Текст книги "A Spider in the Cup"

Автор книги: Barbara Cleverly

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CHAPTER 7

Inspector Orford went to answer. “Ah! At last! Thanks, lad,” they heard him say. He turned to them, the envelope already torn open in his hand. “The list of girls reported missing. Oh … well, well. Only fourteen of them. I restricted the height, age and hair colour for the search and this is what we’re left with.”

He brought it over and held it out so that Joe could read at the same time.

Joe’s eyes skidded down the list, failed to find what he was looking for, and started again at the top.

“I don’t see much of interest there, do you, inspector? Each one a personal tragedy for some poor soul, no doubt about that, but nothing stands out in relation to this case. Nothing foreign sounding. No fancy ballerina names.”

“Ah, you can’t always judge a rose by its name,” the inspector commented shrewdly. “Look at little Alicia Marks from the East End. As soon as the Russians discovered her, they gave her another more glamorous name. She’s Alicia Markova now. I’ll have all these ladies investigated,” he said firmly, slipping the paper away into his file. “And I’ll keep them coming. Sometimes it takes a week before someone realises a dear one’s gone missing. Now, doctor, one last thing before you get busy with your scalpel. The gold that set the hazel twig aquiver! Have you got it about the place?”

“I reinserted it,” said Rippon. “The professor of archaeology was full of information. Made a point of grabbing me by the arm and talking to me until he was sure I’d absorbed his account of the circumstances. Fascinating! Not the way we usually do things. But this whole case has been highly irregular from the beginning. Do let’s try now to keep things on the rails.”

“Gold? Reinserted?” Joe said faintly. “Hang on a minute! You two have skipped a page. Where on earth would you reinsert a piece of gold in a corpse, Rippon, if you had such a thing to hand?”

“Come and look. This is the clue the colonel took charge of and handed over directly to me.”

Joe didn’t need to ask why. After years of working to raise standards, the probity of the men of the Metropolitan police was still questioned by the public, but a medical man—that was a different matter. He could be trusted with your gold.

The doctor carefully opened the mouth with a spatula. “I’ve put it back exactly as it was when the professor noticed it. It’s rather large to go under the tongue—one and a half inches across—but there it is. It was held in place under the mud by the rigor.”

“Can you take it out?” Joe asked.

A pair of pincers extracted it neatly and placed it, shining brightly, on to a specimen dish.

“A museum piece you’d say. Handsome! It appears unused. Still—that’s gold for you—survives anything you can throw at it and comes up gleaming. Look, there’s quite a story to go with it. I think I can tell you the name of this rather splendid chap on horseback on the underside—the reverse, do they call it?—but I’d rather you interviewed the professor himself. He can dot all the Is and cross all the Ts for you. And he’ll get it right.”

Joe was staring, hypnotised by the coin. “Good Lord!” he murmured. “I never thought I’d actually clap eyes on one of these.” He took a magnifying glass from his bag and peered at the scene impressed on the coin. As he passed his glass to Orford, Joe realised that he was shivering and his mouth was dry. In a deliberately calm voice he said, “Do you see the ship?”

“It’s very clear. Roman galley, would that be, sir?”

“That’s right. The water it’s skimming over is the River Thames, would you believe? The figure on the right is kneeling in the mud on the riverbank in front of the gates of London as perceived in the year two hundred and ninety something.”

Inspector Orford looked up, astonished. “This could have been me on my knees just this morning. Those towers—you sure that’s not Battersea Power Station we’re looking at? Bit weird if you ask me …”

“No. This is most probably the first depiction we have, in any medium, of ancient Londinium. The kneeling chap, whose name escapes me, is surrendering the city to the horseman on the left. I remember his name—he’s Constantius, Emperor of Rome and from this moment on—of Britannia.”

“You’ve seen this coin before, sir?”

“Only in glossy sale-room catalogues. Few were minted and no one’s sure how many remain. Or where they may be.” He shuddered. “They’re quite valuable. To think it was within inches and seconds of being swept into the Thames …” He recollected himself. “Fingerprints, Orford? What are you thinking?”

“I don’t expect anything but the colonel’s and the professor’s dabs on that—both of them handled it. But we’ve got to give it a go.”

He produced an evidence bag and the doctor took up his tweezers again to place the coin inside. Orford tucked the bag into his inside breast pocket. I’ll walk it over to forensics myself,” he said. “Must be worth a bit.”

