Authors: Catherine Aird
âQuite so, sir.' In an uncertain world the accounting profession was more certain than most. âExaminations, do you think it was, sir?'
âExaminations?' snorted the lecturer. âIt's not examinations that they're afraid of. It's hard work.'
âCan you tell me when he was last here?'
âThat's not difficult. It'll be here in the register.' He ran his thumb down a list. âHinton, P R, was here for the first two weeks of the summer term and not after that.'
âThank you, sir, you've been most helpful.'
The courtesy appeared to mollify the lecturer. He opened up slightly. âHe was supposed to be doing a dissertation, too, but he never handed it in. His home address? You'll have to ask the Registrar for that too. I have an idea his family were abroad â¦'
Detective-Inspector Sloan intended to concentrate first of all on the Mundill ménage. He began sooner than he expected when he bumped into Inspector Harpe of Traffic Division crossing the police station yard.
âMundill?' Harry Harpe frowned. âI know the name.'
âDemon driver?'
âNo, it wasn't that.' He frowned. âMundillâlet me think a minute.' He slapped his thigh. âGot it!'
âInner guidance?' suggested Sloan, not that Mundill had looked a drinker.
âNot that either.' Harpe knew all the heavy drinkers for miles around. âHe's an architect, isn't he?' Harpe nodded to himself with satisfaction. âThen he designed the multistorey car park last year. He got some sort of architectural award for it. I met him at the official opening. You remember, Sloan, the Mayor's car was the first one in.'
Sloan had a vague memory of bouquets and Mayoral chains and speeches and photographs in the local paper.
Harpe emitted a sound that for him was a chuckle. âBut he couldn't understand the principle it was built on. I heard Mundill trying to explain it to him. The Mayor couldn't see why the cars going up never met the cars going down.'
âTwo spirals,' said Sloan immediately, âone within the other.'
âMundill gave it some fancy name and that didn't help the Mayor one little bit.'
âDouble helix,' supplied Sloan.
âThat was it,' agreed Harpe. âMundill told him there was a well in Italyâat Orvieto, I think he said it wasâthat was built on the same principle. The donkey going down never met the donkey coming up. Clever chap. Not the Mayor,' he added quickly. âMundill.'
âIt's a good car park,' said Sloan.
And it was.
âKeeps the cars off the streets,' agreed Harpe.
Sloan left Harpe while he was still thinking about the apotheosis of Traffic Division's dreamsâtotally empty roads.
When he got to his room Sloan picked up the telephone and made an appointment with Frank Mundill to go over to Marby during the morning to identify the boat on the beach.
He sat in front of the telephone for a long moment after that and then he dialled the County Police Headquarters at Calleford.
âI want a police launch,' he said to the officer at the other end.
âSpeak on.'
âStrictly for observation.'
âIf you want the Drug Squad you've got the wrong number.'
âI don't.'
âThat makes a change,' said the voice equably.
âAt least,' said Sloan, âI don't think I do.'
âMyself, I wouldn't put anything past the drugs racket.'
âNo.' That was something he would have to think about. There was probably no one at greater risk than an addictâunless it was a pusher who double-crossed his supplier. Then revenge was simple and swift.
âThis launch you wantâwhere and when?'
âOff Marby. Round the headland. I shall be sending a constable up on the Cat's Back there to keep watch as well.'
âBelt and galluses,' remarked the voice. âWhen do you want this observation kept?'
âLow tide,' said Sloan without hesitation.
âRight you are. By the way,' asked the voice, âwhat are they to observe?'
âA small fishing trawler called the
Daisy Bell
,' said Sloan, replacing the receiver.
Then, unable to put it off any longer, he knocked on the door of Superintendent Leeyes's office.
âHa, Sloan! Any progress?'
âA little, sir.' Intellectuals were not the only people to be troubled by the vexed relationship between truth and art. âJust a little.'
âKnow who he is yet?'
âNot for certain,' said Sloan. He could have delivered a short disquisition, though, on the phrase âgrowing doubts'.
Superintendent Leeyes waved a hand airily. âFind out what happened first, Sloan, and look for your evidence afterwards.'
That wasn't what they taught recruits at Training School.
