An exuberant Dutt had ridden in with the first load of the super’s search-party. He found Gently picking at his lunch in Mrs Grey’s parlour and wearing the wooden expression which told of much and significant ratiocination. In front of him on the table lay the little gold-wrapped tube, one end closed, one end ragged. It appeared to be filled with a darkish, greasy substance.
‘Here we are, sir. How are things at your end?’
Gently grunted over a forkful of salad.
‘I’ve bought a new corpse and been torn off a strip!’
‘Yessir.’ Dutt curbed his enthusiasm. ‘I heard all about it up at H.Q., sir. Flippin’ cheek it was, popping the old girl off right under our bedroom window. And why didn’t we hear the shot, sir — that’s what I can’t make out!’
‘A “Parker-Hale”, Dutt.’
‘You got the gun, sir?’
‘No… but I’ve got four witnesses and they all describe the same thing.’
Dutt whistled softly. ‘But how did he get hold of that, sir…?’
‘I don’t know, Dutt, unless he picked up one second-hand and screwed the barrel himself.’
‘He’d need tools, sir.’
‘There’s a set of dies in the garage.’
‘Then you reckon it was Hicks?’
‘No, Dutt. It might have been anyone. Lammas might have fitted one himself without knowing he ought to have his licence endorsed.’
‘All the same, sir… it doesn’t half point towards the shover.’
Dutt brooded a few moments to show a proper respect for the problem, but he was obviously impatient to impart his own especial findings.
‘Well sir, I takes a squint at the corpse on account of you hadn’t seen it, but what I really has to tell you-’
‘You’ve seen the corpse, Dutt?’
‘Yessir. Bullet went clean through, forehead to top-back. But-’
‘Anything strike you about the night-dress?’
‘No sir, ’cept a bit might’ve been torn off the hem-’
‘Ah!’ The far-away look came into Gently’s eye. ‘I’d just got round to that angle when you came in…! Now just hold on a minute, Dutt — I’ll be right back with you!’
And still clutching his fork, he dived out of the room.
Dutt sighed and cut himself a generous slice of pork-pie. There were times when his senior was a little less than appreciative.
The fork was still in Gently’s hand when he returned ten minutes later, but in his other hand he now held a sodden strip of rayon.
‘There! Would that be the bit torn off the hem?’
‘Yessir. Daresay it would. It’s the same material.’
‘Exactly, Dutt… and it answers a pressing question. He’d had the corpse in a dinghy at one stage and that corpse would have bled. But it wouldn’t have bled with a bandage tied round its head… that’s why I can’t find any blood in the dinghies. At the same time, it must have bled somewhere before he bandaged it… and then again, why should he bother about the blood…?’
‘Yessir. Very true, sir.’
There was a plaintive note in Dutt’s voice that succeeded in penetrating Gently’s abstraction. He grinned at the sergeant’s expression of injury.
‘All right… let’s have the story.’
‘Ho, hit will wait, sir. I ham a bit peckish.’
‘Go on, you old so-and-so!’
‘Don’t want to hinterrupt your cogitations…’
He thawed out, however, as he remembered the glowing details of his discoveries. Fortune had smiled on Dutt in his investigations at the bus station. At first it looked like being a frost. The conductor who had been on the six-twenty bus from Halford remembered nobody of Linda Brent’s description, neither did an inspector who had got on down the road. Dutt had persisted with odd members of the station staff who might have seen the passengers leave the bus, but he got precious little encouragement until he chanced to see a Wrackstead bus pull in. And there he struck oil. Because the romantic young conductor cherished a secret passion for Pauline Lammas and her unexpected presence on the six-fifteen on Friday lingered sweetly in his memory.
‘Saw the whole thing, he did!’ related Dutt excitedly. ‘Couldn’t want a better witness, sir. When they comes in after a run they goes and gets their money and tickets checked in a glass-fronted booth affair, and Miss Pauline, she goes and stands in the bay right next door. Of course, this charlie keeps his mince-pies on her, and being as how there was a couple of blokes ahead of him, he’s still there when the Halford bus gets in. And sure enough there’s a fancy dark piece gets off it with her baggage. Up goes Miss Pauline and helps her off with her things, then she fishes in her bag and hands something over.
‘And this is the juicy bit, sir — he saw what it was! ‘It was a Yale-type key on a ring with a white tag.’
‘A Yale-type key…!’ Dutt had the pleasure of at last seeing his senior sit up and take notice. ‘And what does that suggest, Dutt?’