“Someone clearly valued this girl. Or old Charon’s put his rates up again,” Joe said, deep in thought.

Rippon took up his scalpel. “You know I make the incision from the base of the neck downwards?” he said carefully, preparing them for what was to come.

“I’ve watched Sir Bernard do many an autopsy,” said Joe. “I’m sure I shall appreciate the technique. Ready, Orford?”

BIG BEN WAS booming out Handel’s cheerful preamble to the one o’clock stroke when they left the postmortem laboratory. In silence, they turned from the Embankment and made their way up to Scotland Court where the Red Lion extended its usual beery welcome. They sank down at a corner table. “Stay where you are,” Joe said. “I’ll get us a pint. IPA do you?”

“Perfect,” said Orford. “But I’m not up to tackling any grub, sir, if you don’t mind.”

“I’ll join you in that.” Joe smiled. “Don’t believe what they tell you—you never get used to it. Not a good thing if you did.”

“It’s not the blood and guts and part-digested porkpies that are the trouble,” Orford said, searching for the source of his discomfort.

“No. The butcher’s shop aspect of it all soon ceases to shock. It’s the murdered person’s essence—I’m trying hard to avoid ‘soul’ or ‘spirit’ but you know what I mean—that grabs hold of you and won’t let go. Old, young, villains, heroes—whoever’s on the slab, you’re their slave until their story’s out in the open. Am I being fanciful?”

“Just a bit,” said Orford tactfully. “But I know what you mean.” He considered for a moment and then said carefully: “There was a down-and-out last summer. One of my cases. Bludgeoned to death and left on a rubbish heap in an alleyway. Not important in anyone’s book … but he wouldn’t leave me alone. Got into my head and stuck there until I sorted it all out. He’d been killed for a sixpence, but the old goat wanted retribution and I was the one detailed to get it for him. Because who else cared? His brother-in-law swung for it.” He brightened and added, “Let’s have that pint, shall we? And then I’ll mark your card in the matter of the witnesses. It wouldn’t do to meet this lot stone-cold sober and unprepared.”

COLONEL SWINTON SEEMED to have taken the same view, Joe thought as the military man shepherded his group into the interview room. He detected scents of whisky, wine and beer as the introductions were performed and floating over all, the lingering aroma of a rich Savoy luncheon.

Joe looked with fascination at the flushed and eager faces and fought back a smile. He’d never had a collection of witnesses quite like this one. A cohesive group, fired by civic duty and all singing from the same page of the approved hymn book. They were an interviewing officer’s dream. He could safely have left this to Orford. He reminded himself that one of the group had pulled strings and insisted on seeing a member of the top brass. It was up to him to shake an imaginary epaulette and refer at least once to “my good friend the Commissioner.” He would take the opportunity of establishing whether this was a self-glorifying gesture on someone’s part or a signal that a more acute instinct had caught the same ripple of unease as had Joe himself. This case was anything but straightforward. He was intrigued by several odd aspects; by the extravagance of the parting gift to the dead and by coincidences he had noted. Joe never felt at ease with a coincidence.

“We’re at your disposal, Commissioner,” Swinton said. “We’ve all made telephone calls and adjusted our schedules for the rest of the day.”

“Except for me. I did tell you, Charles, that I am due to give a lecture at three o’clock and I never keep my students waiting.” Joe identified the professor of archaeology. “I should be obliged, Sandilands, if you would take me first.”

Joe smiled broadly. “Punctuality is the politeness of princes—and of the Met, I’m pleased to say. I will put you in a squad car at two thirty, sir. You have my word on that. But our good manners extend also to respect for the fair sex.” He had noticed that one of the group, the young woman, appeared on the point of collapse. “I’m going to take Miss da Silva first.”

She sighed and smiled in relief.

“Now, the inspector, whom you know, will take the rest of you next door to wait your turn. Time is of the essence and I sense that you are not the kind of people to waste yours or mine. This will go a lot faster than you are expecting. Orford, can we arrange to have coffee served to those waiting?”

Orford marched off to do just that.

Doris da Silva stayed behind when the rest shuffled off and she sank instantly onto a chair.

Joe made notes as she outlined her relationship with the other dowsers, gave a brief but clear account of her special skills and confided how shocking she had found the whole experience. Never again, was her concluding remark. She had broken her wand in two and thrown the pieces into the river. After a few follow-up questions Joe was able to dismiss her with his warm thanks in eight minutes flat. Doris brightened and told him she would wait for Miss Herbert, who was taking her home in a taxi.

