After the first shock of dismay and-it must be admitted-a sort of horrified annoyance, it occurred to Richardson that the house whose estate he had circumnavigated in the approach to his camping site was probably on the telephone. It would need to be, he argued, as it was so far from the shops and the village.
Thither, therefore, he made his way by torchlight, intending to request the loan of the instrument for the purpose of calling the police. These, he supposed, would contact a doctor, although he realised that there was little, if anything, that a doctor could do except specify the cause of death and arrange for Colnbrook's body to be removed.
At the house, however, he met with an immediate check. An obviously nervous maidservant, her hair in curlers, answered the door and stood there staring at him. He gave no reason, beyond a statement that the call was urgent, for asking to use the telephone, and was met, not unreasonably, by a flat, although apologetic, refusal.
'Nobody aren't home except me and Cook and Shirl, and I dursent let anybody in with the master and missus away,' the quavering domestic announced.
Richardson, although a trifle nonplussed, tried again.
'I'm not trying to steal anything. It's just that the call is very important indeed and it would take me some time to get to another telephone. Don't you think...?' he enquired.
The maid cut the conversation short by slamming the door, and he heard the heavy bolts, which had been withdrawn in answer to his knock, thrust home again. There was nothing for it but to make for the hotel and trust that there was a night porter on duty.
It turned out that the hotel did not employ a night porter, but that the front door was kept open until midnight to accommodate those guests who had motored into Bournemouth to see one of the shows. He effected an entrance easily enough, therefore, and found the day porter, with whom he was already acquainted, about to lock up and retire for the night.
'Barney,' he said, 'I want to use the phone.'
'Help yourself, Mr Richardson.' The porter took in the white face and the shaking hands. 'Anything I can do?'
'Yes. Look up the police for me, will you? Some gosh-awful bloke has gone and died on me.'
'Not the friend you were expecting, Mr Richardson?'
'Oh, no, thank God. Somebody who decided to crawl into my tent and peg out there. I suppose he felt bad, poor devil, but I wish to hell he hadn't picked on
'Sit you down on the settee, sir. You look as if you'd had a nasty shock. It'll be the Hurstington police as will be best. Some of the sub-stations aren't manned the whole of the time. I'll need to look in the book to put you through.'
He disappeared, but the telephone kiosk used by the guests was only a step or two along the passage and Richardson could hear the porter's end of the call.
'Hurstington police station? New Forest Hunt Hotel here. Gent has something to report.... Yes, hold the line, please.' He returned to Richardson. 'O.K. You're through, sir.' He retired and Richardson went to the telephone. He told his tale, but withheld the fact that he knew the dead man. There would be time for the details later.
'Stay where you are, sir, and we'll be right over,' said the Superintendent.
Tom returned to the settee in the entrance hall. Barney came back with a pot of black coffee and a basin of sugar.
'Here, sir,' he said. 'Have a go at this. You need it. Sorry I can't stiffen it up a bit for you: but the bar's been locked up this last hour.'
The police arrived half an hour later and took Richardson in their car along the secondary road from the hotel and then by way of the crunching gravel trackway on to the common. The causeway, which led across the plantation of baby firs to the deciduous wood and the bridge, was not nearly wide enough to take a car, so the driver continued to follow the gravel trackway and crossed the wide bridge. Here he parked the car on the grass and remained in charge of it while the Superintendent and a detective-sergeant accompanied Richardson to his camp.
Richardson, on whom his experience of finding the dead man had acted like something in a horrible dream, had the feeling, suddenly, that he had brought the police on a wild-goose chase and that when they pulled back the tent-flap there would be nothing there but his bedding and effects. This, however, was not the case. The sergeant took charge of him, while the Superintendent, armed with a powerful torch, ducked into the mean little shelter.
He soon came out again.
'Go and get Sansom,' he said to his sergeant. 'I'll wait here with Mr Richardson until you come back. Sansom will have to stay on guard here. There's nothing we can do until the morning. Can't take any useful photographs in this.'
The sergeant went off and the Superintendent addressed Richardson. He had switched off his torch and they talked in the dark.
'Been here long, sir?'
'Since Thursday, about eleven in the morning.'
'Know the neighbourhood?'
'From studying the Ordnance maps.' (It was part of the truth.)
'Know the deceased?'
'Never set eyes on him in my life before.' He told this lie instinctively and regretted it too late.