‘Well sir — after giving the matter me best attention-’
‘Go on, Dutt.’
‘It occurs to me, sir, that Mr Lammas couldn’t have had any hideaway like Hinspector Hansom was led to believe.’
‘You mean that otherwise there would have been no need for Linda Brent to collect a key from Miss Lammas.’
‘Well, would she, sir? Mr Lammas would’ve give it to her himself. But no — she has to pick it up! So we deduces that the key wasn’t available when Mr Lammas sets out on the preceding Saturday, but was so on the Friday. And from that we further deduces that it’s the key to a rented property, and that Miss Pauline knows where Miss Brent is at this living minute!’
Gently nodded soberly. ‘And we also deduces something else — that wherever Lammas went on his mid-week trips, it wasn’t to prepare and furnish a hideaway.’
Dutt wriggled impatiently. ‘She might know a whole lot else, sir!’
‘She might, Dutt, and she might not. Don’t forget that she’s on her father’s side in this. If she knew enough to put the finger on someone there’s no reason to suppose she wouldn’t do it… even if it were someone in the family.’
‘But she must know all about what Mr Lammas was going to do, sir. If we crack into her now she may come across, and then if we can pick up Miss Brent…’
‘Perhaps, Dutt, perhaps. Did your platform Romeo notice what happened to Miss Lammas and Miss Brent after the key was passed?’
‘Yessir, in a manner of speaking. They goes off down the station to where there’s three or four buses parked and Miss Lammas sees Miss Brent into one of them.’
‘You checked where they were going?’
‘Of course, sir, automatic. One was going to Cheapham, one to Summerton and one to Sea Weston.’
‘Cheapham and Sea Weston!’ Gently stared in surprise. ‘That’s a fascinating set of buses, Dutt…! But it gives us two to one on the coast. If I were a betting man I’d take odds on Linda Brent being tucked away in a seaside bungalow, wouldn’t you?’
‘Yessir. Now, do we pull in Miss Pauline…?’
Gently considered at length over the strawberries he was dipping in sugar. All the time his eyes were fixed on that diminutive foil-wrapped tube.
‘No,’ he said at last. ‘No, I don’t think we’ll trouble Miss Pauline at the present juncture.’
‘But if we can find Miss Brent-!’
‘That’s a job for you.’
‘For me, sir?’ goggled Dutt.
‘Yes — you’re specializing in this angle! Go back into town and beat around the estate-agents. Try the ones near Lammas’ office for a start and then work outwards. Names won’t be important, but dates and people will. You’re looking for a rented furnished property, probably in the Summerton-Sea Weston area, let as from Friday, key picked up by a certain young female… say Friday lunch-time. It’s mere routine, Dutt.’
Dutt groaned and rolled his eyes pitifully.
‘Also, you can take this stuff in for checking…’ Gently waved to the tube, his package and the strip of rayon, ‘… me, I feel a poetic mood coming on.’
‘You feel a whatter, sir?’
‘A poetic mood, Dutt. I feel it’s time that Mr Paul and myself got down to a session of mutual illumination.’
The drowsy brilliance of the hot June afternoon seemed made to display the charm of ‘Willow Street’. White walls under crisp reed thatch, ebony columns of timber, lattice-windows open wide, it nestled like a rare bird on the dipping slope as Gently swung out of the rhododendrons and braked to a stop. Around it the willows hung, completely still. The air itself seemed trembled to a stillness. Only a swallow-tail butterfly sailed, regal and self-assured, to disturb the spellbound sun-hush.
The gardener appeared from somewhere, roused by the sound of the car pulling up. He was a cadaverous, elderly man clad in a collarless twill shirt, black waistcoat and grey Derby trousers. Gently nodded and he came over.
‘Anybody at home?’
‘W’yes — no… I don’t rightla know.’
He turned about to peer into the open garage, which was empty except for an expensive-looking motorcycle.
‘Daresay the missus have gone to Narshter — tha’s her day for it. Miss Pauline, I can’t answer for. Mr Paul, he’s fishin’ in the broad, dew yew want him.’
‘Whereabouts in the broad?’
‘W’now, how should I know that? Yew’ll ha’ to go an see.’
‘Can I borrow a boat?’
‘There’s plenta in the boot-house.’
Gently shrugged and locked the Wolseley, but as the gardener turned away he asked:
‘You weren’t here last night, I suppose?’