“Perhaps you’d be good enough to ask Miss Herbert to come in now?”

“WELL, COMMISSIONER, WHAT did she die of?”

Hermione Herbert took over the questioning the moment she sat down.

“The autopsy is still in progress. Samples of tissue and stomach contents are being analysed in our laboratory. We hope to have a result before the end of the day.”

“But you must have some idea?” she pressed him.

“A thousand ideas, Miss Herbert, and you can be certain that nine hundred and ninety-nine of them will be wrong if I share them with you now. I don’t speculate. I draw conclusions from evidence when that evidence is in.”

She nodded, accepted the gentle rebuke, and asked less sharply, “Have you established her identity? We are all concerned for her … and her family.”

“Not yet. We hope to have her name at any moment. Now—you are an experienced medical practitioner? A Matron, I understand?” He listened as she outlined succinctly her nursing career. “I have to tell you that our pathologist confirms all you had to say at the scene as far as I can judge from the notes made by my inspector.”

“A young fellow, your physician,” she commented. “They need the occasional guiding hand under their elbow. It would have been easy to miss the pin prick under the hair behind her left ear. From a syringe most probably. Did he pick that up?”

Joe smiled. “He did indeed. Nothing escapes Doctor Rippon. And the severed toe, of course, he could hardly miss …”

“Strange that. Hard to account for. Trophy? Men do have their disgusting ways. It’s probably sitting on the villain’s bathroom shelf in a bottle of formaldehyde. And such a distinctive toe! She was a ballet dancer, you know. All the signs were there.”

“Yes, indeed. Such was our conclusion. The ranks of the Ballets Russes are being combed at this minute. And of the rival company at Covent Garden.”

“Why would anyone seek to disfigure her body in this unpleasant way? A toe! The essential part of her physical equipment? These girls are still referred to as ‘toe dancers.’ A message there? Did someone envy her prowess?”

“I can’t imagine it, but then—it’s hard to imagine any motive for destroying such beauty and, I assume, talent.”

“Oh, talent, certainly. An appearance even in the chorus line denotes years of hard toil by a talented performer. She will be missed, whoever she is. He couldn’t have done the girl any further harm after her death,” Hermione put forward a considered suggestion, “so the mutilation was performed either for his own sick satisfaction or to speak vile thoughts to the living.” Her eyes questioned him: Have you reasoned this far? But she stopped short of voicing the challenge. Out of respect for his rank, Joe assumed; his sex and relative youth, he guessed, would not carry much weight with Miss Herbert.

“It wouldn’t be the first time, in my experience, that a corpse had been used as an elaborate vehicle for the outpourings of a twisted mind.” He answered her thought. “It is extremely rare, thank God, but must always be considered when the more usual motives can be discounted. I don’t think it applies in this case for the good reason that he hid her body well away from the eyes of the living. If your group hadn’t been there on that spot at that moment, she would have been lost forever, with or without toe. The sight of this body was not intended for the eyes of the public.”

She seized on one of his words. “Intention. You’ve seen it. This was not a crime of passion or even emotion. I’d say it was calculated and timed to the last minute.” She leaned forward to make her point. “The man—or men—you’re seeking, Commissioner, was in possession of and knew how to interpret one of these.”

Hermione opened her bag and produced a timetable of Thames tides. “I’ve compared the time I estimate she died with the time of low tide after dark on the river on that reach. There’s a space of an hour and a half during which her body might have been disposed of. There, I’ve marked it on the chart.”

“May I keep this?” Joe made no attempt to conceal his interest from those sharp eyes. “Do you know—I watch the tide rise and fall every day from my window but I couldn’t tell you when exactly it happens. I just know it’s not a regular thing. I wouldn’t set my watch by it. I think I shall need to take a little advice from our river police with this in hand.”

Hermione nodded her approval and Joe had the feeling that he had performed successfully at interview. “Always a sign of strength in a man, I think—the ability to take advice when necessary.” She gave him a smile of quiet triumph. “So glad I was able to catch Clive at his desk this morning.”

Clive Who or Who Clive? Joe pretended to know and stayed silent. Home Office mandarin perhaps?

