“Only in London.”
“Who would come and stay with you?”
She said as if with an effort: “Monty’s sister might. I don’t know. Who would want to, after this?” She looked drearily out of the window, and all the life had been drained out of her, partly by the succession of shocks—and partly by what had been said on the telephone, Rollison imagined. “I don’t even know if I can stay here.” She began to shiver, and that didn’t surprise Rollison. “Why don’t you find Alan? Everything will be all right if you’d only find Alan.”
“We’re doing everything we can,” Rollison said, and was all too aware of the futility of the words.
“Well,” Gillian retorted, “it isn’t much.”
Keen came across, took up the telephone, and called his headquarters; once routine was needed, he was a man again. He was never likely to be good enough to take responsibility, Rollison thought. Keen didn’t greatly matter, except that he would probably be fairly easy to handle.
He put the receiver down.
“They’ll be out within forty minutes,” he said, “and a patrol car will be here before then. You’re asked to stay here, Mr. Rollison. And you. Miss.” He looked dubiously at Gillian.
“Where else would I go?” asked Gillian, in that new, helpless way.
“We’ll stay close by,” promised Rollison. “Miss Selby ought to get some air, sergeant. We’ll stroll across to the farm, if that’s all right with you.”
Keen obviously wished they wouldn’t, but decided not to stop them. Perhaps he thought it better to let them go, and have them followed. Gillian was prepared to do whatever Rollison wanted. They went out the back way. It was beautiful in the garden, with the meadows and the woods beyond, and much warmer than it had been during the morning. The sky was clear, and the birds were busy and noisy, and insects were humming and hovering. Half way down the garden was a fork, dug into the freshly turned earth. Rollison saw Gillian’s eyes flood with tears.
“Alan’s?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Did he often leave a fork in the ground overnight?”
“Yes, I was always telling him about it.”
“Very fond of him, Gillian ?”
“He’s been mother and father and brother to me,” she said, heavily. “He’s fifteen years older than I am, you see. Oh, God, I can’t stand it if anything happens to him !”
It was useless to say: “It won’t,” for more empty comfort now would make real comfort impossible later; and it might be desperately needed.
They went towards the end of the garden and to a small gate which opened onto a field; beyond was the farm itself. It looked as if it had been standing there for four hundred years, and would stay for another four hundred. It was low and snug and picturesque, with its mullioned windows, its gables, its lichen-covered tiles and its red brick with the great oak beams in it. Here was a little of England’s past, with the smoke of the present curling lazily out of a squat round chimney.
“Gillian,” Rollison asked, “who was on the telephone?”
“A friend.”
“You needn’t lie to me.” She didn’t look at him. “I’m not lying to you.”
“It wasn’t a friend. It was another threat to Alan, wasn’t it?”
“It was a friend.”
“If you don’t tell me everything, how can I help?”
“How can you help?” she echoed, and turned to glare at him, her eyes flashing, colour storming back in her cheeks, as if anger was the stimulant that she needed. “You’ve let two men be murdered, you haven’t done a thing to find Alan, you haven’t done anything at all. Why, Tex Brandt did twice as much as you in half the time !”
“Did he telephone?”
“No!”
“Who was it, Gillian?”
“It was a friend from the village, she wanted me to go and sit in for her tonight, I told her I couldn’t.” The he, if it was a he, came out very pat: but Rollison felt sure that it was untrue. “Now don’t keep pestering me, you might just as well go home.”
“Soon,” he said. “I want to see Tex, too. Who telephoned you, and what did he say?”
“I’ve told you, it’s no use pestering me,” Gillian cried. “I’m not going to tell you another thing !”
She turned and half ran back to the house. Detective Sergeant Keen stood by the window, giving Rollison the impression that he was glad she was on the way back, and probably maliciously pleased that Rollison had obviously not got far with the girl. Rollison watched her disappear into the kitchen, and then he walked on, briskly. The girl was worked up to the highest possible pitch of tension and hardly responsible for what she said; but he wasn’t any more pleased with himself than she was. It was not that he had done so little, for he had not been here more than three and a half hours; it was because he could not be sure that he had done any of the right things. He had allowed Charlie to stay here unguarded, and so was indirectly responsible for the man’s death; that was the most unpleasant thought. True, Charlie hadn’t been one of the most lovable of men, but he did not necessarily deserve to die.
He might have been very informative, too.