‘Ah. I was pickin black currants an’ one thing another.’
‘Did you notice anyone go out?’
‘I hear Mr Paul go off, tha’s all.’
‘What time would that be?’
‘W’… about eight o’clock time.’
‘And when did he come back?’
‘Not while I was here, an that was nigh on ten.’
The house was so silent as Gently went by that it might have stood empty for a century. Every window was open, every door ajar. He could hear an alarm clock ticking as he passed below the kitchen. Rounding the corner, however, he nearly tripped over the lumpish-faced maid. She was lying in the sun with her skirt pulled back, and jumped up indignantly at Gently’s sudden appearance.
‘I neffer did — and what are we to be expecting next, I should like to know!’
‘Don’t let me disturb your siesta!’ Gently forced back an impish grin.
‘Come into people’s private gardens — sneak up on them from behind-!’
‘I’m only going to borrow a boat. There’s no need for you to get up.’
The maid shook herself like an outraged hen and followed him into the boat-house. It was a big, gloomy place, lit only from the entrance, and extending under at least half of the building above. It smelled sweetly of naked timber and floating oil. In the basin surrounded by a splined platform lay a husky-looking teak launch, one of the local Class half-deckers, a National, a pair of skiffs and a dinghy. Gently selected the dinghy and stepped into it with the confidence of one not unfamiliar with the habits of small boats.
‘What time did Mr Paul get in last night?’
The maid pouted at him defiantly.
‘I suppose he did get in before you went to bed…?’
‘Oh yes he did, Mr Nosey, and not so late either, it was.’
‘What excuse did he give for going out again?’
‘Who said he went out again, after I took him his malted milk in bed, too!’
Gently pulled loose the painter and pushed himself out of the boat-house with a scull.
The broad at this end had an air of exclusiveness contributed to by a number of rush and reed islands. These not only served as a screen but also deterred the near approach of the thronging holiday-craft. In the secret waterways between them flourished superb water-lilies, while there was an air of tameness about the population of coots, water-hens and great-crested grebes. Gently surveyed these fastnesses with a jaundiced eye. He was suddenly struck with the size of the task of finding one particular human being, even on a medium size broad.
But the luck of good detectives was with him. Paul Lammas had not ventured far on that blazing afternoon. Two hundred yards from the boat-house Gently perceived the bows of a dinghy sticking out past a tangle of rushes. Rowing a little nearer, he could see a fishing-rod and the tip of a stationary float. A little nearer still and Paul came into view. He was lying on cushions in the back of the dinghy, head cradled in his arms, staring into the blue of the sky. Gently let his own boat glide silently in and bump against the other.
‘That’s a fine way to catch fish!’
Paul started forward out of whatever dream he was in.
‘You…!’
There was something terribly feminine about his delicate features and fine, soft hair. Today he was wearing a fawn linen shirt and grey-green slacks, his jacket lying rolled in the bows. Feminine… but with a difference.
‘Why have you come here looking for me?’
Gently shipped his sculls without replying and grabbed himself a handful of reeds around which to loop his painter. Paul watched him fiercely.
‘I wanted to be alone… surely that was clear enough?’
‘They told me you were fishing.’
‘I am — and I want to fish alone!’
Gently grinned and settled himself with his pipe.
‘There isn’t any bait on that hook, for a start… mind if I have a look? Then again, if you got on the shady side of these reeds…’
‘What is it you want — you haven’t come here to teach me how to fish!’
Gently nodded and applied himself to Paul’s rod and tackle. He was probably fishing too shallow — the float could go up a bit! And one caught precious little with a piece of weed for bait.
Paul was sitting up straight now. He was staring at Gently with an expression of mingled anger and apprehension.
‘If you think I’ve got anything to tell you, then you’re very much mistaken!’
‘What’s in that tin… maggots?’
‘I tell you you’re wasting your time!’
‘Let’s try a cast over here, where there’s a bit of shade.’
Furious, Paul bit his small mouth together and sat watching while Gently made a cast. Now he’d got that rod in his hand, the man from the Central Office seemed to be forgetting him entirely.
‘Look… I knew that was the place to try.’
The float was shuddering excitedly.
‘Now — there it goes. And it isn’t a little one! Here, you’d better land it… I’ve just remembered I haven’t got a licence!’
Paul snatched the rod out of his hand and played the fish in. It was a handsome sharp-headed bream, clean-looking and full of jump. With considerable expertise the young man slipped a landing-net under it, lifted it aboard and disengaged the hook. Then he threw it straight back into the water and put the rod well out of Gently’s reach.
