somebody just passing through could have no possible interest in them.’
‘What records would these be, sir? Names and addresses of your cabin people?’
‘Exactly. I need them for reference and, in any case, they are nobody else’s business and are not in any way what one may call confidential. Why should anybody take my records?’
‘You don’t suspect any, in particular, of your tenants, I suppose, sir?’
‘Nobody in particular, but it is possible, I suppose, that one of the younger men might want to check the address of a young woman who had taken his fancy.’
‘Was any damage done, sir?’
‘The window-catch on the ground floor — my office is on the ground floor with my flat above it — the window-catch had been forced, so I suppose the intruder climbed in by the window. The door has a Yale lock and there had been no tampering with that. No, there was no actual damage. I have no lock on my desk or to any of the drawers in it, and I have never troubled to lock my filing-cabinet as it never contains anything of a strictly confidential nature or anything of value. Money is never left on the premises. I need hardly tell you that.’
‘When did you miss the records, sir?’
‘Immediately before I telephoned you. I have my routine and I adhere to it. My office hours — that is to say, the times when I am available for interviews or to listen to complaints — are from nine until eleven each morning and from five o’clock to six each afternoon. I very seldom get complaints, but I like to welcome new residents on the first evening of their stay. As for my morning sessions, they are devoted to paperwork and sometimes to checking on those visitors who propose to take the long forest trail. As you probably know, there are four marked trails in the forest. One is a short walk which takes about three-quarters of an hour, the second and third take from an hour and a half to two hours. There are coloured route-signs which are simple to interpret. The long trail, however, covers ten miles and we like to know at what time the walkers set out and we ask them to clock in at the office when they get back.’
‘So you check in this way in case anybody gets lost, I suppose.’
‘That is the idea. They can hardly get lost unless they stray from the marked course, but part of it is in open country and then, if the mist comes down suddenly, or if they loiter too long and it gets dark, well, then they can be in trouble and we advise them before they start to stay put until the search party finds them if they do get lost or benighted.’
‘Yes, sir, very interesting, but what about the theft of your records? You telephoned me at ten this morning and you say you did so as soon as you discovered the records were missing. Could I have the whole story?’
‘Oh, certainly, but there is not much I can add to what I said over the phone. We let the cabins on a weekly basis from Saturday to Saturday. We don’t encourage people to clock in before lunch because the cabins are cleaned when the outgoing tenants leave at ten or earlier on the last Saturday of their stay. Some people book for a week, others for longer. A fortnight is the average in the summer, a week in Spring or at this time of year.’
‘So in mid-week you would not be as busy as at weekends, whatever time of year it was.’
‘That is correct. I left the office at six last evening when everything was still in order and came in at nine this morning as usual. I did not take my records out of the filing-cabinet immediately, as I had some odds and ends of correspondence to clear up and that involved nothing but opening my desk.’
‘May I look at your filing-cabinet, sir? Detective-Constable March will check it for fingerprints. We have some from a break-in at the Youth Hostel at Long Cove Bay which we should like to match.’
‘You mean the same man broke in there?’
‘We shall know when we have the prints.’
‘But a person who would use a youth hostel is hardly a person who would book accomodation in the forest, Inspector. Aren’t the hostellers birds of passage? Here, you know, we never take bookings of less than a week, except—’
‘Except when the police commandeer a cabin for a couple of days. Yes, I know. Much obliged for your help in that little matter, sir.’
‘Oh, I made the books tally up to a point. I recorded your dancers as having been accomodated in the cabin evacuated at the beginning of the week by those four women who went off at such short notice. The cabin had been paid for, you see, and they were not entitled to any reimbursement, neither did they ask for any. Your dance people did not occupy that particular cabin, but it tidied things up a little to pretend they did.’
‘So you dealt with your correspondence, sir, and then went to your filing-cabinet?’
That’s right. I thought it ought to be on record that those girls had left. I mean, it would look very odd if they were—if they had a road accident in, say, Cornwall, when they were supposed to be on holiday up here. Well, of course, when I looked for the file on Cabin Eight it wasn’t there.’
‘Was that the only file which was missing?’
‘No. Several others had gone, and that one was among them. All the missing files were under the initial L.’
‘L could be for Lestrange or for Lyndhurst. That might be significant. Well, I’m glad you reported this, sir. It may help us. As soon as Constable March has finished, perhaps you will permit me to inspect one or two of the files which are left.’
‘You think my loss may tie up with the theft at the hostel?’
‘I don’t think anything at the moment, sir. I am still collecting what evidence I can.’
‘You don’t mean that this ties up with the murders, do you? I have had three cancellations of late autumn bookings already.’
‘I don’t think anything and I don’t mean anything. Finished, March? Right, then. By your leave, sir.’ He went over to the filing-cabinet.
He was patient and thorough. It had occurred to him that L also stood for Lindsay. Only the L files were missing.
‘The interesting thing is, ma’am,’ said Ribble, ‘that one missing file was that of the cabin which the forest warden had let to the four young ladies.’
‘Are the files comprehensive?’
‘How do you mean, ma’am?’
‘Do they list the names and addresses of all the occupants of a cabin, or do they show only the name of the person who made the booking?’
‘Oh, this warden is very conscientious indeed, ma’am. The name and address of the person who booked is on the file, and marked with a red asterisk, but also on the record are the names and addresses of the other tenants. As he explained to me, he cannot be too careful, as the tenants are not covered by insurance so far as the Forestry Commission is concerned, so he feels personally responsible for the safety of every one of them. Of course, family parties (which he says a great many of them are) go down under the name of the husband and under his address, and the rest is written off as Mrs Whatever-the-Name-Is and the number of children, but if it’s a mixed party or a male or female party of adults, all the names go down and any addresses which are different from the address of the person who makes the booking.’
‘The system sounds very thorough.’
‘Well, ma’am, when you multiply the number of cabins with a possible five or even six people in each, he’s responsible for a fair number of holidaymakers. I shall be interested to see whether the dabs from the hostel and the dabs from the filing-cabinet can tell us anything. I took the precaution of fingerprinting the dancers before I let them go.’
‘You shall pursue the dabs; I will become a dabbler,’ said Dame Beatrice.
‘Ma’am?’
‘I propose to roam the wild wet woods in search of
‘Ah, this death-cap toad-stool the murderer seems so fond of.’
‘To sum it up in those words seems to suggest that he might choose to eat it, in which case our hunt would not be up, but over. It is a little late in the season to find this particular fungus, but, as the murderer seems to have access to it, there must be some specimens about.’
She set out, accompanied by Laura.
‘I suppose I mustn’t ask any why or wherefore?’ said the latter, when they reached the entrance to the forest.
‘Better not. Can you keep the car down to about twenty-five miles an hour, stopping now and then, opening
