visit?’
‘I do.’
‘The strange thing is that nobody has come forward with a description of the fake postman. Somebody must have seen him. If you’re looking for somebody, it helps if you know something of what he looked like. Was he short, was he tall, was he clean shaven, was he bald, did he have a crutch and a parrot on his shoulder, that sort of thing.’
David Lewis gazed helplessly into Lady Lucy’s eyes. ‘Some of us have felt badly about this for some time, Mrs Hamilton. It’s just that Inspector Grime rubbed so many of the boys up the wrong way. They decided not to cooperate.’
‘Of course,’ said Lady Lucy, unwilling to be drawn on the matter of the Inspector, ‘but what a way to begin your work with us, David. The information would be so very valuable. And inside our little band of investigators you would get the credit.’
This was it, David Lewis thought to himself, he was becoming part of a secret society like the Red-Headed League in the Sherlock Holmes stories. ‘Well, I was one of three or four people who got a good look at the man on the day of the murder,’ he began. ‘He looked about thirty to thirty-five, just under six feet tall, I would say, with an enormous black beard.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Just one tiny thing. He bumped into me quite heavily and said, “I’m so sorry.” The thing is, Mrs Hamilton, I have a bit of a reputation for being a mimic which means I always listen very carefully to how people sound when they talk. This chap didn’t come from round Norfolk way. I don’t think he was English at all. And he wasn’t American either. I lived in Washington for a while when my papa was at the embassy there and I can tell a Southern drawl from the sound of New York.’
‘Fascinating,’ said Lady Lucy. ‘That’s really useful, David. What a way to join the team! Francis will be so pleased when I tell him.’
‘Would it have been easier if he had been English, Mrs Hamilton? Easier for the detecting team, I mean?’
‘I’m not quite sure I follow you.’
‘Well, if he had been English, he would be here in England, wouldn’t he? But think of all the other places he could have come from. Australia? New Zealand? South Africa? What happens if he’s going home? Or if he’s already gone home? That would make our lives very difficult.’
Lady Lucy thought that young David Lewis might have a promising career in the detection business.
‘Just think of them as fresh fields to conquer, David. Fresh fields to conquer. Now then,’ she said, smiling at the boy, ‘we need to make a plan. We need to secure our communications. I think it would be best if we kept our meetings absolutely secret. You mustn’t tell anybody, not even your best friend in school.’
‘Of course, Mrs Hamilton. If I told anybody it wouldn’t be a secret.’
‘Quite right. I think we should meet here every other day. If we made it every day then somebody might notice. And there is one thing I would like you to do before our next meeting.’
‘What’s that, Mrs Hamilton?’
‘I want you to find out everything you can about the man who was killed, Roderick Gill the bursar. I know he didn’t teach you or anything like that, but there’s usually some gossip or scrap of information that might be useful.’
As the lovestruck David Lewis returned to school, Lady Lucy wondered if she could be prosecuted for corrupting the young.
Inspector Miles Devereux was back in the Silkworkers Hall. This time there were no bodies by the water, only a hard-working cleaning lady and a pervasive smell of floor polish. He had come to meet the Silkworkers Secretary. He would be the man, in Devereux’s judgement, most likely to know about the voting patterns and the voting timetable of the Silkworkers Company. Fletcher had informed him of his sulphurous interview with Sir Peregrine and the solitary teacup. Devereux wondered if it would be morning coffee for one on this occasion.
The Secretary, Colonel James Horrocks, a retired military man with an enormous moustache and a faint hint of the parade ground still lingering about his person, was not alone. ‘Buckeridge, Inspector, Antony Buckeridge of Buckeridge Johnston and Forsyte, Lincoln’s Inn Fields, solicitors.’ He pronounced the word solicitors very solemnly indeed. ‘Here to keep an eye on things, don’t you know!’
Miles Devereux shook hands with his opponent pleasantly enough, like a man before a duel. He didn’t think there was much the solicitor could do to prevent him finding out what he wanted to know. Buckeridge was in his forties, tall and slim, and he interrupted the proceedings from time to time by sneezing loudly after a pinch of snuff.
‘Colonel Horrocks,’ Devereux began, ‘we would like to know more details of the forthcoming ballot among the members of the Silkworkers Company.’
Horrocks began tapping on the table with his pen. He looked over at his solicitor.
‘I see,’ said Buckeridge. ‘I fail to understand how the internal procedures of my client’s company can be of interest to the police.’
Miles Devereux had seen this tactic before. You could use an interview like this one to discover how much the police knew and where they had obtained the information.
‘It is,’ he said with a wintry smile, ‘for us to decide what is and what is not relevant to our inquiry. I repeat, Colonel Horrocks, we would like to know more details about the forthcoming ballot of members of the Silkworkers Company.’
‘And it is for his legal advisers, Sergeant, to advise on when it is or is not necessary to answer questions. And I am advising him that he need not reply to your request.’
The one thing you must never do in these situations, Miles Devereux said to himself, is to lose your temper. Much better to make the other man lose his. ‘Colonel Horrocks, could I remind you of two things? The first is that we are dealing with a murder inquiry here. And the second is that there is an offence known as obstructing the course of justice. Police officers like myself are perfectly entitled to arrest people who are actively hindering the police in the course of their inquiries. Magistrates do not look kindly on those who hinder the work of officers of the law, particularly in murder cases. I say again, we would like to know more details of the forthcoming ballot among members of the Silkworkers Company.’
There was a pause. Buckeridge shrugged his shoulders and helped himself to some more snuff. Devereux wondered if they had a fallback plan if the initial objections failed to work.
‘There is to be such a ballot,’ Horrocks said finally.
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Inspector Devereux. ‘Thank you for cooperating. Now perhaps you could tell us when the ballot is to take place or the date when the relevant papers have to be lodged with the company.’ Devereux didn’t know if the election was going to take place on a single day, or whether the papers were sent out beforehand to all potential electors with a date by which they must be returned.
‘The closing date has not yet been finalized,’ Horrocks said after another long pause.
‘But the voting papers have been sent out?’
‘They have.’
‘But with no fixed date for the return?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘What does not exactly mean?’
Horrocks looked at Buckeridge once more. The solicitor shrugged. Devereux doubted if he had decided to keep quiet for long.
‘The papers had to be returned by the end of February or possibly a little later. That is the date not yet fixed in stone.’
‘Does that mean that the vote could be closed if the organizers decided it had gone the way they wanted? Even if all the votes weren’t in?’
‘Come, come, Sergeant,’ Buckeridge was back, snorting and sneezing, ‘that’s a question of motive or intention, not a matter of fact. I advise you not to answer it, Colonel, there is no need.’
‘And where are the votes kept? The ones that have been sent in?’
‘They’re kept here in this office,’ said Horrocks.
‘And who has access to the papers, the votes?’
