Sergeant Trotter said gently, ‘Superintendent Hogben doesn’t think it is a coincidence. He’d have come himself if it had been at all possible. Under the weather conditions, and as I’m an expert skier, he sent me with instructions to get full particulars of everyone in this house, to report back to him by phone, and to take all measures I thought expedient for the safety of the household.’
Giles said sharply, ‘Safety? Good Lord, man, you don’t think somebody is going to be killed here?’
Trotter said apologetically, ‘I didn’t want to upset the lady, but yes, that is just what Superintendent Hogben does think.’
‘But what earthly reason could there be—’
Giles broke off, and Trotter said, ‘That’s just what I’m here to find out.’
‘But the whole thing’s crazy.’
‘Yes, sir, but it’s because it’s crazy that it’s dangerous.’
Molly said, ‘There’s something more you haven’t told us yet, isn’t there, Sergeant?’
‘Yes, madam. At the top of the page in the notebook was written, “Three Blind Mice.” Pinned to the dead woman’s body was a paper with “This is the first” written on it. And below it a drawing of three mice and a bar of music. The music was the tune of the nursery rhyme “Three Blind Mice.”’
Molly sang softly:
“Three Blind Mice,
See how they run.
They all ran after the farmer’s wife!
She—”
She broke off. ‘Oh, it’s horrible—horrible. There were three children, weren’t there?’
‘Yes, Mrs Davis. A boy of fifteen, a girl of fourteen, and the boy of twelve who died.’
‘What happened to the others?’
‘The girl was, I believe, adopted by someone. We haven’t been able to trace her. The boy would be just on twenty-three now. We’ve lost track of him. He was said to have always been a bit—queer. He joined up in the army at eighteen. Later he deserted. Since then he’s disappeared. The army psychiatrist says definitely that he’s not well.’
‘You think that it was he who killed Mrs Lyon?’ Giles asked. ‘And that he’s a homicidal maniac and may turn up here for some unknown reason?’
‘We think that there must be a connection between someone here and the Longridge Farm business. Once we can establish what that connection is, we will be forearmed. Now you state, sir, that you yourself have no connection with that case. The same goes for you, Mrs Davis?’
‘I—oh, yes—yes.’
‘Perhaps you will tell me exactly who else there is in the house?’
They gave him the names. Mrs Boyle. Major Metcalf. Mr Christopher Wren. Mr Paravicini. He wrote them down in his notebook.
‘Servants?’
‘We haven’t any servants,’ said Molly. ‘And that reminds me, I must go and put the potatoes on.’
She left the study abruptly.
Trotter turned to Giles. ‘What do you know about these people, sir?’
‘I—We—’ Giles paused. Then he said quietly, ‘Really, we don’t know anything about them, Sergeant Trotter. Mrs Boyle wrote from a Bournemouth hotel. Major Metcalf from Leamington. Mr Wren from a private hotel in South Kensington. Mr Paravicini just turned up out of the blue—or rather out of the white—his car overturned in a snowdrift near here. Still, I suppose they’ll have identity cards, ration books, that sort of thing?’
‘I shall go into all that, of course.’
‘In a way it’s lucky that the weather is so awful,’ said Giles. ‘The murderer can’t very well turn up in this, can he?’
‘Perhaps he doesn’t need to, Mr Davis.’
‘What do you mean?’
Sergeant Trotter hesitated for a moment and then he said, ‘You’ve got to consider, sir, that he may be here already.’
Giles stared at him.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Mrs Gregg was killed two days ago. All your visitors here have arrived since then, Mr Davis.’
‘Yes, but they’d booked beforehand—some time beforehand—except for Paravicini.’
Sergeant Trotter sighed. His voice sounded tired. ‘These crimes were planned in advance.’
‘Crimes? But only one crime has happened yet. Why are you sure that there will be another?’
‘That it will happen—no. I hope to prevent that. That it will be attempted, yes.’
‘But then—if you’re right,’ Giles spoke excitedly, ‘there’s only one person it could be. There’s only one person who’s the right age. Christopher Wren! ”
Sergeant Trotter had joined Molly in the kitchen.
‘I’d be glad, Mrs Davis, if you would come with me to the library. I want to make a general statement to everyone. Mr Davis has kindly gone to prepare the way—’
‘All right—just let me finish these potatoes. Sometimes I wish Sir Walter Raleigh had never discovered the beastly things.’
Sergeant Trotter preserved a disapproving silence. Molly said apologetically, ‘I can’t really believe it, you see—It’s so fantastic—’
‘It isn’t fantastic, Mrs Davis—It’s just plain facts.’
‘You have a description of the man?’ Molly asked curiously.
‘Medium height, slight build, wore a dark overcoat and a light hat, spoke in a whisper, his face was hidden by a muffler. You see—that might be anybody.’ He paused and added, ‘There are three dark overcoats and light hats hanging up in your hall here, Mrs Davis.’
‘I don’t think any of these people came from London.’
‘Didn’t they, Mrs Davis?’ With a swift movement Sergeant Trotter moved to the dresser and picked up a newspaper.
‘The Evening Standard of February 19th. Two days ago. Someone brought that paper here, Mrs Davis.’
‘But how extraordinary.’ Molly stared, some faint chord of memory stirred. ‘Where can that paper have come from?’
‘You mustn’t take people always at their face value, Mrs Davis. You don’t really know anything about these people you have admitted to your house.’ He added, ‘I take it you and Mr Davis are new to the guesthouse business?’
‘Yes, we are,’ Molly admitted. She felt suddenly young, foolish, and childish.
‘You haven’t been married long, perhaps, either?’
‘Just a year.’ She blushed slightly. ‘It was all rather sudden.’
‘Love at first sight,’ said Sergeant Trotter sympathetically.
Molly felt quite unable to snub him. ‘Yes,’ she said, and added in a burst of confidence, ‘we’d only known each other a fortnight.’
Her thoughts went back over those fourteen days of whirlwind courtship. There hadn’t been any doubts—they had both known. In a worrying, nerve-racked world, they had found the miracle of each