‘Now…! Perhaps we can learn what Scotland Yard is here about.’
Gently extended his hands. ‘First things first! Where did you go on your motorbike last night?’
‘I went for a ride.’
‘A ride — not again?’
Paul looked at him in surprise. ‘What do you mean — not again? Is there any reason why I shouldn’t?’
‘Not really…! Where did you go?’
‘To Starmouth. And I can prove it.’
‘What time did you get back?’
‘About eleven, I believe.’
‘And you spent the night in bed?’
‘Has it broken a local bye-law?’
Gently brooded a moment over his pipe, then his mild glance sought Paul’s.
‘Look! I’ve pretty well made my mind up about this business — but not quite. There’s a whole lot of features that keep getting in the way, and I’ve got to know which of them belong and which of them don’t. And I think you could tell me — if you stopped looking on all authority as your natural enemy!’
The young man’s flush sprang burning in his cheek.
‘I’ve told you before-’
‘Yes, I know what you’ve told me before. But things have moved on a bit since then — enquiries don’t stand still, you understand. And what you told me isn’t good enough any longer… that’s what it amounts to.’
Now he looked hard at Paul.
‘We don’t have to be enemies, remember.’
There was a silence between them broken only by the puffing of Gently’s pipe and the jewelled twitter of a reed-warbler somewhere close at hand. Fifty yards away a pair of grebes watched them suspiciously, swimming flat and jerky on the water. Then there was the slightest of chuckles and the grebes had vanished.
‘You mean I’m not under suspicion?’
Gently’s head barely moved to indicate the negative.
‘It was absurd all along — you couldn’t have thought that I did it!’
‘But you’ve made a bad impression.’
‘I don’t care. I’m just not the type!’
It was true, and in more ways than one. Gently tried to conjure up the picture of the frail young man manoeuvring the enormous remains of Cheerful Annie.
‘And if I’m not under suspicion, why can’t you just leave me alone?’
‘I’ve told you… because you’ve got some important information.’
‘And I say I haven’t, so what are you going to do about it?’
‘First, I’m going to tell you just where your mother stands in this business.’
There was no doubt about it being a shock. Paul’s cheek was a barometer to his emotions that a child could read. But Gently was in no hurry to press home his advantage; he puffed contemplatively for a while, his eyes dwelling dreamily on the golden-shadowed stars of the water-lilies.
‘You know… your mother fits the bill rather neatly.’
Paul’s teeth were almost chattering and he had to fight to keep a countenance.
‘I ask you… as one intelligent person to another… don’t you think your mother would be capable of homicide as a last resort?’
Now he had to put his hand on the counter to steady himself.
‘As I read her character it is completely implacable. She has a psychopathic will-power, a destructive will-power. I feel reasonably certain that she would sooner destroy a person than relinquish her hold on him.’
‘No!’ gasped Paul. ‘You don’t understand — she’s had to stand up for herself, that’s all. She isn’t what you say!’
Gently shrugged. ‘You should know…! But to me, as an outsider, that’s the picture. And we have there the motive. Her husband is trying to escape. You’ve got a motive too, but yours isn’t nearly as strong… neither, as you will remember pointing out, are you the type!’
Paul choked, his eyes fixed wildly on the Central Office man.
‘Of course, at first we couldn’t show that your mother knew anything about Linda Brent or your father’s plans to disappear. That made your mother’s position reasonably safe. We might suspect it, but we couldn’t show it, and it’s only the things you can show that impress a jury. But now, I’m afraid, we can show it too.
‘By lunch-time on Friday your mother had all the relevant facts but one.’
‘But she didn’t — she couldn’t have known!’
‘Your father’s whereabouts? No — not at lunch-time! But she took steps to discover it… another point for the jury. And then there’s the matter of the fingerprints on the drawer which contained the gun — her’s of course, superimposed on your father’s — and her lies about her movements — it’s a pretty formidable list!’
Paul’s state was truly pitiable. His shaking made the dinghy vibrate till it produced fine, shivering lines on the glassy surface.
‘She wouldn’t have shot him… she didn’t know anything about the gun!’
‘What do you have to know about a double-action automatic, except to point it and pull the trigger?’
‘She’d have to load it… she couldn’t do that.’
‘Wouldn’t it be loaded, when it was kept handy to deal with burglars?’
