With an exclamation, Giles crossed the room, fumbled with the catch, and threw open the French window.
‘Thank you, sir,’ said the new arrival. He had a slightly common, cheerful voice and a well-bronzed face.
‘Detective Sergeant Trotter,’ he announced himself.
Mrs Boyle peered at him over her knitting with disfavour.
‘You can’t be a sergeant,’ she said disapprovingly.
‘You’re too young.’
The young man, who was indeed very young, looked affronted at this criticism and said in a slightly annoyed tone, ‘I’m not quite as young as I look, madam.’
His eye roved over the group and picked out Giles.
‘Are you Mr Davis? Can I get these skis off and stow them somewhere?’
‘Of course, come with me.’
Mrs Boyle said acidly as the door to the hall closed behind them, ‘I suppose that’s what we pay our police force for nowadays, to go round enjoying themselves at winter sports.’
Paravicini had come close to Molly. There was quite a hiss in his voice as he said in a quick, low voice, ‘Why did you send for the police, Mrs Davis?’
She recoiled a little before the steady malignity of his glance. This was a new Mr Paravicini. For a moment she felt afraid. She said helplessly, ‘But I didn’t. I didn’t.’
And then Christopher Wren came excitedly through the door, saying in a high penetrating whisper, ‘Who’s that man in the hall? Where did he come from? So terribly hearty and all over snow.’
Mrs Boyle’s voice boomed out over the click of her knitting needles. ‘You may believe it or not, but that man is a policeman. A policeman—skiing!’
The final disruption of the lower classes had come, so her manner seemed to say.
Major Metcalf murmured to Molly, ‘Excuse me, Mrs Davis, but may I use your telephone?’
‘Of course, Major Metcalf.’
He went over to the instrument, just as Christopher Wren said shrilly, ‘He’s very handsome, don’t you think so? I always think policemen are terribly attractive.’
‘Hullo, hullo—’ Major Metcalf was rattling the telephone irritably. He turned to Molly. ‘Mrs Davis, this telephone is dead, quite dead.’
‘It was all right just now. I—’
She was interrupted. Christopher Wren was laughing, a high, shrill, almost hysterical laugh. ‘So we’re quite cut off now. Quite cut off. That’s funny, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t see anything to laugh at,’ said Major Metcalf stiffly.
‘No, indeed,’ said Mrs Boyle.
Christopher was still in fits of laughter. ‘It’s a private joke of my own,’ he said. ‘Hsh,’ he put his finger to his lips, ‘the sleuth is coming.’
Giles came in with Sergeant Trotter. The latter had got rid of his skis and brushed off the snow and was holding in his hand a large notebook and pencil. He brought an atmosphere of unhurried judicial procedure with him.
‘Molly,’ said Giles, ‘Sergeant Trotter wants a word with us alone.’
Molly followed them both out of the room.
‘We’ll go in the study,’ Giles said.
They went into the small room at the back of the hall which was dignified by that name. Sergeant Trotter closed the door carefully behind him.
‘What have we done, Sergeant?’ Molly demanded plaintively.
‘Done?’ Sergeant Trotter stared at her. Then he smiled broadly. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘It’s nothing of that kind, madam. I’m sorry if there’s been a misapprehension of any kind. No, Mrs Davis, it’s something quite different. It’s more a matter of police protection, if you understand me.’
Not understanding him in the least, they both looked at him inquiringly.
Sergeant Trotter went on fluently, ‘It relates to the death of Mrs Lyon, Mrs Maureen Lyon, who was murdered in London two days ago. You may have read about the case.’
‘Yes,’ said Molly.
‘The first thing I want to know is if you were acquainted with this Mrs Lyon?’
‘Never heard of her,’ said Giles, and Molly murmured concurrence.
‘Well, that’s rather what we expected. But as a matter of fact Lyon wasn’t the murdered woman’s real name. She had a police record, and her fingerprints were on file, so we were able to identify her without any difficulty. Her real name was Gregg; Maureen Gregg. Her late husband, John Gregg, was a farmer who resided at Longridge Farm not very far from here. You may have heard of the Longridge Farm case.’
The room was very still. Only one sound broke the stillness, a soft, unexpected plop as snow slithered off the roof and fell to the ground outside. It was a secret, almost sinister sound.
Trotter went on. ‘Three evacuee children were billeted on the Greggs at Longridge Farm in 1940. One of those children subsequently died as the result of criminal neglect and ill-treatment. The case made quite a sensation, and the Greggs were both sentenced to terms of imprisonment. Gregg escaped on his way to prison, he stole a car and had a crash while trying to evade the police. He was killed outright. Mrs Gregg served her sentence and was released two months ago.’
‘And now she’s been murdered,’ said Giles. ‘Who do they think did it?’
But Sergeant Trotter was not to be hurried. ‘You remember the case, sir?’ he asked.
Giles shook his head. ‘In 1940 I was a midshipman serving in the Mediterranean.’
‘I—I do remember hearing about it, I think,’ said Molly rather breathlessly. ‘But why do you come to us? What have we to do with it?’
‘It’s a question of your being in danger, Mrs Davis!’
‘Danger?’ Giles spoke increduously.
‘It’s like this, sir. A notebook was picked up near the scene of the crime. In it were written two addresses. The first was Seventy-Four Culver Street.’
‘Where the woman was murdered?’ Molly put in.
‘Yes, Mrs Davis. The other address was Monkswell Manor.’
‘What?’ Molly’s tone was incredulous. ‘But how extraordinary.’
‘Yes. That’s why Superintendent Hogben thought it imperative to find out if you knew of any connection between you, or between this house, and the Longridge Farm case.’
‘There’s
