Here, then, after all, were puzzles which must be cleared up. Sergeant Oake, aided by the constables who lived in the two villages, began a thorough raking of the countryside for news of the two strangers. But up to the hour when Inspector Vance completed his interim report, no such news had come in.
CHAPTER XII
“THEY’RE all possibles,” Wray said.
It was the morning of Thursday, the 24th, and Inspector Vance’s summary of the first three days’ work on the case was under discussion. The Assistant Commissioner’s appointment with Sir Bruton Karnes was about other matters, but the Director, pronouncing them damned dull, demanded what he called a bit of jam. He instanced the affair of the cousins, in which he now seemed to take an interest. Mr. Tuke, meeting him in the interim at the Senior Universities, needed no persuasion to give up another hour of his holiday in the same cause.
“Take La Boulanger,” Wray continued. “She may have told a cock and bull story. On the other hand, if it’s true, three of the others were on the spot here in London. The chemist knocks off at six, so he could have done it, and still caught his last train back to Bedford. So could his wife. Then this place Stocking is only nineteen miles from Bedford, and he could have got there and back on his bike after work before his wife came home. Or she could have caught an earlier bus from Cambridge, hopped off near Stocking, and picked up the later one after she’d done the job. La Boulanger may have been on her way down there when she says she was at the Institut Frangais. The Ardmore girl’s alibi depends on Gartside, and his on her. Mainward has none—he can’t call Calliope as a witness.”
Sir Bruton, who was sliding under his vast table, heaved himself back into a sitting posture, showering cheroot ash about him as he did so.
“This W.V.S. beano,” he said. “The women would be wearing their classy green rig-out. Pretty conspicuous.”
Wray grinned foxily. “Mrs. Mortimer’s Norman Hartnell creation had gone to the cleaners. She went to Cambridge in ordinary clothes.” He paused to light a cigarette, and went on through the smoke: “I’ve looked at the map. There are footpaths all over the place, and a back lane to Shearsby’s cottage and the bridge. No need to go through the village to get there. And the country’s like a desert. So the fact that we haven’t heard of any stranger so far means nothing. The trouble is, we don’t know when the fellow was killed. It could have been immediately after he left the pub. Nobody else seems to have used the lane that evening. He may have found one of his cousins sitting on the bridge in the mellow sunset, waiting for him with a half-brick.”
“And you wonder I don’t like the country,” Mr. Tuke murmured. “But when you say no one else used the lane that evening, what about the mysterious gent from the station, believed to have headed that way?”
“I hadn’t forgotten him. I was thinking of the locals. We want to find the man, of course. WeVe no reason to connect him with the case, but if there was any dirty work in that lane about half-past seven, he may have seen something. Or somebody. Vance will have that in hand. Though he doesn’t seem to have made up his mind yet if there is a case.”
“Haven’t you a mind of your own, Wray?”
“There are a good many things on it at the moment besides your holiday task,” Wray snapped.
“Now, birdies, birdies!” said Sir Bruton, leering at them. But he seemed abstracted, and the leer became a scowl as Wray laced his fingers and cracked them loudly. “I wish to God you wouldn’t do that, Wray. It makes me jump.”
“Too much uric acid. Or something. Now about Guildford,” Wray went on. “These infernal cousins and their friends seem to have gone out of their way to make trouble. Any one of them could have beer^ there. One day or the other they were mooning about by themselves. Damn it, you wouldn’t think any bunch of people would spend so much time alone.”
“They’re intelligent people, Wray,” Mr. Tuke said. “Lacking the herd instinct. You wouldn’t know. You don’t meet the type.”
Wray shrugged this off. “I don’t think Vance will make much of the Guildford end, anyway. I’ve told him Stocking’s his best bet. It may be a desert, but if a stranger was anywhere near it on the 28th we’ll hear about it sooner or later, or I don’t know the country.”
A curious internal rumbling was proceeding from Sir Bruton. His scowl became malevolent.
“It’s a mess!” he bellowed suddenly. “Take it away, Wray. Tidy it up. I have to give opinions, haven’t I? I want cases, don’t I? Not a lot of damned bits and pieces you haven’t even begun to put together. Vance /is right. It isn’t a case—not yet. Wasting my time. I’m a busy man. Take it away. Take Tuke away. Jumping Jeroboam, when a man’s on his holiday, he damn’ well ought to be on his holiday, not cluttering up busy blokes’ offices.”
“J) suis, j’y reste,” said Mr. Tuke, settling himself deeper in his chair. “I’m here by invitation.”
“It’s cancelled——”
“And you asked for it,” Wray pointed out reasonably. “You wanted some jam. And I’m still in two minds about the business myself. I wanted your ideas on it.”
“It isn’t jam. It’s a mess,” said Sir Bruton, removing a mangled Trichinopoli from his mouth and spitting tobacco leaf in the direction of his wastepaper basket. “And you can’t soft soap me. Ideas? I’ve given ’em. Tidy the thing up before you bring it here again. Make up what you call your mind whether you’ve got one murderer, or half a dozen,