‘But she couldn’t… I tell you she couldn’t!’
Gently hunched a shoulder, as though it didn’t matter either way.
‘That won’t be the charge, in any case. We know who pulled the trigger. The charge your mother will face in dock will be conspiracy to murder, and if you think Hicks will shield her, you haven’t followed many cases of this sort! And incidentally, we’ve got Hicks nicely netted. He’s probably under arrest by now.’
‘Stop!’ croaked Paul, scarcely able to speak.
‘I thought you should know the situation.’
‘It isn’t true… you’ve got to listen!’
‘On the facts, we shall have to make a charge.’
‘No… listen to me… only listen! I’ll tell you all that happened on Friday!’
Gently turned to look at him, sitting shrunken and crouched in the stern of the dinghy.
‘Ah!’ he murmured. ‘I was hoping that you would.’
The story that Paul told was as pathetic as its narrator. He hadn’t known a thing about his father’s projected disappearance until the quarrel late at night. For him, the tragedy had been on quite a different key. Even now he seemed unable to get the matter out.
‘You see… she met him at a party.’
His mother had a lover.
‘His name is Henry Marsh… he’s a solicitor in Norchester. Heaven knows what she sees in him! I could tell him for a cad at a glance.’
But his mother had fallen for him, and he for her. There had been a head-over-heels romance lasting three months and during that time Paul’s heart had accounted for quite a number of weeks’ absence from the university.
‘When did all this happen?’
‘She met him at Christmas… it was going on till Easter.’
‘Did they keep it under cover?’
‘I suppose so… anyway, I knew about it!’
‘What about your father?’
Paul shrugged feebly. ‘I couldn’t say what he knew.’
From the beginning Paul had been suspicious and before long he had had a row with his mother. It was then he was made to realize that he had slipped into second place. His mother wouldn’t listen to him. His old influence with her had vanished. For the first time in his life he felt the icy wind of neglect seek out his pampered ego and after astonishment and self-pity had run their course he reacted in strict character.
‘At first I threatened to commit suicide, but she wasn’t impressed by that. Then I told her I would inform Father unless she stopped seeing him. It was this that put an end to it — for the moment.’
It would, of course. Mrs Lammas had no intention of either losing or being lost by her husband. A love affair was all very well while it remained a gay flourish to the pattern of life. It was not very well when it threatened to disrupt that pattern, to demolish reputations, to liberate a bondman. So Mrs Lammas had yielded, or at least appeared to yield. When Paul was around she no longer drove off to her discrete rendezvous.
Gently wondered what sort of certificate Paul would get from his mother’s specialist the next time National Service reared its ugly head.
‘But you weren’t satisfied?’
‘No… I knew the difference in her manner towards me! Once we were everything to each other, nothing could come between us. Now she was cool, so horridly cool! How can I describe it? She no longer confided in me and I felt I could no longer confide in her. All the little things that pass between people who love one another! And I knew I couldn’t trust her. She had put me outside her heart. I was sure she would tell me the biggest lie without a grain of remorse.’
So it had become an armed peace between mother and son. Outwardly, everything was the same. Inwardly, they spied upon each other, two enemies, each watching to catch the other at a disadvantage. And Paul couldn’t be away from Cambridge all the time.
‘That’s the real reason why you are at home, is it?’
‘Of course it is! You knew what I told you was an excuse. While I was here she had to stop seeing him… before this happened, anyway. If she went out, I followed her. What else was there I could do…?’
On the Friday morning he had followed her into Norchester and witnessed her visit to the office. During the afternoon she was very silent and absorbed in thought. At about half-past three he had passed through the hall and found her in the act of telephoning. She had immediately hung up and avoided him by going into the kitchen and giving some orders about tea. A little later he had seen her slip out of the house by the kitchen door.
‘She went to the phone-box at Wrackstead Turn. I timed her. She was talking for twenty minutes.’
Suspicious and very much on his guard, Paul had laid his plans for the evening. Instead of staying in the house he would deliberately go off on his motorcycle and then lurk in a side-turning, waiting to see what she would do. Mrs Lammas fell into the trap. Within five minutes she had set out to visit her lover. On the way, for motives then obscure to Paul, she had turned off to Halford Quay and made some inquiries of a petrol-pump attendant. But then she went directly to Marsh’s house. She had remained there for the rest of the evening.
‘You’re sure of this — it’s important, you know!’
