where they will form up in regimental groups . . .
The Double R Society knew which side its bread was buttered; they were always very careful to keep in with the local farmers.
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'. . . I see, Sergeant. So you were under this tree, pouring in the dye.'
'Yes, sir.' Digby wasn't overawed, just ten times as cautious as Weston had been. But there was no percentage in rushing him or pushing him, as he had pushed Weston. He had enough time at least to try to win the young man's confidence during the first twenty-four hours.
'A rather dull job.'
'Sir?'
'A dull job, pouring dye.'
'I was recovering from a sprained ankle, sir.'
'Sprained in the line of duty?'
'Yes . . . sir.'
And now a sprained tongue. It looked like being an uphill struggle, winning Sergeant Digby's confidence.
'But normally you would have been— ah—fighting, is that right?'
'Yes, sir.'
'And you're an officer in Orme's regiment?'
5. Roundhead Army will muster on Barford Village Green by not later than 2.45. Order of march will be: Allen's Regiment, Clarke's Regiment, Bradley's Regiment, Orme's Regiment, Cox's Regiment, Seager's Regiment, Wheeler's Regiment, dummy5
Edward's Regiment, Ratcliffe's Regiment. Ms Anderson will assemble Angels of Mercy . . .
'Yes, sir.'
Audley wondered what Ms Anderson would make of Ms Fitzgibbon on Saturday.
Unimportant. What was important was that Ratcliffe's Regiment—Charlie Ratcliffe's Regiment—was last in line of march, and therefore on the extreme left wing of the coming battle. Which, knowing Charlie Ratcliffe, was the appropriate place for them . . . but which also put them farthest away from where James Ratcliffe had met his killer.
'And where exactly was James Ratcliffe?'
Sergeant Digby pointed upstream. 'About twenty yards from here, sir. I'll show you.'
The trailing blackberry shoots and young hawthorn growth were fighting with the vigorous crop of stinging nettles at the actual scene of the crime. Death left no mark on the ground for one man, recently despatched, any more than it had for hundreds who had been once cut down all around. For a time the nettles would rule here, but by next spring the bushes would again be dominant, and within a year or two this spot would be indistinguishable from any other along the Swine Brook.
The Sergeant led the way to the edge of the stream.
'He was down there, tucked in right against the bank,' he said simply. 'Out of sight, practically.'
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In the central gap the banks had been trampled down to the water's edge, but here there were miniature cliffs two or three feet high.
'There was a narrow opening to the brook here,' explained Digby. 'On this side, anyway—on the other it was solid brambles, four or five feet high.'
'What was he actually doing here— James Ratcliffe?' asked Audley.
'He was in charge of two of the burning wagons. There were four wagons in all— old things we hired from the farmers—'
'To burn?'
'They weren't actually burnt. They were loaded with smoke-canisters, and it was the job of the special effects section to set them off at intervals.'
'So James Ratcliffe was in the special effects section?'
'Yes, sir ... and he was also chairman of the Safety Committee, sir.' Sergeant Digby closed his mouth on the last word as though he wanted to make sure no other words escaped custody.
Audley nodded patiently. 'And just what does the special effects section do . . . when it's not making smoke without fire?'
Digby struggled momentarily with the question, deciding finally that there was no way it could be answered with a straight yes-or-no. 'They set off small explosive charges mostly. Anything that involves any sort of danger, too.'
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'Such as?'
Digby shrugged. 'Falling off things. Falling into water . . .
that type of thing. They put up their ideas to the Safety Committee first, of course.'
Audley saw suddenly that the sergeant was being pulled several different ways at once. As a good copper he didn't want to be unco-operative with a superior officer, even though in this instance the superior officer was a Home Office interloper. But as a uniform man attached to the CID
