‘Headquarters.’
‘I thought you might suggest that, but we need not be in a hurry.’
‘Shall I go and enquire, or will you?’
‘You go. But don’t do anything at present except ask whether we may take a photograph.’
‘Mentioning Barnes’ birthplace?’
‘Not until you have permission to take the photograph, otherwise they will tell you that you have come to the wrong place and close the door on you.’
‘What a Machiavelli!’ said Laura. ‘You ought to have been a lawyer. Well, here goes!’
The door was opened by a middle-aged woman whose respectable black hat, apron worn under her coat and large shopping bag indicated a charwoman about to return to her own home after having ‘obliged.’
‘Photygraph?’ she said doubtfully. ‘I don’t know. I’ll arst, but they’m only holiday folks.’
‘Oh, I see,’ said Laura. ‘Well, perhaps if they’d give permission…’
A girl’s voice said from one of the inner doorways :
‘What is it, Mrs. Bird?’
‘Nothing, miss, only trippers,’ replied the charwoman.
‘Well, they can have some water for their kettle or whatever it is, but we can’t give them cups of tea.’
‘They want to take a photygraph of the ’ouse, miss.’
‘Oh, they can do that, of course. It doesn’t sound like trippers to ask!’
‘We’re not trippers!’ said Laura. The girl emerged. ‘I mean, not in the sense of paper and bottles and broken glass and catching gorse alight and all that. We thought the cottage rather a beauty, actually, and are doing research and that sort of thing, you know.’
‘Well, you can take the photograph, of course,’ said the girl. ‘All right, Mrs. Bird, you go home. Did you take the dripping you wanted?’
‘Thank you, yes, miss.’ The charwoman left. The girl watched her until she reached the gate and then turned abruptly to Laura.
‘You’re not the police, are you?’ she asked. ‘Because we’ve had them all over the house already this week.’
‘Oh!’ said Laura, rather blankly. ‘Oh, have you? All we wanted was the photograph and just to ask whether you knew anything of the history of the cottage.’
‘No, we don’t. We’ve only been here six weeks. I know the last owner disappeared, but that’s nothing to do with us.’
‘Oh—I see. I hope I haven’t been a nuisance. It was only…’
‘Oh, that’s all right. But my father’s a semi-invalid, and the visit of the police upset him.’
Laura was longing to know what the police had given as the reason of their visit, but did not care to ask. She took her leave, and realized that she and Mrs. Bradley were being watched from the windows as they took the photograph from the middle of the garden path.
‘Hm!’ said Laura, shutting up the camera, waving her hand towards the girl at the window, and following Mrs. Bradley back to the car. ‘Not much to be got out of
‘The cottage was charming,’ Mrs. Bradley remarked. ‘We must find out whether the police have any information about the inhabitants. I anticipate, however, that the girl will be as innocent as she looks and sounds. Yet… police all over the house!’ She chuckled grimly. ’Mr. O’Hara’s story must have impressed the Chief Constable deeply. I wonder why?’
‘It sounds as though the police know something,’ said Laura in dissatisfied tones, as though the police had been guilty of sharp practice. ‘Will you be able to find out what it is?’
‘I doubt it, child. Besides, I imagine that the lines of investigation followed by the police and ourselves ultimately will be widely different. Swallow your disappointment and let us go on to Newcombe Soulbury, where, perchance, we shall meet with good-fortune.’
Laura cheered up at once, and observed, with complete lack of civic morality, that there, at any rate, she proposed to be one jump ahead of the police whatever she had to risk to accomplish this.
The second village lay west by south of Easey, but it could not be reached by car by any very direct route, and Laura, who had to drive twenty-two miles in order to arrive once more on the circumference of her nine-mile circle, had been right in believing that it would not be possible to have walked to Newcombe Soulbury from the Nine Stones. A couple of miles, at last, up a long steep hill brought them to the home of the missing Mr. Battle, whose disappearance dated from 1930.
‘I can see the studio,’ said Laura. ‘It seems as though disappearing from home is a foible confined to painters. Is that so?’
‘I have no statistics,’ said Mrs. Bradley, getting out of the car and walking towards the cottage, ‘but it is a point which ought to be kept in mind during this enquiry.’
‘Probably only coincidence that both these chaps were painters,’ said Laura. ’The county must be lousy with artists, with all this scenery about.’
The cottage was double-fronted and, built on to it, they discovered, at the back, was a long room, uncurtained, and containing a bar counter. One or two bottles stood on shelves at the back of the bar, the bare floor was of polished boards, and a piano stood in one corner.
They took all this in, and then Mrs. Bradley said loudly (for she saw that they were under observation from an upstair window at the back of the house) :
‘I don’t think this can be the place.’
The window was opened, and a head came out.
‘Did you want anything?’ it demanded.
‘We came to see the birthplace,’ said Laura. The window was closed, and soon a large, untidy-looking, handsome woman opened the back door and came out to them. She appeared to be about forty years old.
‘Can I direct you anywhere?’ she demanded in a truculent tone.
‘Yes, please. We are looking for the birthplace of William Barnes,’ said Mrs. Bradley, briskly.
‘Then you’d better look somewhere else,’ the woman replied. ‘This is a private house.’
‘I’m very sorry,’ said Laura, hoping for a hint from Mrs. Bradley. ‘We thought, perhaps…’
‘Well, it isn’t,’ said the woman. ‘And the bar is not for customers. It’s a freak idea of my husband’s, and my husband doesn’t like strangers.’
Mrs. Bradley touched Laura’s arm, and, under the hostile gaze of the handsome, blowsey-looking creature, they moved towards the gate.
‘Hasn’t helped much,’ said Laura, opening the door of the car for her employer. ‘What a model for Augustus John, though! I should think she’d be lovely if she took the trouble, wouldn’t you?’
‘Undoubtedly,’ Mrs. Bradley replied. ‘And I do not agree that our visit hasn’t helped. Do not be in a hurry to start the car. Could you look inside the bonnet or something for a minute?’
It was whilst Laura was carrying out these instructions that the garden gate opened and the woman came out to them.
‘Are you going into Newcombe?’ she enquired.
‘Is that the same as Newcombe Soulbury?’ Mrs. Bradley enquired. ‘If so…’
‘Yes, of course it’s the same! And… and William Barnes was born at a place called Rushay, the other side of Blandford, miles from here. And his statue is in Dorchester churchyard. There’s nothing about him round here.’
Mrs. Bradley took out a small address book, and wrote
‘Thank you so much, Mrs. Battle,’ she said carelessly, putting the book away. The woman was obviously startled.
‘Battle?… Oh, you mean the people who
‘I knew of Battle the painter, of course,’ Mrs. Bradley replied. ‘I assumed, from your manner and appearance, that you were his wife… or perhaps (forgive me!) his widow.’ His disappearance was a great loss to art. The police, I am credibly informed, are looking into it again. But, of course, they will have been here before us.’
‘The police?’ said the woman. ‘Oh, but I could tell them nothing about David! They would have to go to the son,
