envelope.
Now I had to shake him. I didn’t hesitate. I owed him something
for giving me a scare last night. I started the Buick, drove up to the
Standard, braked sharply and was out of the car before the runt knew
what was happening.
“Hello, pal,” I said, smiling at him. “A little bird tells me you’re
following me. I don’t like it.” While I was speaking I took my penknife
out, opened the blade. “Sorry to give you a little work, sonny,” I went
on, “but it’ll do you a world of good.”
He just sat glowering at me, his lips drawn off his yellow teeth. He
looked like an infuriated ferret.
I bent down, stuck my penknife into one of his tyres. The air
hissed out; the tyre went flat.
“These tyres aren’t what they were, are they, son?” I asked,
folding the blade down, putting the knife in my pocket. “I’ll leave you
to change the wheel. I have an appointment right now.”
He called me a word which in normal times would have annoyed
me, but I felt he had some justification.
“If you’d like to collect a tyre lever, we’ll have another little joust,”
I said amiably.
He repeated the word, so I left him.
He was still sitting there as I drove past, and he was still sitting
there when I reached the bend in the road some six hundred yards
farther on. I guessed he was a sore pup all right.
I reached Horsham in half an hour and I was sure now that I
wasn’t being followed. The traffic was negligible, and for miles I drove
with nothing behind me.
From Horsham I took the Worthing road, branched off after a few
miles and approached Lakeham. The country was magnificent, and
the day hot and sunny. I enjoyed the last few miles, thinking I should
have explored that part of England before instead of spending so
many days and nights in stuffy, dirty London.
A signpost told me I was within three-quarters of a mile of
Lakeham, and I slowed down, driving along the narrow lane until I
reached a few cottages, a pub and a post office. I guessed I’d arrived.
I pulled up outside the pub, went in.
It was a quaint box-like place, almost like a doll’s house. The
woman who served me a double whisky seemed ready to talk,
especial y when she heard my accent.
We chatted about the surrounding country and this and that, then
I asked her if she knew where a cottage called Beverley hung out.
“Oh, you mean Miss Scott?” she said, and there was an immediate
look of disapproval in her eyes. “Her place’s about a mile farther on.
You take the first on your left and the cottage lies off the road. It has a
thatched roof and a yellow gate. You can’t miss it.”
“That’s swell,” I said. “I know a friend of hers. Maybe I’ll look her
up. Do you know her? I was wondering what she was like. Think I’d be
welcome?”
“From what I hear, men are always welcomed there,” she said,
with a sniff. “I’ve never seen ‘er. No one in the village sees ‘er. She
only comes down for the week-ends.”
“Maybe she has someone to look after the cottage?” I suggested,
wondering if I had made the journey for nothing.
“Mrs. Brambee does for ‘er,” the woman told me. “She ain’t much
‘erself.”
I paid for my drink, thanked the woman, returned to the Buick.
It took me only a few minutes to find Beverley. I saw it through
the trees as I drove up the narrow lane. It stood in a charming garden,
a two-storied, thatch-roofed, rough-cast building, as attractive as any
you could wish to see.
I parked the Buick outside, pushed open the gate and walked up
the path. The sun beat down on me, and the smell of pinks, roses and
wallflowers hung in the still air. I wouldn’t have minded living there
myself.
I went up to the oak nail-studded front door, rapped with the
shiny brass knocker, feeling a curious uneasy excitement as I waited. I
was uneasy because I didn’t know if Netta’s sister had heard about
Netta, and I wasn’t sure how I should break the news. I was excited
because I wondered if Anne was like her sister, and how we would get
on together.
But after a few moments, I realized, with a sharp feeling of
disappointment, that there was no one in, or at least, no one was
going to answer my knock. I stood back, glanced up at the windows of
the upper floor, then peered into the first window within reach on the
ground floor. I could see the room stretching the length of the house,
and the big garden through the windows at the back. The place was
well furnished and comfortable. I moved around the house, until I
reached the back. There was no one about, and I stood for a moment,
hat in hand, looking across the well-kept lawn and at the flower-beds,
a mass of brilliant colours.
I passed the back door, hesitated, tried the handle, but the door
was locked. I moved on until I reached another window, paused as I
noticed the curtains had been drawn.
I stared at the curtained window, and for no reason at all I
suddenly felt spooked. I took a step forward, tried to see into the
room, by peering through a chink in the curtain. I could see it was the
kitchen, but my view was so limited I could only make out a dresser
from which hung willow pattern cups and plates in rows along the
ordered shelves.
Then I smelt coal-gas.
Feet crunched on the gravel. I swung around. Corridan and two
uniformed policemen came striding towards me. Corridan’s face was
dour, his eyes showed irritation and anger.
“You better bust in quick,” I said, before he could speak. “I smell
gas.”
Chapter V
I SAT fuming in the Buick outside the cottage, and watched the
