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The information was not exactly welcomed at the nearest police station. In fact, the Superintendent of Police in Berebury was inclined to be petulant when he was told. He glared across his desk at the Head of his Criminal Investigation Department and said:
“You sure it isn’t a false alarm, malicious intent?”
“A body in a suit of armour,” repeated Detective Inspector C. D. Sloan, the bearer of the unhappy news.
“Perhaps it was a dummy,” said Superintendent Leeyes hopefully. “False alarm, good intent.”
“In Ornum House,” went on Sloan.
“Ornum House?” The Superintendent sat up. He didn’t like the sound of that at all. “You mean the place where they have all those day trippers?”
“Yes, sir.” Sloan didn’t suppose the people who paid their half crowns to go round Ornum House thought of themselves as day trippers, but there was no good going into that with the Superintendent now.
“Whereabouts in Ornum House is this body?”
Sloan coughed. “In the armoury, actually, sir.”
“I might have known,” grunted Leeyes. “In that sort of set-up the armour is always in the armoury.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Who said so?”
Sloan started. “The Steward.”
“Not”—heavily sarcastic—“not the butler?”
“No, sir. He’s gone down to keep guard. The Steward—his name’s Purvis—came to telephone us.”
“And,” asked Leeyes pertinently, “the name of the body in the armour?”
“He didn’t say, sir. He just said his Lordship was sure we would wish to know.”
The Superintendent glared suspiciously at his subordinate. “He did, did he?”
“Yes, sir.”
Leeyes took a deep breath. “Then you’d better go and—what is it they say?—unravel the mystery, hadn’t you, Sloan?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Though I don’t want any touching of forelocks, kow-towing or what have you, Sloan. This is the twentieth century.”
“Yes, sir.”
“On the other hand”—very silkily—“you would do well to remember that the Earl of Ornum is a Deputy Lieutenant for Calleshire.”
“I shan’t forget, sir.” Even though it was the twentieth century?
“Now, who have you got to go with you?”
“Only Detective Constable Crosby”—apologetically.
Leeyes groaned. “Crosby?”
“Sergeant Gelven’s gone on that training course, if you remember, sir.”
The Criminal Investigation Department at Berebury was a very small affair, all matters of great criminal moment being referred to the County Constabulary Headquarters at Calleford.
The Superintendent snorted gently. “I shouldn’t have thought Crosby could unravel knitting let alone some masochistic nonsense like this.”
“No, sir.” But it would have to be Crosby because there wasn’t anyone else.
“All right,” sighed Leeyes. “Take him—but do try to see that he doesn’t say ‘You can’t do that there ’ere’ to the Earl.”
Detective Constable Crosby—raw, but ambitious, too—drove Inspector Sloan the odd fifteen miles or so from the Police Station at Berebury to the village of Ornum. The village itself was clustered about the entrance to the Park—and it was a very imposing entrance indeed. Crosby turned the car in between two magnificent wrought-iron gates.
The gates were painted black, with the finer points etched out in gold leaf. If the state of a man’s gate was any guide to the man—and in Sloan’s working experience it was—the Earl of Ornum maintained a high standard. Surmounting the pillars were two stone spheres, and crouching on top of the spheres was a pair of gryphons.
Constable Crosby regarded them critically. ‘They’re funny-looking birds, aren’t they? Can’t say I’ve ever seen anything like that flying around.”
“I’m glad to hear it, Constable. They don’t exist.”
Crosby glanced up over his shoulder at the solid stone. “I see, sir.”
“A myth,” amplified Sloan. “Like unicorns.”
“Yes, sir.” Crosby slid the car between the gryphons and lowered his speed to a self-conscious fifteen miles an hour in deference to a notice which said just that. Then he cleared his throat. “The house, sir. I can’t see it.”
“Stately Homes aren’t meant to be seen from the road, Constable. That’s the whole idea. Carry on.”
Crosby subsided into silence—for perhaps half a minute. “It’s a long way, sir…”
Sloan grunted. “The distance in this instance between the rich man in his castle and the poor man at his gate is about a mile.”
“A mile, sir?” Crosby digested this, dropping a gear the while. This particular police car wasn’t used to a steady fifteen m.p.h.
“A mile,” confirmed Sloan, whose own single latched gate led up a short straight path to a semidetached house in suburban Berebury. In his view his own path had the edge—so to speak—on the Earl’s inasmuch as it was flanked by prize rose bushes as opposed to great oak trees. Sloan favoured roses. He felt that there should be a moratorium on crime while they were in bloom.
“Sir, if we were to go over fifteen miles an hour would a prosecution hold under the Road Traffic Acts?” Crosby was young still and anxious for promotion. “They’d have to bring a private prosecution, wouldn’t they? I mean, we couldn’t bring one, or could we?”
Sloan, who was watching keenly for a first glimpse of Ornum House, said, “Couldn’t do what?”
“Bring a prosecution for speeding on private land.” Crosby kept his eye on the speedometer. “Traffic Division wouldn’t be able to do a thing, would they?”
Sloan grunted. Traffic Division were never ones for being interested in the finer academic points of law. Their line of demarcation was a simple one. Fatals and non-fatals.
However, if Crosby wanted to split hairs… “Going over the limit anytime, anywhere, Constable, isn’t the same thing as proving it.”
“No, sir, but if you had two independent witnesses…”
“Ah,” said Sloan drily. “I agree that would be different.” He peered forward, thinking he saw a building. “I don’t know when I last saw two independent witnesses. Rare birds, independent witnesses. I’d put them in the same category as gryphons myself.”
Crosby persisted, “But if you had them, sir, then what? I could ask Traffic, I suppose…”
Sloan happened to know that Inspector Harpe of Traffic Division wouldn’t thank anybody for asking him anything else just at this moment. Superintendent Leeyes had today posed him about the most awkward question a police officer could ever be asked. It was: “Why were all the damaged cars from the accident jobs attended by his three crews finding their way into the same garage for repair? If anyone was getting a rake-off there would be hell to pay…”
“Sir,” Crosby pointed suddenly. “Something moved over there between the trees. I saw it.”
Sloan turned and caught a glimpse of brown. “Deer. And there’s the house coming up now. Keep going.” There was a young woman sitting by a baize-covered table near the front door. She had on a pretty summer frock and she was all for charging Sloan and Crosby half a crown before she would let them in.
“Half a crown, did you say, miss?” Sloan was torn between a natural reluctance to tell anyone who didn’t already know that the police had been sent for—and the certain knowledge of the difficulty he would have in retrieving five shillings from the County Council No. 2 Imprest Account, police officers, for the use of.