“I told him, ‘This case could prove intractable. It calls for the attention of the best you have,’ and Clive replied, ‘Sounds to me as though you need a dose of Sandilands.’ ”

“Ah, yes … Bloated? Irritable? Undigested fats blocking the system?” Joe quoted from an advertisement for something with the lugubrious brand name of Bile Pills. “They will think of me when it comes to clearing a blockage.”

“A slug of Sandilands Stomach Salts was prescribed,” she said, picking up his reference with glee. “So far, so good. I’ll let you know the outcome.”

He thought Miss Herbert had a very attractive gurgle when she was amused. He sensed she was about to bring her interview to a close and decided to forestall her. She’d had her fun. “Now, Miss Herbert, is there anything you would like to add to the notes we already have? No? I will send an officer to your home tomorrow to take the formal statement. You’ve all had a long day. Yes, that will be all for the time being. I’m sure Inspector Orford has thanked you for your timely and helpful intervention in all this. Please add my thanks to his. I’m going to give you my card, which has my telephone number on it. Here at the Yard.” He picked up his pen and wrote on the back. “And a second number where I may be contacted.” Joe was breaking his own rules and those of the Yard by doing this but something in the woman’s calm and intelligent manner filled him with trust. If Miss Herbert had any further thoughts he would be interested to hear them.

“Oh, one last T to cross …” he said as she reached the door. “How long ago had you decided on the group’s dowsing venue?”

Unhesitating, the answer came back: “Two weeks ago. In discussion with Charles—Colonel Swinton. We announced our choice of location six days ago at our last group meeting. Charles it is who makes all our logistical arrangements—taxis, charabancs, permissions to dig …”

“Lunches at the Savoy?” Joe suggested.

The austere features were suddenly enlivened by a girlish grin.

“Was that bad of us? I suppose it was but—don’t be concerned on his account! Charles has pots and pots of money, lucky old so-and-so. We try not to exploit his good nature but his largesse is legendary. And his enthusiasms. He’s much more than just a military man, you know. He’s a great supporter of the Arts. His mother was Amity Deverell, the actress, so one might expect it. Now who would you like to see next?”

“I expect the professor is straining at the leash, whimpering and scratching to get in.”

“Better get it over with,” she advised, “before he makes a puddle on the floor.”

IT HAD BEEN unwise to refer facetiously to the professor. Amusement was still alight in Joe’s eyes and softening his judgement when Reginald Stone stalked in. The professor posed in the doorway to be observed checking the time on his pocket watch before casting the cold assessing stare Julius Caesar might have reserved for the Gaulish forces of Vercingetorix drawn up in front of him at Alesia. He advanced on the desk. The performance was meant to be intimidating but Joe could only see a pompous clot who was, for reasons which might become apparent, taking up an antagonistic stance. The man was just putting the bobby in his place, Joe reckoned.

“I’ve given everything I had to report to the other police chappie,” Stone said. “Surely he made notes? Can’t he share them with you? It was quite unnecessary of Hermione to insist on bringing in a second pair of ears, however distinguished their owner. As I said—I was there on the riverbank … if not by accident, then … fortuitously. I’m no dowser. Please do not categorise me with them. I had nothing to do with the planning or execution of this farce and I attended in a spirit of scientific enquiry. No business of mine otherwise.”

“As a policeman, sir, and an inveterate minder of other people’s business,” Joe said mildly, “I have always agreed with the poet Horace that tua res agitur, paries cum proximus ardet. It is your concern when your neighbour’s house is on fire. Fire leaps through a city, invading and destroying without fear or favour—as does crime. Assist me with a little firefighting, will you? Put it down to public concern and duty.”

Joe did not have the whole—or much—of Horace by heart but his old Latin master had. In his classroom, the blackboard had been graced with a daily quotation from the works of his hero, Quintus Horatius Flaccus. Each one to be learned and tested when least expected. Joe had been entertained in later years to find how readily they came back to mind, the wise comments, the humane advice, the wit and the thumping rhythms. He left a pause, wondering whether Horace would be able to work his ancient magic once more.

The professor sighed deeply and shrugged. “As you wish. But I won’t be ticked off like a naughty boy for extracting and preserving evidence. My action was prompted by the public concern you—and Horace—urge. The tide was racing up. A valuable item risked being swept away at any moment.”

He sat down at last and, taking this as a temporary truce, Joe pushed on. “I have the facts. No need to plough the same furrow twice. It’s not your dowsing skills—or lack of them—nor yet your motive in attaching yourself to such an uncongenial group that interests me for the moment. It’s the speed with which you identified the Constantius coin.”