‘How can I be other than sure, when I was watching the whole time on a thousand knives! She drove straight up the drive as though she owned the place, parked the car so it was out of sight and ran into the house without even knocking. Do you think I took my eyes off it one second after that?’
Gently nodded, satisfied. If Paul were telling the truth, no plain-clothes man could have watched that house half as intently as the slighted spoiled boy…
‘I watched for nearly two hours, from just after half-past seven till just before half past nine. Then she came out, and him with her — patting her shoulder and all that sort of slush! When she got into the car I raced back home. I wanted it to be a surprise, didn’t I just! And I waited for her in the lounge — and that was the row the servants heard.’
Under the circumstances, he had simply refused to believe her excuse that she had gone to Marsh for advice. What sort of tale was she telling him, about his father having sold out the business and gone off with Linda Brent? It was all too ridiculous! A palpable invention! They had gone on rowing till the return of Pauline put an end to it.
Gently refilled his pipe and lit it meticulously.
‘All right… it hangs together. Now where is Henry Marsh’s house?’
Paul hesitated before replying. He had talked himself back into fettle.
‘I suppose you’ve got to know?’
‘Oh yes, I’m afraid we have.’
‘Very well, then — and please don’t think it’s something significant! — his house is at Ollby.’
‘His house is where?’ The spent match stayed put in Gently’s fingers.
‘At Ollby, about quarter of a mile from the turning. But I can tell you right now that it means exactly nothing!’
It seemed an age before that spent match was flicked into the water. Gently kept staring at it as though it were something he hadn’t seen before. Then it went suddenly, with a curve of irritability, and Gently was lugging out his beginning-to-be-dog-eared Ordnance Survey.
‘Come on, now! No fooling about. Just whereabouts is that house situated?’
Paul pouted at his rough tone, but pointed to the spot.
‘Yes — just where I thought! It’s that white house with the trees round it, standing all on its own… over a mile this way from the village, and a good two from Panxford Upper Street!’
‘But it doesn’t signify — it might have been twenty miles away!’
Gently’s eyes fastened on him and there was no mildness in them now.
‘You can’t be that stupid! Don’t you realize what you’ve told me? On your own admission you, your mother and this Marsh were within half a mile of the scene of the murder at the time it was going on.’
‘That’s just the point — I can prove she didn’t go there!’
‘On the contrary, Mr Lammas… you can’t even prove that you didn’t go there.’
The cheeks blanched to their incredible whiteness, as though Gently had stabbed him with a knife. Even the hand clutching at the counter was drained of colour.
‘You — you trapped me into telling you this!’
Gently shook his head. ‘You seem to have trapped yourself.’
‘I told you in good faith — now you’re making it evidence against me!’
‘You told me because you had to tell me something… how much remains to be seen.’
‘I told you everything!’
‘Then look at this map.’
He prodded at the buff coloured line of the secondary road taping out from Wrackstead. It left Panxford to one side, passed through the hamlet of Panxford Upper Street and for over three miles from thence to Ollby proceeded without a single side-turn… except one.
‘You must have seen the chauffeur pass.’
‘I didn’t, I tell you!’
‘You must have done, if you were on that road. Do you want me to believe he went ten miles about?’
‘I wasn’t watching the cars!’
‘You’d have noticed your father’s.’
‘I’d got my back to the road!’
‘Then you’d be in full view of the house.’
Paul swayed as though he would fall and Gently halted to give him time to recover.
‘Another thing… you’d have seen the smoke.’
Paul moaned like a stricken animal.
‘From the house the trees hid it, but you’d have seen it from the road.’
‘I didn’t see anything.’
‘Then you must have been blind!’
‘I’m not going to say any more… I told you the truth, and now you’re trying to trap me!’
He sank back into the cushions and threw his arm over his face. Gently bit hard on his pipe-stem, looking down on the crumpled form.
‘You see where this is leading — it could have been you and the chauffeur. There’s nothing to show you didn’t intercept him and persuade him to help kill your father.’
Silence; except the twittering of the reed-warbler.
‘You were pals, weren’t you? If it comes to that, you might even have made the phone-call.’
Silence, complete and utter.
Gently snorted and reached for the painter. ‘Very well, then — for the present! But you’re in dangerous waters, my lad, and you’d better do some hard thinking. It may be that only the whole truth will save you from a long drop — and be a close call into the bargain!’
He pushed the dinghy clear. Once more the reed-warbler began to twitter from its world of tall stems.