When he had lit both their cigarettes Sergeant MacGregor judged that the atmosphere had eased enough to make conversation possible. He appreciated Dover’s frame of mind. Ever since he had first heard of the case, the chief inspector had been squealing loudly that it was a complete waste of time. But now, even after the little they had learned so far, it was becoming increasingly unlikely that Juliet Rugg had just skipped off quietly of her own free will to enjoy a honeymoon unsanctified by church or state, Dover now found himself in the uncomfortable situation of having to admit that, possibly, his original view of the case was, to put it bluntly, wrong.
This was, however, not a particularly novel experience for Chief Inspector Dover. His judgment had frequently been at fault, not only in the initial stages of a case but, occasionally, right up to the end as well. The fact that his career as a detective had endured, and even flourished in a mild way, was almost entirely due to the fact that most criminals, incredible as it may seem, were even more stupid and inept than he was.
Sergeant MacGregor, who was really quite a nice young man, tried to be tactful about it.
‘I’m afraid it’s beginning to look as though something really has happened to that girl, isn’t it, sir?’
Dover grunted and stretched his legs out as far as they would go. ‘Yes,’ he agreed complacently. ‘Of course, it was obvious from the start that there was something fishy going on.’
This was a bit too rapid a volte-face even for Sergeant MacGregor’s loyalty. ‘But, sir,’ he protested, ‘you . . . ’
‘The trouble with you young men’ – Dover steamrollered on, ignoring the interruption – ‘is that you always start formulating theories and jumping to conclusions before you’ve got the facts. It’s a very dangerous habit to get into, Sergeant, prejudices your whole attitude to a case. A good detective’s got to keep an open mind until he’s got real evidence in his hands – then you don’t have to make up theories, the facts speak for themselves.’
The chief inspector paused to flick a chunk of cigarette ash off his waistcoat.
Sergeant MacGregor was beyond arguing. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said in an expressionless voice. Life was easier that way.
‘Now, just let’s have a look at what we’ve got,’ Dover continued with the air of a kindly sage speaking to an idiot child, ‘The girl was seen, alive and well, here on this very drive late on Tuesday night, going, apparently, straight home. She never got there. So she must have gone, willingly or unwillingly, somewhere else. Right? Now, let’s assume that she’s gone off somewhere under her own steam-your original theory, Sergeant. We’ve got three points to take into account here. One, she didn’t hint either to her mother or to her employer that she was going to skip, though, when you consider the terms she was on with the pair of ’em, it doesn’t seem very likely that either would have batted an eyelid if they knew she was off for a dirty week-end somewhere.
‘Two, she left over fifty pounds in ready cash behind, and according to Eve Counter, none of her belongings are missing. Of course, it’s possible that her departure was voluntary but unpremeditated, though it’s a bit hard to stomach that she made her mind up in the depths of the country after eleven o’clock at night.
‘And that brings us to the third point – how did she get away from Irlam Old Hall? Having seen those shoes of hers in her bedroom, I think we can rule out that all sixteen stone of her went on foot. I don’t see her hiking through the countryside, do you? We can rule out public transport because there isn’t any and I reckon we’d have had a report by now if she’d boarded a bus or train anywhere in the country. So now, Sergeant, what’s the only alternative?’
‘A private car, sir,’ said Sergeant MacGregor obediently.
‘Yes, but there’s a snag here too. Those damned wrought-iron gates! If it was a car already in the grounds, how did it get out? And if it was a car outside the grounds, why was she walking away from the entrance?’
‘Somebody might have arrived by car, left it outside the gates, run after her and persuaded her to go off with him.’
‘Yes,’ said Dover grudgingly, ‘I suppose that’s possible.’
‘Or,’ Sergeant MacGregor pointed out, ‘she may have stayed the night in somebody else’s house or flat up here and left the next day by car when the gates were open.’
‘Hm,’ said Dover frowning-he hadn’t thought of that – ‘but that would mean she’d run off with somebody from up here. We can check if anybody’s missing but, surely to goodness, we’d have heard by now. There are still lots of points that need clearing up, but everything we’ve discovered so far seems to indicate that something or somebody prevented her return home on Tuesday night. Question now is, what happened to her?’
‘Well, it’s likely to be one of two things, isn’t it, sir? I think we can rule suicide out, because where’s the body? So it must be either kidnapping or murder.’
Dover blew crossly down his nose. ‘Well, we can scrub kidnapping right away! It’s inconceivable that anybody kidnapped a girl of her weight and size, and anyhow there’s virtually no kidnapping in this country. Besides, who’s going to pay the ransom? Her mother?’
‘What about Sir John Counter?’
‘Well, it’s possible, but I don’t think so. He’s more likely to engage another maid. No, let’s use our common sense on this,
