sort,' that there's just one perfectly possible place where this damn woman might be – and that's on board De Sousa's yacht?'
'How d'you make that out, sir?'
'Well, the woman has not been seen to leave by any of the usual exits, she's togged up in a way that makes it unlikely that she's legging it through the fields or woods, but it is just possible that she met De Sousa by appointment down at the boathouse and that he took her by launch to the yacht, returning to the fete afterwards.'
'And why would he do that, sir?' demanded Hoskins, puzzled.
'I've no idea,' said the inspector, 'and it's very unlikely that he did. But it's a possibility. And if she is on the Esperance, I'll see to it that she won't get off there without being observed.'
'But if her fair hated the sight of him…' Hoskins dropped into the vernacular.
'All we know is that she said she did. Women,' said the inspector sententiously, 'tell a lot of lies. Always remember that, Hoskins.'
'Aah,' said Constable Hoskins appreciatively.
II
Further conversation was brought to an end as the door opened and a tall vague-looking young man entered. He was wearing a neat grey flannel suit, but his shirt collar was crumpled and his tie askew and his hair stood up on end in an unruly fashion.
'Mr Alec Legge?' said the inspector, looking up.
'No,' said the young man, 'I'm Michael Weyman. You asked for me, I understand.'
'Quite true, sir,' said Inspector Bland. 'Won't you take a chair?' He indicated a chair at the opposite side of the table.
'I don't care for sitting,' said Michael Weyman, 'I like to stride about. What are all you police doing here anyway? What's happened?'
Inspector Bland looked at him in surprise.
'Didn't Sir George inform you, sir?' he asked.
'Nobody's 'informed me,' as you put it, of anything. I don't sit in Sir George's pocket all the time. What has happened?'
'You're staying in the house, I understand?'
'Of course I'm staying in the house. What's that got to do with it?'
'Simply that I imagined that all the people staying in the house would by now have been informed of this afternoon's tragedy.'
'Tragedy? What tragedy?'
'The girl who was playing the part of the murder victim has been killed.'
'No!' Michael Weyman seemed exuberantly surprised. 'Do you mean really killed? No fakery-pokery?'
'I don't know what you mean by fakery-pokery. The girl's dead.'
'How was she killed?'
'Strangled with a piece of cord.'
Michael Weyman gave a whistle.
'Exactly as in the scenario? Well, well, that does give one ideas.' He strode over to the window, turned rapidly about, and said, 'So we're all under suspicion, are we? Or was it one of the local boys?'
'We don't see how it could possibly have been one of the local boys, as you put it,' said the inspector.
'No more do I really,' said Michael Weyman. 'Well, Inspector, many of my friends call me crazy, but I'm not that kind of crazy. I don't roam around the countryside strangling under-developed spotty young women.'
'You are down here, I understand, Mr Weyman, designing a tennis pavilion for Sir George?'
'A blameless occupation,' said Michael. 'Criminally speaking, that is. Architecturally, I'm not so sure. The finished product will probably represent a crime against good taste. But that doesn't interest you, Inspector. What does interest you?'
'Well, I should like to know, Mr Weyman, exactly where you were between quarter past four this afternoon and say five o'clock.'
'How do you tape it down to that – medical evidence?'
'Not entirely, sir. A witness saw the girl alive at a quarter past four.'
'What witness – or mayn't I ask?'
'Miss Brewis. Lady Stubbs asked her to take down a tray of creamy cakes with some fruit-ade to the girl.'
'Our Hattie asked her that? I don't believe it for a moment.'
'Why don't you believe it, Mr Weyman?'
'It's not like her. Not the sort of thing she'd think of or bother about. Dear Lady Stubbs's mind revolves entirely round herself.'
'I'm still waiting, Mr Weyman, for your answer to my question?'
'Where I was between four-fifteen and five o'clock? Well, really. Inspector, I can't say off-hand. I was about – if you know what I mean.'
'About where?'
'Oh, here and there. I mingled a bit on the lawn, watched the locals amusing themselves, had a word or two with the fluttery film star. Then, when I got sick of it all, I went along to the tennis court and mused over the design for the Pavilion. I also wondered how soon someone would identify the photograph that was the first clue for the Murder Hunt with a section of tennis net.'
'Did someone identify it?'
'Yes, I believe someone did come along, but I wasn't really noticing by then. I got a new idea about the Pavilion – a way of making the best of two worlds. My own and Sir George's.'
'And after that?'
'After that? Well, I strolled around and came back to the house. I strolled down to the quay and had a crack with old Merdell, then came back. I can't fix any of the times with any accuracy. I was, as I said, in the first place, about! That's all there is to it.'
'Well, Mr Weyman,' said the inspector briskly, 'I expect we can get some confirmation of all this.'
'Merdell can tell you that I talked to him on the quay. But of course that'll be rather later than the time you're interested in. Must have been after five when I got down there. Very unsatisfactory, isn't it, Inspector?'
'We shall be able to narrow it down, I expect, Mr Weyman.'
The inspector's tone was pleasant, but there was a steely ring in it that did not escape the young architect's notice. He sat down on the arm of a chair.
'Seriously,' he said; 'who can have wanted to murder that girl?'
'You've no ideas yourself, Mr Weyman?'
'Well, off-hand, I'd say it was our prolific authoress, the Purple Peril. Have you seen her imperial purple get- up? I suggest that she went a bit off her onion and thought how much better the Murder Hunt would be if there was a real body. How's that?'
'Is that a serious suggestion, Mr Weyman?'
'It's the only probability I can think of.'
'There's one other thing I would like to ask you, Mr Weyman. Did you see Lady Stubbs during the course of the afternoon?'
'Of course I saw her. Who could miss her? Dressed up like a mannequin of Jacques Fath or Christian Dior?'
'When did you see her last?'
'Last? I don't know. Striking an attitude on the lawn about half-past three – or a quarter to four perhaps.'
'And you didn't see her after that?'
