on to Branscombe when he left Brian Salcombe. Branscombe was the Burrows’ farm and it was a very different proposition from the grey harshness of Moorcock, away up on the moor. Margie Burrow’s home approximated more to the popular idea of a farm in Devon: set in a wide, well-watered valley, its pastures and meadows green even in December, the farmhouse whitewashed and thatched. It was a comfortable-looking building, sturdy and squat, with deep eaves and fine stone chimneys.
When Macdonald went into the yard, he noticed that no smoke was rising from the chimneys and the back door was shut. When he knocked, the only response he got was from a dog, chained up to its kennel. Its barking brought a farm lad out from one of the barns, a tow-haired, rosy-cheeked youth
