“And that Mr. Jensen from the museum. Don’t forget him.”
“I haven’t,” said Sloan drily. “And I haven’t forgotten
“He could have seen the boathouse doors, too,” said Crosby. “We did.”
“He did see Elizabeth Busby by the grave,” said Sloan. “She said so.”
“But,” reiterated Crosby, “Boiler didn’t know that the man in the water…”
“Peter Hinton,” said Sloan with conviction. He was sure of that now.
“Peter Hinton then had been pushed over the edge of somewhere, did he, so what was there for him to get so excited about?”
“Your guess, Crosby,” said Sloan solemnly, “is as good as mine.”
Interviewing Mrs. Boiler had been an unrewarding business in every way, and now Sloan and Crosby were with Mrs. Veronica Feckler. It was impossible to tell whether she knew that she was being asked to provide an alibi for a man.
“Yesterday evening?” she said vaguely. “Yes, Mr. Mundill was here yesterday evening.”
Detective Constable Crosby made a note.
“He came down after tea,” she said.
“I see, madam.”
Sloan was favoured with a charming smile. She was a personable woman and she knew it. “To measure up my cottage, you know.”
“So we gather, madam.”
She sketched an outline with a graceful hand. “I need another room building on. Frank—Mr. Mundill—he’s an architect, you know…”
“Yes, madam.” That much Sloan did know by now. Of the fire station, of the junior school, of Alec Manton’s farmhouse and of a multi-storey car park.
And a multi-storey car park.
That was funny.
Frank Mundill hadn’t mentioned that to Sloan. It had been Inspector Harpe who had told him about that multistorey car park. Not Mundill. Even though he had got an award for designing it.
Mrs. Feckler said, “He’s going to do my extension for me.”
“How long was he with you, madam?” A thought was beginning to burgeon in Sloan’s mind.
“Until just before supper.” She wasn’t the sort of woman who frowned but she did allow herself a tiny pucker of the forehead. “He left about half past seven. Is it important?”
It was strange, decided Elizabeth Busby, how heavy one’s body could feel. She had almost to drag one leaden foot after the other. And yet she weighed the same—rather less, if anything—as she had done the day before.
When the inspector had left the house to go back to the shed she tidied away the cleaning things that she had brought out into the hall. There would be no more work done in Collerton House that day. She went into the kitchen and set about making coffee. That, at least, would be something useful to do and all those men out there would be glad of something to drink.
Time—even the most leaden-footed time—does eventually pass. And in the end the body of Horace Boiler was borne away, the tumult and the shouting died and the photographers and the police—the captains and the kings—departed.
Frank Mundill came back indoors looking years older. “I’ll be in my office,” he said briefly, going upstairs.
She nodded. There suddenly didn’t seem anything to say any more. She went and sat in the window-seat, her shoulders hunched up and unable to decide whether or not to take the tablets Dr. Tebot had left for her. He really did look as if a frock coat would have suited him, but he had been kind.
Even the hunching on the window-seat seemed symbolic. There was no leisurely resting in a chair for her today while she waited for Inspector Sloan to come back. The inspector had hinted—ever so delicately—but hinted all the same that he might have some more news for her later on and that he would return if he had.
“About Horace Boiler?” she had asked.
“Not about Horace,” he had replied.
Now she understood why Dante had had a place called Limbo in his portrayal of Hell…
It was quite a long time after that that she picked up the morning paper. It had been lying unregarded on the hall table since it had been delivered. It wasn’t that she wanted to read it particularly, just that after a certain length of time she needed to do something with her hands. Not her head. That didn’t take in any of what she was reading. Not at first, that is.
There is a certain state of alertness rejoicing in the grand name of thematic apperception which describes the attraction to eye and ear of items that the owner of that eye and ear is interested in. It explained how it was that Elizabeth Busby was able to read almost the whole paper without taking any of it in at all—until, that is, she turned to that page of the daily paper which dealt in—among other things—short items of news from the sale rooms.
“Bonington Sells Well” ran the headline.
“This previously known beach scene,” ran the text underneath it, “thought to be of the Picardy coast and authenticated as being by Richard Parkes Bonington (1802-28), fetched the top price in a sale of nineteenth-century water-colours yesterday…”
Above the report was an illustration of the painting. It was the same one that had hung over the bed in the spare bedroom of Collerton House as long as Elizabeth could remember. It was the same one that Frank Mundill had said that Peter Hinton had asked for and been given.
She heard the tiniest sound on the stair and looked up quickly. Frank Mundill was standing there.
“Frank,” she said at once, “you know that picture that Peter took…”
“What about it?” he said.
“It wasn’t by Grandfather at all. Look!” She pointed to the newspaper. “It’s here in the paper.”
He strode over. “Let me see.”
“There’s a picture of it. It was worth a lot of money.”
He said, “Well, it stands to reason that your grandfather had some good paintings, doesn’t it? To copy.”
That wasn’t what was bothering Elizabeth. “Peter asked for it, you said.”
Mundill frowned. “He did. It’s the same one all right. Look, Elizabeth, I think there’s an explanation for all this but there’s something I would have to show you first.”
“He hasn’t been seen,” she said dully. “The police said so. And they’ve asked me for a photograph.”
“Come along with me,” said Mundill. “I want you to see something. Something to do with Peter.”
“There’s no one here,” said Detective Constable Crosby. “Nonsense, man. Try again.”
“I’ve tried,” insisted Crosby. “The front door and the back. There’s no answer.”
“Mundill’s car…”
“Not in the garage,” said Crosby.
Detective Inspector Sloan took a swift look round the outside of Collerton House. There was no sign of life there at all.
“They’ve gone,” said Crosby superfluously.
“Where?” barked Sloan.
“And why?” added Crosby. “I thought they knew we were coming back.”
“They did,” said Sloan gravely.
“Something’s happened then.”
“But what?” Sloan scanned the blank windows of Collerton House as if they could provide him with an answer. “And where the devil have they gone?”
“The river?”
“Not by car,” said Sloan, adding under his breath a brief orison about that. The River Calle was too near for comfort. He would rather conduct searches on dry ground… “No, they’ve gone somewhere by car. Get on to Control, Crosby, and get that car stopped.”
Crosby picked up the hand microphone in the police car and gave his message. Seconds later it came back to
