She came back to the present to find Sergeant Trotter eying her indulgently.
‘Your husband doesn’t come from these parts, does he?’
‘No,’ said Molly vaguely. ‘He comes from Lincolnshire.’
She knew very little of Giles’s childhood and upbringing. His parents were dead, and he always avoided talking about his early days. He had had, she fancied, an unhappy childhood.
‘You’re both very young, if I may say so, to run a place of this kind,’ said Sergeant Trotter.
‘Oh, I don’t know. I’m twenty-two and—’
She broke off as the door opened and Giles came in.
‘Everything’s all set. I’ve given them a rough outline,’ he said. ‘I hope that’s all right, Sergeant?’
‘Saves time,’ said Trotter. ‘Are you ready, Mrs Davis?’
Four voices spoke at once as Sergeant Trotter entered the library.
Highest and shrillest was that of Christopher Wren declaring that this was too, too thrilling and he wasn’t going to sleep a wink tonight, and please, please could we have all the gory details?
A kind of double-bass accompaniment came from Mrs Boyle. ‘Absolute outrage—sheer incompetence—police have no business to let murderers go roaming about the countryside.’
Mr Paravicini was eloquent chiefly with his hands. His gesticulations were more eloquent than his words, which were drowned by Mrs Boyle’s double bass. Major Metcalf could be heard in an occasional short staccato bark. He was asking for facts.
Trotter waited a moment or two, then he held up an authoritative hand and, rather surprisingly, there was silence.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Now, Mr Davis has given you an outline of why I’m here. I want to know one thing, and one thing only, and I want to know it quick. Which of you has some connection with the Longridge Farm case?’
The silence was unbroken. Four blank faces looked at Sergeant Trotter. The emotions of a few moments back—excitement, indignation, hysteria, inquiry, were wiped away as a sponge wipes out the chalk marks on a slate.
Sergeant Trotter spoke again, more urgently. ‘Please understand me. One of you, we have reason to believe, is in danger—deadly danger. I have got to know which one of you it is!’
And still no one spoke or moved.
Something like anger came into Trotter’s voice. ‘Very well—I’ll ask you one by one. Mr Paravicini?’
A very faint smile flickered across Mr Paravicini’s face. He raised his hands in a protesting foreign gesture.
‘But I am a stranger in these parts, Inspector. I know nothing, but nothing, of these local affairs of bygone years.’
Trotter wasted no time. He snapped out, ‘Mrs Boyle?’
‘Really I don’t see why—I mean—why should I have anything to do with such a distressing business?’
‘Mr Wren?’
Christopher said shrilly, ‘I was a mere child at the time. I don’t remember even hearing about it.’
‘Major Metcalf?’
The Major said abruptly, ‘Read about it in the papers. I was stationed at Edinburgh at the time.’
‘That’s all you have to say—any of you?’
Silence again.
Trotter gave an exasperated sigh. ‘If one of you gets murdered,’ he said, ‘you’ll only have yourself to blame.’ He turned abruptly and went out of the room.
‘My dears,’ said Christopher. ‘How melodramatic!’ He added, ‘He’s very handsome, isn’t he? I do admire the police. So stern and hard-boiled. Quite a thrill, this whole business. “Three Blind Mice.” How does the tune go?’
He whistled the air softly, and Molly cried out involuntarily, ‘Don’t!’
He whirled round on her and laughed. ‘But, darling,’ he said, ‘it’s my signature tune. I’ve never been taken for a murderer before and I’m getting a tremendous kick out of it!’
‘Melodramatic rubbish,’ said Mrs Boyle. ‘I don’t believe a word of it.’
Christopher’s light eyes danced with an impish mischief. ‘But just wait, Mrs Boyle,’ he lowered his voice, ‘till I creep up behind you and you feel my hands round your throat.’
Molly flinched.
Giles said angrily, ‘You’re upsetting my wife, Wren. It’s a damned poor joke, anyway.’
‘It’s no joking matter,’ said Metcalf.
‘Oh, but it is,’ said Christopher. ‘That’s just what it is—a madman’s joke. That’s what makes it so deliciously macabre.’
He looked round at them and laughed again. ‘If you could just see your faces,’ he said.
Then he went swiftly out of the room.
Mrs Boyle recovered first. ‘A singularly ill-mannered and neurotic young man,’ she said. ‘Probably a conscientious objector.’
‘He tells me he was buried during an air raid for forty-eight hours before being dug out,’ said Major Metcalf. ‘That accounts for a good deal, I daresay.’
‘People have so many excuses for giving way to nerves,’ said Mrs Boyle acidly. ‘I’m sure I went through as much as anybody in the war, and my nerves are all right.’
‘Perhaps that’s just as well for you, Mrs Boyle,’ said Metcalf.
‘What do you mean?’
Major Metcalf said quietly, ‘I think you were actually the billeting officer for this district in 1940, Mrs Boyle.’ He looked at Molly who gave a grave nod. ‘That is so, isn’t it?’
An angry flush appeared on Mrs Boyle’s face. ‘What of it?’ she demanded.
Metcalf said gravely, ‘You were responsible for sending three children to Longridge Farm.’
‘Really, Major Metcalf, I don’t see how I can be held responsible for what happened. The Farm people seemed very nice and were most anxious to have the children. I don’t see that I was to blame in any way—or that I can be held responsible—’ Her voice trailed off.
Giles said sharply, ‘Why didn’t you tell Sergeant Trotter this?’
‘No business of the police,’ snapped Mrs Boyle. ‘I can look after myself.’
Major Metcalf said quietly, ‘You’d better watch out.’
Then he, too, left the room.
Molly murmured, ‘Of course, you were the billeting officer. I remember.’
‘Molly, did you know?’ Giles stared at her.
‘You had the big house on the common, didn’t you?’
‘Requisitioned,’ said Mrs Boyle. ‘And completely ruined,’ she added bitterly. ‘Devastated. Iniquitous.’
Then, very softly, Mr Paravicini began to laugh. He threw his head back and laughed without restraint.
‘You must forgive me,’ he gasped. ‘But, indeed, I find all this most amusing. I enjoy myself—yes, I enjoy myself greatly.’
Sergeant Trotter re-entered the room at that moment. He threw a glance of disapproval at Mr Paravicini. ‘I’m glad,’ he
