Death of a Delft Blue

chimney, you know.’ He helped himself to a soft roll and more butter and marmalade, and added, ‘Look, let’s see what we can do in this neighbourhood before we go on wild goose chases in Holland. You try that garage where Colwyn-Welch was employed, Laura. We got nothing there that was any good to us, but you might be luckier. Look over their used cars and re-treaded tyres, and pass the time of day in a genial and hearty manner. You might work wonders.’

Laura glowered at him, but, on the advice of Dame Beatrice, (expressed in private after breakfast), she allowed herself to be taken in Dame Beatrice’s car to the garage.

Laura had her own very definite way of going about things. No, the car did not need servicing, she said, unless they still engaged a young man named Colwyn-Welch. The proprietor responded that the young man in question had left, and was not all that much good, anyway. He understood cars, but was averse to doing much of the dirty work on them. And dirty work was eighty per cent of what was needed, the proprietor added. He eyed Laura suspiciously. He thought he had seen her before, he stated. Laura blithely agreed.

‘He’s wanted,’ she said dramatically.

‘Wanted? By the police?’

‘I’m a stool-pigeon, or whatever they call it,’ pronounced Laura. ‘In other words, my husband is a police officer of the C.I.D. and I’ve been sent here to make enquiries.’

‘In that case, madam,’ said the proprietor, ‘I have no information to offer you. You don’t seem bona fides, as they say.’

‘So there is something fishy,’ said Laura, pleasantly. ‘Oh, well, thank you for your help.’

‘Look, don’t get me wrong. What proof have I got that you’re what you say?’ the proprietor pleaded.

‘You have nothing but my word for what I say, and that isn’t proof. What’s your headache, exactly?’ asked Laura.

‘I don’t know,’ the proprietor admitted, scratching his ear. ‘What do you want me to tell you?’

Laura’s West Highland sixth sense suddenly functioned.

‘Did any letters come for him here?’

‘Letters? What, for Colwyn? — the Welch is a new one on me. Letters for Colwyn, you say?’

‘Yes. There might have been one from Holland.’

The proprietor scratched his ear again. Laura looked at it. An early-autumn chilblain, she surmised. There was certainly a draught in the garage. The ear looked very red and had a badly swollen lobe.

‘Holland? I couldn’t say. He did have one letter addressed here, so far as I remember. He didn’t take much note of it, so far as I’m aware.’

‘What’s the matter with your ear?’

‘That? Nothing. Itches a bit, that’s all.’

‘What does your doctor say about it?’

‘Haven’t got a doctor. Don’t believe in ’em.’

‘But you must be registered under the National Health Scheme.’

‘Oh, I’ve got a doctor, but I don’t trouble him.’

‘That’s a pity. He might be able to do something for that ear. I wonder whether I could put you on to somebody?’

‘Not on your life! I don’t hold with doctors. They can’t do nothing for you.’

‘I’m not so sure, but just as you like, of course.’

‘Doctors can’t do nothing for you,’ the man repeated obstinately. ‘He took a girl to look at Eldon Hole,’ he added, ‘and not up to no good, he wasn’t, if you ask me. He cleared out, and that’s all as I can tell you.’

Laura left the garage and rejoined George.

‘Off to Eldon Hole,’ she said briefly. ‘I want to have a look round.’

George, who had been in Dame Beatrice’s service for many years, responded gravely,

‘A very dangerous spot, I am informed, madam.’

‘Of course it isn’t dangerous,’ said Laura. ‘Anyway, I want to go and see it.’

George drove off, and pulled up as near the natural chasm as he could. Without a word, having locked the car, he followed Laura at a discreet distance. She went up to the fence which guarded the hole, and looked over, into the cleft. George moved a little nearer. He gave a discreet cough. Laura turned.

‘If I may say so, Mrs Gavin, madam,’ he said, ‘you would jeopardise my job if you decided to climb over.’

‘George,’ said Laura, ‘supposing, in summer, you wanted to dispose of a compromising sort of letter, wouldn’t you chuck it down there?’

‘Young fellows on holiday climb down such places for a dare, or just for the hell of it, madam. It would not be a very safe place to deposit anything really dangerous — not if you were known in the neighbourhood, that is. A far more likely thing would be to throw it on the fire.’

‘But this would have been at the end of the summer. There wouldn’t be any fires.’

‘Not in a farmhouse?’ suggested George.

‘Good heavens! They did visit a farmhouse! What’s more, I know which one. They