“I didn’t remember that, sir,” he said thoughtfully. “Oh, you can push comparisons too far. But a mean streak will carry a man pretty far, too. Or a woman.” Mr. Tuke had taken out his cigar-case. “Can you smoke on this sort of duty? The less you look like a policeman the better. Talking of women, how do Mrs. Shearsby’s alibis work out?”
“She has a good one for the 28th of July, sir.” Mr. Webley applied a match to his Larranaga. “We’ve found a woman here who came all the way back with her from Cambridge. They sat together as far as Hitchin. That means Mrs. Shearsby was in Cambridge as late as nine o’clock, like she said. Then she was seen there, after her W.V.S. meeting, by another member, a Mrs. Darby, at a quarter to five. Well, sir, the next bus after that to pass Stocking Corner left at six-forty. It gets to the Corner at seven-ten. At eight-twenty the last bus’ the other way passes the Corner That gives an hour and ten minutes for a five-mile walk, to that bridge in the lane and back, and a murder thrown in. And then the murderer would have to go through the village. You know what those places are, sir—they’d never miss a stranger walking through on a summer evening. And nobody saw Mrs. Shearsby, nor anyone else. There is another way to the lane, by getting off the bus further on, but that makes six miles to the bridge and back, and cuts the time down to just over the hour. It’s an impossibility.”
“What about the railway?”
“She couldn’t have done it that way, either, sir. She might have caught the 5.10 from Cambridge, getting her to Whipstead at 5.30. But the last train back to Cambridge leaves at 8.5, and it was punctual that day. Now Mr. Shearsby, him that was killed, was alive at-a quarter-past seven. Then he had to get from the inn to the bridge in the lane, or somewhere about there. Near half a mile— say eight or ten minutes. I can’t work it out that he was killed much before half-past seven, at the earliest. My own idea is, it was a good deal later. But take seven-thirty. Then the murderer had to get back to the station by 8.5, and the only way from the lane, unless you go by the village, and that isn’t much shorter, is by footpaths, and it’s over three miles.”
“The way the mysterious semi-clerical gent is supposed to have gone after he left the station?”
Sergeant Webley smiled. “Yes, sir. And I’ve got some news about him. But I ask you—three miles and a bit in thirty-five minutes. No woman could do it, not if she ran the whole way. And supposing she came by the 5.10 and went on to the bus route by the back lanes, its three miles again, and the last bus goes by about eight-ten. Forty minutes. And she’d still have to fit a murder in. Anyway, Mrs. Shearsby didn’t come or go either way. There wasn’t any strange woman at the station that evening, nor picked up by the bus. The only strangers were the man and the boy you’ve heard about.”
“It sounds fairly conclusive,” Mr. Tuke agreed. Sergeant Webley gazed thoughtfully at the blue Morris through a cloud of cigar smoke.
“Anyhow, Mr. Tuke,” he said, “I never did put much stock in the idea of her having done it. It isn’t a woman’s crime, to my way of thinking. Poisoning, yes—but not this bashing people over the head and chucking them in rivers.,,
“Oh, my dear fellow, don’t have illusions about women,” Harvey said. “Think of Mary Borden and her little hatchet, and Mrs. Pearcey and hers, and a score of others.” Apparently Sergeant Webley had not heard of either of these ladies, for he looked puzzled again. How odd it was, Mr. Tuke reflected, that in police work, alone of the professions, no attempt seemed to be made to teach the history of the subject.
“Wonder how long we’ve got to wait?” the sergeant murmured. “Till Mrs. Shearsby comes out, I suppose, if it’s her they’re after. Look, sir, are you in a hurry?”
“Far from it. I’m enjoying myself, I’m on holiday, and I insist on hearing your news about the semi-clerical gent.” The sergeant chuckled. “It’s a good name for him. Well, why not come and sit in my car, sir, while we wait? More comfortable than standing here. Gome to that, if you’re on holiday, why not stay in the car?”
“Join in the hunt, you mean?”
“If you care to, Mr. Tuke. It’s a bit irregular, but you put us on to this, and you’re in the P.P’s office, and all that. It might interest you to find out what that car is up to, and you could tell them about it in London.”
“It would interest me extremely. Sergeant, you’re a trump. But what about my own car?”
Mr. Webley jerked a thumb towards his driver. “The constable there will drive it to the station, and you can pick it up when we get back. If those fellows come from Cambridge, they’ll be going back there. When we’ve found out where they go to, we’ll hand over to the Cambridge police.” He paused, stared at the Morris,, and added: “I’ll have a closer look at them first, if you’ll wait here.”
He strolled away among the crowd on the pavement. Mr. Tuke, effaced behind the telephone cabinet, smoked his cigar and watched the throng. In a few minutes the sergeant rejoined him.
“I’ll know the driver again. But I daren’t draw attention to myself, and what with the other chap’s peaked cap and glasses I couldn’t make much of him. Except his nose. What they call Roman. And he’s grey-haired, like you said, sir.