A sharp look from the professor encouraged Joe to ask, “Where had you seen one before?”

“There are one or two in the British Museum. I know of six in private hands in New York. Two in Paris, at least three in Berlin and perhaps as many as … five in London. More have gone underground. Naturally, the archaeological journals were full of the story of their discovery in … when was it?… nineteen twenty-two, I believe. In a suburb of Arras in northern France, as far as I recollect, a gang of French workmen dug up an earthernware pot full of gold coins …”

“Belgian,” Joe interrupted. “The men were Belgian. The suburb was Beaurains, from where it takes its name: The Beaurains Hoard.” He relished Stone’s surprise for a moment. “I was in northern France at the time, just a few miles away. The local newspapers were full of detail. As a policeman I was shocked to read in La Voix du Nord that someone had left the pot with its contents of inner silver casket and mixed cargo of coinage unguarded the night after its discovery.

“By the morning many had disappeared.” He held the professor’s eye while he spoke. “Including a large number of the Constantius coins. These were not immediately recognised for the valuable items they were. Too big. Too shiny-new. It was thought they must be counterfeits of some sort. They simply looked too good to be true. The men involved in the discovery actually made off with some of the ones remaining and melted them down for scrap. The rest made their way onto the undercover coins market in Europe and America.”

The professor nodded, accepting Joe’s version of events. “Forget about their monetary value—it’s not the number of these things that is significant. They do say some have even been counterfeited—reproduced, I should say. If I were you, I’d have that one tested. But the survival of one genuine coin alone would have been enough. Enough to give a fascinating aperçu into a little known period of Romano-British history. It’s the history that’s important, not the weight of metal.”

“A period even less well known to me,” Joe admitted. “What have you to tell me about the man whose uncompromising features appear on the obverse?”

“Ugly brute, what?” the professor agreed. “Constantius the First. Roman Emperor, but not a man of Rome originally. He was thought to have been born somewhere in central Europe. Married Helena, among others. She of the True Cross, the Christian Helena, and he fathered a much better-known figure: Constantine, his son, who became emperor in three-oh-six AD, you’ll remember. Constantius laid claim to most of Gaul and then to Britain. On the reverse side of the medal—by far the more interesting—you see him cantering about in some splendor on a war horse. Another European trying to bring about the subjugation of these islands to a central power. Not the first and not the last. This is the year two ninety-six AD and he’s meant to be entering London and accepting the surrender from the poor chap on his knees in front of the gates.”

“I don’t believe I have ever heard this fellow’s name,” Joe said. “The abject one.”

“Wouldn’t expect it,” said Stone, dismissively. “Not one you come across often. He wasn’t always abject—far from it. He was the man who had seized the chance, with all the troubles of Empire swirling about at the time, to break away from Rome and set himself up as Emperor of Britain. Allectus, his name was, and he was originally the minister for finance … something of that nature. The State moneybags. Nasty piece of work by all accounts—certainly no King Arthur figure. Surprising how often scum rises to the surface in politics if you don’t have the right checks and balances in place.”

He paused for breath and appeared suddenly struck by an intriguing idea. “Ha! Rather appropriate to our own times, eh, Sandilands? The British Chancellor of the Exchequer on his knees in London mud, begging for mercy from a swaggering conqueror?” He laughed heartily at what he would doubtless have called his little aperçu. “Coins and medals were a form of propaganda, in those times, you know. What better way of announcing to a people with negligible access to the written word that their head of state has changed? That the man to whom you now owe allegiance (and taxes!) is the man whose image you carry in your cash bag? ‘Render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s!’ It still works for us.”

Deftly, he produced a penny coin from his trouser pocket and put it down in front of Joe. “There! You see the severe features of our good King George reminding us that, out of every four similar, one at least must be rendered to him or the State over which he presides.”

Joe flipped it over. “I prefer to look at the reverse,” he said. “Where I see the unchanging image of the goddess Britannia.”

“Ah? You’d worship at her altar?”

“Certainly. I’ve even made my sacrifices,” Joe said mysteriously. “There she sits, through the centuries and all the changes, monarchs good, bad and indifferent, watching our backs, helmet on, spear at the ready, bless her!”

Stone smiled. “And it’s another Roman emperor we have to thank for that! Hadrian, the builder. He was the first ruler to have Britannia put on his coins. On the Hadrian coinage, she sits on a rock, the northern sea lapping at her feet, with shield and spear to hand. She’s a blend of Minerva and Boadicea, I always think.”

