Macdonald looked at Peel’s carefully typed lists. “I have a feeling that the fellows who were there when you first arrived on the scene ought to be able to give a bit more factual evidence than they have,” he said. “If I’ve got things right, all those chaps were closely associated with that bit of the village nearest to the midstream. There’s Samuel Venner, who lives at the Mill House, Bob Doone, who’s foreman at the sawmill close by, George Wilson, who’s electrician in charge of the generating plant, and Jack Hedges, cowman at the farm close by the Mill House. Jim Rigg, who found the body, is second cowman at the Manor Farm, but he lives in a cottage by the bridge over the river. Am I right in saving that all of them would be likely to use that footbridge over the millstream at any hour of the day or night?”
“Correct, sir,” replied Peel. “Cowmen have to look to their beasts at calving, no matter what the hour may be. George Wilson’s got to keep an eye on his storage batteries, and I know for a fact he often goes to inspect the plant late at night, especially when a lot of current’s been used up at the Manor. Doone’s often been known to work at the sawmill after dark. He does some trading of his own with the farmers, and he or his son will cut posts for the farmers, or saw logs for them when they’ve been felling their own timber. Young Doone’s got a tractor outfit of his own and runs a saw from the engine in the evenings. But I’d give them all a clean bill so far as character is concerned. The only thing I’d say is that they’re pretending to be stupider than they are.”
“Well, it’s with them I shall start,” said Macdonald. “Now, tell me this. You say deceased used to be treasurer of this, that, and the other. What reason is given for her being relieved of those activities?”
“‘Her was tired out. Terrible tired Sister was,’” quoted Peel sardonically. “‘Old Dr. Brown said Sister was wearing of herself out and us was properly ashamed to’ve put upon her so.’ You sort that one out, Chief. It sounds easy, but it isn’t. Butter won’t melt in their mouths.”
“Well, I’ll have a shot at melting it,” said Macdonald, “and the sooner I get going, the better.”
“And good luck to you,” said Peel. “Now where are you going to stay, sir?”
“At the inn at Milham in the Moor. I think this is one of the cases when it is salutary for everybody concerned to know that the C.I.D. is very much on the spot and that it will remain on the spot until something turns up. Reeves and I will adopt wearing-down tactics.”
Reeves chuckled. “It does work, you know. They get to hate the sight of you, and somebody loses their temper eventually, and says something they wish they hadn’t. Haunt them, that’s the idea, day and night.”
“Haunt them,” echoed Peel appreciatively. “You’ve got something there. They’re superstitious in their own way.”
“Don’t tell Reeves so. He’s quite capable of borrowing a nurse’s cloak and providing apparitions which aren’t regulation,” said Macdonald. “For myself, I’m out after chapter and verse, hoping somebody will slip up eventually.”
The two C.I.D. men drove out towards the moor, both keenly aware of the fragrance blowing in at the open windows: new-mown hay, flowering beans and clover, so that Reeves sniffed like a pointer. When they saw the church tower and roofs on the hilltop, Reeves said: “Quite a place. It’s different from anything I’ve ever seen.”
Macdonald said: “Hilltop villages are the exception rather than the rule in England. Perhaps an unusual site makes for unusual people.”
“Uppish?” hazarded Reeves, his eyes fixed on the piled-up roofs, one above the other on the steep hillside.
“No. Not uppish. Isolated maybe,” said Macdonald. “Isolated communities tend to a communal defence mechanism. Sorry. That’s hideous jargon.”
“Is it? I shouldn’t know,” said Reeves, “but I get the idea. All for each and each for all and to hell with interlopers.”
Macdonald drew up outside the Milham Arms and went in to find the landlord, whom he asked for two single rooms. Simon Barracombe shook his head. They weren’t expecting visitors just now, he urged, washing his hands.
“In that case you had better take some of those A.A. and R.A.C. signs off your walls,” said Macdonald. “I am an officer of the Criminal Investigation Department of Scotland Yard. I want two bedrooms. Can you accommodate me or not?”
Simon Barracombe had another look at the lean dark fellow whose quiet voice did not sound very “accommodating,” and decided not to be awkward.
“Very good, sir. We will do our best. I am sorry things aren’t quite as I could wish, but we don’t have many visitors at this time. I’ll take your bags up, sir. Could you tell me how long it would be for?”
“I can’t tell you,” said Macdonald, “but I’ll take the rooms for a week to start with. We are here on duty.”
Some five minutes later, the two C.I.D. men strolled down the steep village street towards the Mill House, and Reeves said: “Order of the day: brass tacks and plain English.”
“That’s it,” said Macdonald. “Consciously or unconsciously—my bet’s on the former—this village has been developing what’s called a ‘mystique’ by some people. It involves saintliness, other-worldliness, general vagueness over matters of fact, and inattention to detail.”
“Hocus-pocus. I looked that one up on your recommendation,” said Reeves.
“You’re a diligent chap. Well, the first thing to do is to clear the air and let them see that we’re not
