bit.”
“Blackmail by any other name,” trumpeted Leeyes, “smells just as nasty.”
“And it’s always dangerous.” The blow that had killed Boiler had been bloody, bold and resolute. Even peering over the apple boxes Sloan could see that. That’s when he had seen the bulge in the man’s pocket that had been the barbary head. Boiler’s own head hadn’t been a pretty sight. Wet red—the poet’s name for blood—it had been covered in.
“Was he destined for a watery grave, too, Sloan?”
“I’m sure I don’t know that, sir. All I do know is that it was merest chance that he was found. The girl— Elizabeth Busby, that is—said that she only had that step-ladder out once in a blue moon. She was going to clean the hall and that’s high, of course. Otherwise…”
“Otherwise,” interrupted Leeyes tartly, “in a couple of months’ time we’d have had an unidentified body on our hands, wouldn’t we? Another unidentified body, that is.”
“I think someone would have reported this man as missing,” said Sloan. Ridgeford had mentioned that Horace Boiler had a son with them on their first trip. He cleared his throat. “That means whoever killed him was pretty desperate.”
“The blackmailed usually are, Sloan,” said Leeyes with unusual insight. “Because they’ve always got the two things to worry about they stop thinking straight.”
“What they’ve done and what someone’s doing to them,” agreed Sloan.
“Did he get there by water?” asked Leeyes.
“What—oh, I hadn’t thought about that, sir. We’ll have to see.” There were so many things to see to now…
“We don’t want two dinghies on the loose, do we?”
When Sloan got outside again Constable Crosby was standing on guard outside the shed door talking to a worried Frank Mundill.
“What is going on, Inspector?” said the architect wildly. “Why should this house be picked on for all these things?”
“The real reason,” said Sloan, “is probably because it’s big enough to have a shed and a boathouse that don’t get used very often.”
“That’s very little consolation, I must say.” He shuddered “Ought you to search everywhere else?”
“No, sir, I don’t think that will be necessary, thank you.” Sloan had got some straight edges of his jigsaw on the board already. The death of Horace Boiler—no, the killing of Horace Boiler—was another piece. It might even prove to be one of the four most important pieces of all the puzzle—a cornerpiece.
Mundill ran a finger round inside the collar of his white turtleneck sweater. “It’s an unnerving business, isn’t it?”
“Nobody likes it, sir,” agreed Sloan. He was glad about that. Sophisticated fraud sometimes wrung unwilling admiration from investigating officers, but murder was a primitive crime and nobody liked it. The killing of a member of a tribe by another member of the same tribe was an offence against society. And it meant that no one in that society was safe. Perhaps that was the real reason why the murder charge accused the arrested person not so much of a killing but of an offence against the Queen’s Peace because that was what it was…
“That poor chap in there,” said Mundill worriedly.
“Yes, sir.” Sloan spared some sympathy for the dead man lying in the shed. But he carefully kept his judgement suspended. Horace Boiler might have been lured to his doom by the murderer in all innocence but Sloan did not think so. There was a certain lack of innocence in Boiler both as reported by Constable Ridgeford and observed by Sloan himself that augured the other thing.
“I could wish my niece hadn’t found him too,” murmured Mundill. “She’s had a lot to put up with lately, poor girl. What with one thing and another I’ll be glad when her mother and father get here.”
Sloan nodded sympathetically. The scientists said that a cabbage cried out when its neighbour in the field was cut down so it was only right and proper that one human being should feel for another. The unfeeling and the too-feeling both ran into trouble but that was something quite separate,
“I hope Dr. Tebot’s got her to go and lie down,” said Mundill.
“I hope,” said Sloan vigorously, “that he’s done no such thing.” Salvation lay in keeping busy and he said so, doctor or no.
“All right,” said Frank Mundill pacifically, “I’ll tell her what you said.”
“And tell her,” said Sloan, “that we’ll be wanting a statement from her too…”
As Mundill went indoors Sloan advanced once more on the shed.
Both policemen peered down at the body.
“I’ll bet he never knew what hit him,” averred Crosby.
“No,” agreed Sloan soberly.
Horace Boiler did not necessarily have to have been blackmailing anyone. He might simply have learned something to his advantage that the murderer didn’t want him to know about.
And so, in the event, to his ultimate disadvantage.
Something that a killer couldn’t afford for him to know. That alone might be enough for a man who had killed once. Appetite for murder grew—that was something else too primitive for words. Having offended against society by one killing it seemed as if the next death was less important, and the one after that not important at all. By then the murderer was outside the tribe and beyond salvation too.
“We’d better get him identified properly,” said Sloan mundanely.
“Yes, sir.”
“What, Crosby,” he asked, “can he have known that we don’t know?” That was the puzzle.
Crosby brought his eyebrows together in a prolonged frown. “He could have seen that the boathouse had been broken into.”
“And put two and two together after he found the body? Yes, that would follow…”
Blackmail, to be true blackmail, had to be the accusing or the threatening to accuse any person of a real crime with intent to extort or gain any property or valuable thing from any person.
Murder was a real crime.
“But he can’t have known that the body in the water had been murdered, can he, sir?” objected Crosby. “I mean we didn’t know ourselves until Dr. Dabbe said so. And we haven’t told anyone.”
“A good point, that.” Sloan regarded the figure on the shed floor and said absently, “So he must have known something else as well…”
“Something we don’t know?” asked Crosby helpfully.
“Or something that we do,” mused Sloan. “He might have spotted that sand-hopper thing too.”
“He knew about the sparling,” said Crosby, “didn’t he?”
Sloan squared his shoulders. “What we want is a chat with Mr. Basil Jensen.”
Constable Brian Ridgeford was panting slightly. The cliff path—like life—had led uphill all the way and it hadn’t been an easy one either. He’d left his bicycle down in the village. Now he was nearly at the top of the headland. He turned his gaze out to sea but it told him nothing. There was just an unbroken expanse of water below him. Far out to sea there was a smudge on the horizon that might just have been a container ship. Otherwise the sea was empty.
He settled himself down, conscious that he wasn’t the first man to keep watch on the headland. Men had waited here for Napoleon to come—and Hitler. They’d lit armada beacons up here on the Cat’s Back too as well as wrecking ones. From here the inhabitants of Marby might have seen the Danish invasion on its way.
“Keeping observation” was what Ridgeford would put in the book to describe his morning.
Watch and ward it used to be called in the old days.
It was much more windy up here than down in Marby village. He made himself as comfortable as he could in the long grass and turned his attention to Lea Farm. It was like a map come to life, farm and farmhouse printed on the landscape. He narrowed his gaze on the sheep-fold. Far away as he was he could see that the sheep-dipping tank was still full.
Ridgeford spared a thought for old Miss Finch. Difficult and dogmatic she might be but she hadn’t been so silly after all. She probably had seen something happening on the headland. The theory of an accurate report book