“A useful lady to have in your corner. Miss Herbert could well pose should a new model be required.”

“Indeed. I too am an admirer—though I find it politic to hide my admiration. Musn’t let these wimmin get above themselves, eh? I applaud your insight, Sandilands. Brings a tear to a patriotic eye, does it not? I am glad—surprised but glad—to see yours misting over.” The professor raised his nose and surveyed Joe again down the length of it. Caesar had by now, it seemed, assessed the strength of the opposition and concluded that victory was in the bag. Time to discuss surrender terms? “Look, here, Sandilands,” he said, weighing his words, “much of interest to chew over, I think. I see you are a fellow who enjoys a good yarn. We could continue more congenially sitting knee to knee in armchairs, sipping a whisky at my club.” He took a card from his pocket and passed it over the desk. “I’m always here on Friday evenings. If you present this to the steward, he’ll bring you through to me.”

Words failing him, Joe could only take the card and incline his head in an old-fashioned gesture of thanks.

Stone raised a finger in teasing admonition. “I’m sure I don’t need to remind a lover of Horace that aequam memento rebus in arduis servare mentem.”

“Oh, I usually manage to remain calm, however rough the going gets,” Joe murmured. “This job demands it.”

As the door closed behind Reginald Stone, “Arrogant know-it-all!” Joe exclaimed under his breath, sliding the card away inside the case file. “And that professor’s no better!”

A tap on the door reminded Joe that he had neglected to name the next witness in line. The tap was followed by a floppy fair quiff and a pair of earnest brown eyes peering into the room.

“Jack Chesterton, sir. The colonel thought you’d want to see me next.”

“And he was right. Do come in!”

The young man settled down opposite Joe and produced a sheet of drawing paper from a slim attaché case. He handed it across the desk.

“I’m afraid I’m the spare wheel on this wagon, sir,” he said. “Everyone else had a part to play in the drama—and I must say, they did it splendidly! But I was left rather standing about. I took the opportunity of making an on-the-spot plan of the scene of operations while they were transporting the body and I worked it up over lunch. Scale diagrams are very much my thing, you see. I’m an architect.”

Joe studied the sheet. The site of the burial was marked, clearly set in its surroundings. A scale marked “estimated” helped him to judge the width of the riverbank and the grave’s precise location on it. Sketched from a viewpoint on the embankment, it was pinned down further by a triangulation involving the fixed points of Battersea Power Station and the Albert Bridge.

“I didn’t know the sketching convention for thick Thames mud, sir—not a substance we’re ever called on to treat as a foundation for our schemes—so I’ve left it blank.”

“It’s all perfectly clear, Mr Chesterton,” Joe said. “May I keep this for the file? My best officer couldn’t have done better. Splendid stuff!”

Chesterton smiled his satisfaction.

“Explain these markers for me, will you?” Joe asked, pointing with his pencil.

“On the left, which is the east as we’re on the north bank, is a rotting old breakwater—revêtement, whatever you want to call it. Long past its useful life. And on the right, the rounded object is an overturned boat in similar condition.”

“It’s above the waterline?”

“Yes. It was perfectly dry. The professor sat on it. Reluctantly—he claimed it stank of rotting seaweed. We put all our gear at his feet for safe keeping.”

“Any sign of habitation?”

“Rats, you mean?” Chesterton grinned. “Prof Stone made rather a show of banging about along the keel to frighten off any rodents …” His voice trailed away then resumed, “But, hang on! When we were looking for a place to park our bags, I cleared out some rubbish …” His eyes met Joe’s.

“And found the source of the pong. Chicken bones! And a paper bag—one of those little cornet-shaped ones—an empty one that had contained brown shrimps by the look and smell of it.” And, excitedly: “They weren’t rat-nibbled. You’re right, sir! Someone sleeping rough? He wasn’t there when we were. But he could have been sheltering under the boat when the body was buried, don’t you think? I’m assuming that the deed was done under cover of darkness.”

Joe agreed and thought that if he just sat there quietly this team would solve his problems for him.

“Mr. Chesterton, may I ask you to go and find Inspector Orford and tell him to come in here. I’d like you to outline your theories for him.”

Chesterton shot to his feet. “Orford? He’s in the waiting room keeping us all plied with coffee and stopping everyone from scragging Prof Stone. I’ll get him.”