‘Well, the senior members of the company, naturally. They all have keys to the safe over there by the window.’
‘Really, Colonel, really? So Sir Peregrine or anybody else with a key could come in and check on the votes? It’s like the cabinet checking on the ballot boxes on election day before the polls have closed.’
‘I object, Sergeant!’ Anthony Buckeridge was getting cross now. Inspector Devereux thought he might be on the verge of losing his temper. ‘The procedures here are all governed by ancient statute. Your assumptions are totally unwarranted and potentially slanderous.’
Ancient statute, Devereux said to himself, that’s good. That wretched codicil. About as ancient as nineteen hundred and eight, if the man from Cambridge was to be believed.
‘Another question for you, Colonel, if I may.’ Horrocks was looking like a boxer who has had quite enough for one day. ‘Did the voting slips mention the place they were going to, if you follow me. Would they have said, Thomas Dixon, Jesus Hospital, Marlow, that sort of thing? Or would the location be omitted?’
‘I object, Sergeant.’
‘It’s Inspector, actually.’ Devereux smiled beatifically at the solicitor. ‘Let’s get our facts right, shall we? I was promoted two years ago.’
‘You are imputing motive to my clients.’
‘What motive am I meant to be implying?’
‘You are implying that my clients might be forging votes if there was no specified location on the ballot paper.’
‘What a suspicious mind you have, Mr Buckeridge! I hadn’t thought of that before. Thank you for drawing it to my attention. I’ve nearly finished, Colonel, just a couple of small points to clear up. What was the total number of those entitled to vote, the size of your electorate, if you like.’
‘Just over seven hundred and fifty,’ he said, ‘seven hundred and sixty-three, including the outstations like the almshouses and the school and so on. The location is specified at the top right-hand corner of the ballot paper.’
‘And do you know how many have voted up until today? There must be some sort of a tally, I presume.’
‘I object.’ Buckeridge had returned to the ring. ‘The voting figures are a private matter for the Silkworkers Company. You do not have to answer that, Colonel.’
‘I’m afraid he does, Mr Buckeridge. Let me repeat the question with another one. Do you know how many have voted up until today? And have the votes come in from the Jesus Hospital in Marlow and Allison’s School in Norfolk?’
‘You do not need to answer that, Colonel. That is private information for the company,’ Buckeridge was looking pleased with himself now.
‘You could probably argue that it should be classified information in normal times, gentlemen.’ Inspector Devereux wasn’t about to lose his temper but he was angry. ‘But these are not normal times. One murder would be bad enough. We are dealing not with one or even two but with three murders, one in this very building, one at the Jesus Hospital and one at Allison’s School in Norfolk. For the last time. How many votes have been cast up till today? And have the votes come in from the Jesus Hospital in Marlow and Allison’s School in Norfolk?’
‘I object.’ Buckeridge was off again. Devereux cut him off.
‘I wouldn’t pursue your objection any further if I were you, Mr Buckeridge. Any further refusal to answer questions, or advice to the same effect, and I shall arrest you both right now for obstructing the police in the course of their duty. It’s your choice. You can spend the rest of the day at liberty. Or you can spend it in a police cell. Our formalities can sometimes take a very long time to complete. In cases like this I have known them spread out into the following day or even the day after that. It’s entirely up to you.’
There was a pause. Eventually the colonel cracked. ‘Six hundred and eighty votes have been received so far. No votes have been received from Marlow or Fakenham.’
‘Thank you, Colonel, thank you very much indeed.’
PART THREE
11
Inspector Grime pounded the table with his fist when Lady Lucy and Powerscourt told him the news. ‘By God!’ he said. ‘You’ve managed to find out what a police Inspector, a headmaster and a bloody Bishop couldn’t manage, you’ve got us a description. Now we can get going!’
He shouted for his sergeant and strode over to a map of Norfolk on his wall. ‘Now then, Sergeant Morris,’ he began. ‘First of all I want a house-to-house search of Fakenham and the surrounding villages. Does anybody remember seeing a man, middle thirties, average height with a great black beard on the days before the murder or on the day itself? Suspect may have had foreign accent but we can’t be sure. Blighter must have got here the day before. Blighter must have stayed somewhere. All hotels, boarding houses, you know the drill. Blighter must have got here somehow. God knows where he came from, we’ll just have to try all stations. Cromer, Holt, Swaffham, King’s Lynn, Norwich, I want signs put up in all those places asking anybody who remembers seeing our bearded friend on the day of the murder or, more likely, the day before to report to their local police station. I’ll send a wire to all those stations directly after this meeting.’ Inspector Grime stopped. ‘Is that clear? Any questions?’
‘Only this,’ said his sergeant. ‘We know he came here to kill the bursar. But he must have gone away too. Should we ask people who were on the trains if they saw him leaving too? Same journey, only both ways? Travelling on a return ticket, if you like?’
‘You’d better include that,’ said the Inspector grumpily, reluctant to admit he might have forgotten something important. ‘Please amend the instructions accordingly.’
The sergeant departed to organize the manhunt. Only the police had the manpower to undertake such a search, Powerscourt said to himself. But he did wonder if they hadn’t missed the obvious point. The murderer might have been sporting a large black beard on the fatal day. How long had it taken him to grow it? In other words, how long before the event had he known that he was going to come to the school and kill the bursar? And, more important still, did the murderer still have the beard? Or had he shaved it off? He mentioned his reservations to Lady Lucy as they walked back to the hotel. He didn’t say anything to Inspector Grime. He didn’t want to spoil his enthusiasm. As he took a cup of tea, another thought struck him. If you were the murderer, maybe you would suppose the police’s first assumption would be that the killer would shave the beard off. But suppose the murderer was playing double bluff? Suppose he was still wandering around with a great black beard, reckoning that the police were now looking for a cleanshaven man. Maybe the beard would be his best form of disguise after all.
Johnny Fitzgerald had been approaching the old men of the Jesus Hospital one at a time. He had become a familiar figure in the almshouse, popping his head round a door one moment, inviting an elderly resident for coffee or lunch at his hotel the next. He had realized by now that you could discount the first ten, maybe the first fifteen minutes of any conversation with a silkman resident at the Jesus Hospital. Once he had uttered the familiar words how are you, the man would be off. It reminded Johnny of cavalry officers he had known in his army days who always spent the first part of any conversation talking about their horses. So he knew by now that Nathaniel Jones, Number Five, known as Jones the Steam from his days as an engine driver, was troubled with the gout, not that he drank a lot, only four or five pints a night and a couple of whisky chasers, and that he had trouble sleeping. There followed a list of all possible remedies from counting sheep to listing the names of all your classmates in your last year at school. Christy Butler, Number Thirteen, had trouble with his back. Sitting down for meals, he told Johnny, had become very difficult. Maybe he would have to eat standing up. But he couldn’t go to sleep standing up, could he? That Dr Ragg, he was no more use than a teetotaller in a saloon bar, he never gave you proper medicine. William Taylor, Number Sixteen, usually referred to as Pretty Billy, a nickname that had followed him throughout his life, true in his youth, ironic in old age, said he just felt ill most of the time. He ached. He sweated. He limped. He
