Black Is the Colour of My True Love's Heart

contact and at that kind of place?”

“There’s always the classic way,” said Duckett disgustedly. “Cherchez la femme!” He wasn’t serious, of course; Arundale’s past was so rigid with rectitude that the idea of connecting him with a crime passionnel managed to be almost funny. Besides, there was only one woman in his life, apparently, and that was his equally blameless wife, to whom he’d been married for twenty well-matched years. “Putting him on one side, just for argument, I gather there are others who might be capable of pushing this lad in the river?”

“Several, I’d say. The girl has all the necessary fire and guts, and Meurice hates him enough, given the opportunity. And either of them could have been there with him at round about the right time.”

Duckett breathed pipe-smoke heavily through his brigand’s moustache, and drummed a thick fingertip on the edge of his desk. “Well, I’ll keep Scott on the job. If we take anything out of the river,” he said grimly, “you’ll be the first to know about it. What can Scott most usefully be doing for you?”

George considered, frowning at the meaningless pages that yet must hold somewhere a more substantial image of the persons to whom they applied. “Seems to me that if Galt had anything to confide, the people he’d turn to would be his foster-parents, this house-father and mother – Stewart, the name seems to be. It might be worth a drive down there to see if they can shed any light. With a lot of luck he may have gone to them, or at least got in touch with them – if he’s alive, if this is some other sort of trouble that’s caught up with him. And Scott could call in on this service garage where the boy worked, that’s another possibility, if a thin one. Then there’s his business agent, of course. Send Scott down there, have him comb out the lot, all the people he might have turned to if he’s alive and in trouble.”

“Right, I’ll see to that. We can’t put out a call for Arundale or the car,” said Duckett reasonably, “unless we do bring the body ashore. It would be as much as my life’s worth to compromise that set-up for nothing, so let’s concentrate on finding the boy – dead or alive.”

George was smoking a cigarette moodily by the river, watching a methodical sergeant take casts – probably useless – of the one clear shoe-print and the indentation of the heel, when Dominic came to report. The dragging of the Braide had not yet reached the Follymead boundary, more than a quarter of a mile away; nor, so far, had it netted them anything more than driftwood, two long-abandoned eel-traps, and an old bicycle frame. By the quantity and size of the driftwood you could gauge the violence and indiscipline of the spring. The Braide ran down to the Comer, which was a river with its feet in the mountains; this was a tamed park stream by comparison with what the Comer brought down out of Wales. Any more rain, and Comer-water would be backing up from the confluence, churning up the muddy counter-current until they both spilled out over the whole expanse of the low-lying fields. Lucien Galt might yet fetch up on somebody’s doorstep.

George heard them coming through the trees, not one, but two, a boy and a girl talking briefly, in subdued and serious voices. He should have thought of that possibility, of course, but it came as something of a revelation that Dominic should have reached the point of taking it for granted that any privilege given to him automatically extended to cover Tossa, too. “They” were to be deflected by any means from this area by the river; but Tossa was not “they,” Tossa had become “we.” It was not quite so clear whether she also took it as her right. The moment they emerged from the trees she slipped her hand from Dominic’s and hung back, silent and tentative, but very much on the alert. She caught George’s eye and moved nearer, encouraged. Under the ornamental trees that circled the grotto she halted; the tiny blue crosses of lilac blossom drifted down into her dark hair, as the branches threshed uneasily in a rising wind.

“Well,” said George, “how are things going?”

“All O.K., so far. Everybody’s come along to the lectures, and they all seem to be enjoying themselves. I told the professor what you said, and Mr. Marshall, too. It’s working smoothly enough up to now. Nobody’s let anything out to the others, and they don’t suspect anything’s wrong. The professor made a sort of vague apology for Lucien’s having to leave, but he managed not to say anything definite about the reason. But you were right about the rumours. There’s a murmur that Lucien ran out because he couldn’t take the Liri situation… You know, she’d followed him here with a grudge, and the atmosphere was tense, and he preferred to duck out. It makes good sense, and it tickles them, so they like it. And it lets the professor out, too, because of course the authorities would simply have to accept whatever excuse Lucien offered, even if they thought privately he’d run for cover from a situation he couldn’t manage.”

“That ought to serve pretty well,” agreed George with a wry smile. “Go along with it. Who started it?”

“Well, I’m pretty sure it came from Dickie Meurice in the first place. That way, you see, he makes a good show of helping you to keep the thing wrapped, and at the same time he churns up a little more dirt to stick to Galt when he does reappear. If he does reappear,” he corrected himself, very soberly.

“He will,” protested Tossa, her eyes fixed confidently on George’s face. “Won’t he? This is just something quite stupid, that only looks like that sort of trouble, isn’t it?”

“We hope so,” said George gently. “You keep on thinking so. What about this afternoon?”

“That’s all fixed. We’re in session again at two-fifteen. We slipped out by the back way as soon as we got away from lunch, and came down through the trees. Nobody’s any the wiser.”

“Good! Has Felicity attended this morning?”

“We sat with her,” said Tossa, “the first time. I think she only came at all because nobody can talk to her while there’s a lecture going on, or people singing. She looks terribly wretched and sick. She dodged us in the second session, after coffee. And as soon as we’re out of the music-room she goes off somewhere out of sight. I’m worried about her. But she doesn’t want anybody, she only wants to be left alone.”

“Keep an eye on her,” said George, “all the same. Did Mrs. Arundale show up?”

“Yes. She looked pretty pale and anxious, too,” said Dominic, “but she’s keeping the thing rolling. It must be rather awful for her, having something like this happen, especially when the warden isn’t here. I bet she’ll be glad when he comes back to-night.”

George said nothing to that; there was no need to burden them with even more secrets to keep, however trustworthy they might be. As for accounting for Arundale’s non-return this evening from those meetings in Birmingham, leave that bridge to be crossed when the time came.

His mind had been much on Audrey Arundale, ever since he had talked to Duckett this morning. Cherchez la femme, indeed, but what an unlikely woman to look for at the heart of a crime passionnel. And yet she had everything but the temperament; beauty, a gentle appeal about her, even youth – she was only forty, and older women have changed history in their time. Maybe this wasn’t the first time she had met Lucien Galt.