“We’ve had a report that something might have been stolen from the farm.”
“Have you?” said Alec Manton. He was a man who looked as if he packed a lot of energy. He looked Sloan up and down. “Can’t say that we’ve missed anything.”
“No?” said Sloan.
“What sort of thing?”
“A ship’s bell.”
“From my farm?” Alec Manton’s face was quite expressionless.
“Boys,” said Sloan sedulously. “They said it came from where you keep your sheep.”
“
Their goal was several fields away, set in a faint hollow in the land, and built against the wind. In front of the little bothy was a sheep-dipping tank. Set between crush pen and drafting pen, it was full of murky water. Alec Manton led the way into the windowless building and looked round in the semidarkness. Sloan and Crosby followed on his heels. There was nothing to see save bare walls and even barer earth. The place, though, did show every sign of having been occupied by sheep at some time. Sloan looked carefully at the floor. It had been pounded by countless hooves to the consistency of concrete.
“This bell,” began Sloan.
“That you say was found…” said Manton.
“In police possession,” said Sloan mildly.
“Ah.”
“Pending enquiries.”
“I see.”
“Of course,” said Sloan largely, “the boys may have been having us on.”
“Of course.”
“You know what boys are.”
“Only too well,” said Manton heartily.
“We’ll have to get on to them again,” said Sloan, “and see if we can get any nearer the truth, whatever that may be.”
“Of course,” said the farmer quickly. “Did they—er—take anything else, do you know?”
“Not that we know about,” said Sloan blandly. “Would there have been anything else in there for them to steal?”
Alec Manton waved an arm. “You’ve seen it for yourself, haven’t you? Give or take a sheep or two from time to time it looks pretty empty to me.”
“Of course,” said Sloan casually, “the owner of this bell may turn up to claim it.”
“That would certainly simplify matters,” agreed the farmer. “But in the meantime…”
“Yes, sir?”
“It’s quite safe in police custody?”
“Quite safe,” Sloan assured him.
“Crosby!” barked Sloan.
“Sir?”
“What was odd about all that?”
“Don’t know, sir.”
“Think, man. Think.”
“The place was empty.”
“Of course it was empty,” said Sloan with asperity. “The bell must have been tucked away in the corner when those two boys found it. Only boys would have looked there…”
Murderers who thought that they had hidden their victims well reckoned without the natural curiosity of the average boy at their peril. Many a well-covered thicket had been penetrated by a boy for no good reason…
“Yes, sir,” said Crosby.
“What wasn’t empty, Crosby?”
Crosby thought for a long moment. “Sir?”
“What was full, Crosby?”
“Only the sheep-dipping thing.”
“Exactly,” breathed Sloan. “Do you know what month it is, Crosby?
“June, sir,” said Crosby stolidly.
“You don’t,” said Sloan softly, “dip sheep in Calleshire in June.”
“Left over from when you did, then,” suggested Crosby.
“No,” said Sloan.
“No?”
“You dip sheep a month after shearing. Manton’s sheep weren’t shorn,” said Sloan. Policemen, even town policemen, knew all about the dipping of sheep and its regulations. “Besides, you wouldn’t leave your sheep-dip full without a good reason. It’s dangerous stuff.”
“What sort of reason?” said Crosby.
“If,” said Sloan, “you have been conducting a secret rescue of the parts of an old East Indiaman you acquire items which have been underwater for years.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Taking them out of the water causes them to dry up and disintegrate. Mr. Jensen at the museum said so.”
“Yes, sir, I’m sure.”
“So you have to store them underwater or else.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Wooden things, that is.”
Crosby nodded, not very interested. “Wooden things.”
“Metal ones,” said Sloan, “aren’t so important.”
“What about rust?”
“Bronze doesn’t rust,” said Sloan.
“
“Bronze,” said Sloan. “Or so Ridgeford said.”
“It didn’t need to stay underwater?”
“No,” said Sloan. “It could stand in the corner of the sheep building quite safely.” He amended this. “Safe from everything except boys.” He drew breath and carried on. “There was another thing about what was in that sheep-dipping tank.”
“Sir?”
“Think, Crosby.”
“It was dirty, sir. You couldn’t see if there was anything in there or not.”
“That and something else,” said Sloan, and waited.
Dull, a constable.
That had been in Shakespeare.
He’d thought of everything, had the bard.
The detective inspector cleared his throat and said didactically, “A good policeman uses all his senses.”
Crosby lifted his nose like a pointer. “But it didn’t smell, sir.”
“Precisely,” said Sloan grimly. “Like the dog that didn’t bark in the night, it didn’t smell. Believe you me, lad, sheep-dip isn’t by any manner of means the most fragrant of fluids.”
“No, sir.”
“But I’m prepared to bet that there was something in that tank besides dirty water.”
Crosby scuffed his toe at a pebble. “I still don’t see what it’s got to do with the body in the water.”
“Neither do I, Crosby, neither do I. What I wonder is if Mr. Basil Jensen does.”
