The local man looked surprised. ‘Juliet Rugg with a “g”?’ he asked doubtfully. ‘Are you sure?’
Dover couldn’t stand it any longer. With a snort of seething impatience he strode to the desk, pushed aside three library books and a packet of sandwiches, picked up a file, glanced at the heading and slapped it down without a word in front of the inspector.
‘Oh?’ said the inspector. ‘Oh, yes. Thank you! Well now, Juliet Rugg, that’s the one you’ve come about, isn’t it? Yes, well then, there’s not much I can tell you about her case, I’m afraid.’ He peered at the file. ‘Oh, yes, she was reported missing by Miss Eve Counter of Irlam Old Hall on Wednesday afternoon – that’s the day before yesterday, of course. Missing girl is called Juliet Rugg, age eighteen, working as a maid in the employ of Sir John Counter, also of Irlam Old Hall.’ He glanced up at his visitors. ‘Perhaps I should explain about Irlam Old Hall,’ he suggested unenthusiastically. ‘It’s a bit involved. It’s one of these old houses about a couple of miles outside the village of Earlam. Some time ago, before the war, I think, the family couldn’t keep the place up any longer so they converted the house into flats. They sold off most of the land and they built half a dozen houses on the bit that was left – three on either side of the drive, actually. Then they did up the two small lodges by the main gates. So Irlam Old Hall these days is a kind of little housing estate, if you see what I mean. Of course, it’s quite an expensive set-up, even the flats are about four or five pounds a week – unfurnished, of course, but they don’t use numbers or names. Everybody puts “Irlam Old Hall” on their notepaper and the postman just has to sort out which house or flat to deliver it to by the name of the occupier. The present owner, Mrs Chubb-Smith, she is – she lives in one of the lodges now-she’s had several rows with the Post Office about it but so far she’s had her own way. So this gendeman who employs Juliet Rugg, Sir John Counter, he and his daughter live in one of the houses built in the grounds.’
‘I see,’ said Dover, and sniffed.
‘Well now, where was I ? Oh yes, Juliet Rugg left the Counters’ house after lunch on Tuesday afternoon. It was her afternoon off and they expected her back as usual about eleven o’clock that night Well, she didn’t turn up, of course. Well, the village constable went along to see the girl’s mother-she lives in the village – and – er – ascertained that the girl had called in to see her mother for about an hour on Tuesday afternoon. She didn’t say anything about going away and she left to catch the three-fifteen bus into Creedon here to have a look round the shops and what have you. This was quite normal and she did it every week. The local chap – er-ascertained that she caught the bus all right. Well, at this stage in the inquiry, our chap heard that Mr Bartlett was going to call the Yard in, so he-er-didn’t pursue his inquiries any further. And that’s really just about all there is.
‘We’ve booked a couple of rooms for you in the pub at Earlam. It’s not much of a place but we thought you’d like to be on the spot. Oh, and we’ve got a car for you. You won’t want a driver, will you? The file’s got all the addresses in it, and there’s a sketch plan of Irlam Old Hall with the names of the people living there. I don’t think there’s anything else you’ll want at the moment, is there?’ The inspector glanced anxiously at his football pools.
‘No!’ said Dover, and rammed his bowler hat on his head. ‘Come on, Sergeant, we’d better get moving. We’ll obviously have to start from the beginning again so we’ll go and see this Counter woman first.’
Sergeant MacGregor accepted the file from the limp hand of the inspector, thanked him for his help, and dashed off after his superior officer. He had a feeling that this case was going to be even worse than their first one was.
Chapter Two
THEY found Irlam Old Hall quite easily and Sergeant MacGregor braked gently from the cautious thirty miles an hour which was all Dover would permit, glanced in his rear mirror, changed down to third, flicked out his right trafficator, poked out his right arm to its full extent, glanced in his mirror again and with bated breath carefully turned the car across a completely deserted, dead straight country road and eased his way sedately through the entrance gates.
The two men gazed thoughtfully through the windscreen. Before them lay a wide, gravelled drive which had long ago lost its struggle with the encroaching grass and weeds. The drive ran in a series of sweeping curves, which seemed to have no functional value as the ground was perfectly flat, up to the front of a large, eighteenth-century building whose architecture was pleasing rather than distinguished. On either side of the main drive were the new houses of which the local C.I.D. inspector had spoken. They stood well back and each was separated from its neighbours by a reasonably large garden and thick clusters of trees. Four smaller paths led off from the main sweep of the drive.
On either side of the main gate were two tiny, ivy-encrusted lodges. Mrs Chubb-Smith, the present owner of the property, lived, according to the sketch plan, in the one on the left.
Sergeant MacGregor guided the shiny black police car up the drive at a docile fifteen miles an hour.
‘Which is the Counters’ house?’ asked Dover.
‘It’s the top one on the left, sir. Must be that big one over there.’
‘Hm,’
