“Then why are you whispering?” snapped Dowerty. “Have a look through there.” He directed one man to a door beyond the table on which rested the tea urns and the loaves of bread. Dowerty felt an urn, and it was cold. “Strange,” he said, “nobody here at this hour. No poor unfortunates turning up to doss down?” He looked at the cots. “Hello? Who’s that then on the cot under the window?”
The detective who had gone through the door beyond the table reported there were stairs leading upstairs to the church. But Dowerty was transfixed by the man lying face down on the cot with a bread knife protruding from his back. He lifted the head gently. “Mr. Lemuel Peach, I presume,” he said, after recognizing the polka-dot bow tie. “Mr. Jennings isn’t going to like this one bit.”
The house offering bed and breakfast which Hitchcock and Nancy Adair selected was on the road just outside Brighton. Hitchcock fretted like a peevish rooster about rousing the innkeeper at his hour, but Nancy overrode his fears. “Do you have a handkerchief?” she asked as they pulled into the driveway and parked.
“Of course I do. What do you need it for?”
“Keep it over your face and pretend difficulty breathing. I’ll do the talking.” He followed her up the wooden stairs of the porch, and she twisted the bell on the door. The porch boards creaked under their weight, and Hitchcock had the feeling the building was so fragile, one wrong move and it would come tumbling down around their heads. “Come on, come on,” urged Nancy impatiently as she twisted the bell on the door again.
“Coming! Coming!” They heard the voice coming faintly from inside the house, a voice, Hitchcock imagined, as fragile as the structure they were trying to enter. The door opened and a woman’s head came poking out, wearing a nightcap. “Oh,” said the fragile voice breathlessly, “people!” Nancy Adair smothered the woman with charm. “I’m so sorry to disturb you at this hour, but we’ve gotten lost in the fog and it seemed too dangerous to continue, and my husband suffers so from asthma and this fog is wreaking hell with him.” Hitchcock expected the little lady to burst into tears, but all she did was dart her eyes back and forth from the blonde to Hitchcock and back again. “I do hope you have a room for us.”
“Oh, I do indeed, ecksherly.” Hitchcock decided she meant “actually,” and with that pronunciation sized her up as belonging to that race of British gentlewomen who, having fallen upon hard times, swallow their pride and go into business as hoteliers on a small scale. “Come in! Come in! It’s truly awful out.” Hitchcock prayed it wouldn’t be truly awful in. “I have a very nice room on this floor behind the staircase. It’s a guinea including breakfast, which is served promptly at eight A.M. Um… if you would just register here.” She indicated a ledger on the front desk. Nancy found a pen alongside the ledger and signed in. Hitchcock, handkerchief over his face, making ugly noises as he gasped for breath, looked over Nancy’s shoulder. She had signed them in as Mr. and Mrs. Jennings. Cheeky little devil, he thought, and not without humor. “I’m Miss Farquhar.” She turned a sympathetic face to Hitchcock. “You poor soul. How you’re suffering. I could prepare a steam inhalator for you. It would be no trouble at all. I’ve got one in the kitchen. My father suffered from asthma, so I know the agony you’re going through. It killed him, asthma did, and it was a terrible death. He was a long time dying.” She was a long time leading them to their room.
She unlocked the door, pushed it open, and clicked the switch. The room, Hitchcock could see with an inner sigh of relief, contained two single beds. “How nice,” said Nancy Adair. “Isn’t it nice, darling? And there are two beds, too.” She said to Miss Farquhar, “When he has one of these attacks, it’s best he sleep alone. Isn’t it, darling?” Hitchcock sat on a chair and wheezed painfully.
“Oh, dear, I could do that inhalator for you in no time.” Miss Farquhar seemed overdetermined to be a ministering angel.
From behind the handkerchief, Hitchcock said, “I’m feeling much better now that we’re indoors.” He had found a pound note and a shilling in his pocket and offered it to their hostess. “You said a guinea?”
“Oh, you can pay in the morning after breakfast,” said Miss Farquhar, but Hitchcock pressed the money on her. He had every intention of being out of the place before breakfast. “The bathroom’s just across the hall, and I can assure you you won’t disturb anyone when you use it. There aren’t any other guests in residence at the moment. I guess the fog’s discouraged that. I’m usually quite full at this time of the year. You’ll find plenty of towels, and there are extra blankets in the cupboard. Would you care for a cup of Bovril before turning in?” Poor lonely thing, thought Hitchcock; she’s so loath to leave us.
“I don’t think so. We’d as soon turn in. It’s so late and we’re so terribly tired, but you’re most kind.” Miss Farquhar bid them good night and went slowly upstairs to her bed-room.
Hitchcock shoved his handkerchief into his jacket pocket and asked Nancy, “Did you bring the map in with you?”
She waved it at him. He got up, crossed to her, and unfolded the map. “Medwin, Medwin, Medwin,” he muttered as he looked for the village. “Here it is. Medwin. Just north of Ridgewood. I suppose we can breakfast in Ridgewood.”
“What’s wrong with breakfasting here? It’s paid for.”
“I can’t quite hold a handkerchief in front of my face while dining. I plan for us to be out of here long before breakfast.” Without undressing, he stretched out on one of the beds.
“Don’t you want to wash up, or anything?”
“I’ll