âWe haven't got a lot of evidence to consider,' said Sloan.
But it was too subtle a point for the Superintendent.
âYou've got a body,' boomed Leeyes.
âYes, sir.' Dr Dabbe's full post-mortem report had been on Sloan's desk that morning, too. It didn't tell him anything that the pathologist hadn't already told him except that the young man had had a broken ankle in childhood: which might help.
In the end.
âWith a piece of copper on it,' Leeyes reminded him.
âYes, sir.' There were those who would call that an obol for Charon but they were not policemen. Sloan had a search warrant for Alec Manton's farm now. And he'd have to find out what Mr Jensen at the Museum had been up to. Things were obviously moving in the archaeological world. Jensen had been out when he rang the Museum.
âThis ship under the water,' said Leeyes abruptly. âWho does it belong to?'
âStrictly speaking,' said Sloan, âthe East India Company, I suppose.'
âHa!'
âBut â¦'
âNot findings keepings, eh, Sloan?'
âNo, sir.' Not even a bench of magistrates in the Juvenile Court would go along with that piece of childhood lore and faulty law. A roomful of lost property at the police station testified to the opposite too. He cleared his throat, and carried on. âUnder the Merchant Shipping Act of 1894 â¦'
âBeen at the books, have you, Sloan?'
âA wreck is deemed to belong to the owner â¦'
Come back, Robert Clive, all is forgiven.
âAnd if the owner isn't found?' asked Leeyes.
âThe wreck becomes the property of the state in whose waters she lies.'
Full fathom five â¦
âAnd, sir, the goods discovered in a wreck â¦'
âYes?'
âCan be auctioned.'
âWho benefits?' asked Leeyes sharply. âOr does the Crown take?'
âThe finder gets most of the proceeds.' The Superintendent's phrase reminded Sloan of a move on the chessboard.
The Superintendent looked extremely alert. âThat's different.'
âSalvage,' added Sloan for the record, âis something quite separate.'
Leeyes's mind was running along ahead. âYou're going to track this farmer down, aren't you, Sloan?'
âOh yes, sir.' Alec Manton was high on his list of people to be seen.
So was a man called Peter Hinton.
Before that there was still some routine work to be done at the police station. Soon he was telling the reporter from the county newspaper that he couldn't have a photograph of the dead man.
âWe might get an artist's impression done for you,' he said, âbut definitely not a photograph.'
âLike that, is it?' said the reporter, jerking his head.
âIt is,' said Sloan heavily. âBut you can say that we would like to have any information about anyone answering to this description who's been missing for a bit.'
âWill do,' said the reporter laconically. He shut his notebook with a snap. If there was no name there was no story. It was sad but true that human interest needed a name.
âRita, this is Detective-Inspector Sloan speaking. I'd like to talk to Dr Dabbe if he's not too busy.'
âHe isn't doing anyone now, Inspector, if that's what you mean.'
That was what Sloan did mean.
âHang on,' said Rita, âand I'll put you through straightaway.'
If a girl wasn't overawed by death, then neither doctors nor police inspectors were going to carry much weight.
âDabbe here,' said the pathologist down the telephone.
âWe may,' said Sloan circumspectly, ârepeat mayâjust have a possible name for yesterday's body.'
âAh.'
âThere's a man called Peter Hinton who was last seen alive about two months ago at his lodgings in Luston.'
âYou don't,' said the pathologist temperately, âget a great hue and cry from lodgings.'
âIf,' advanced Sloan cautiously, âwe had reason to believe that he might be our chapâyour chap, that isâwhat would be needed in the way of proof?'
âHis dentist,' replied Dr Dabbe promptly, âhis dental records and a forensic odontologist. You'd be half way there then.'
âAnd the other half of the way?'
âA good full-face photograph that could be superimposed on the ones that have been taken here.'
âI'll make a note of that,' said Sloan.
He could hear the pathologist leafing through his notes. âWasn't there a broken ankle in childhood, too, Sloan?'
âSo you said, Doctor.'
âEverything helps,' said Dr Dabbe largely, âand when they all add up, why thenâwell, there you are, aren't you?'
Which was scarcely grammar but which did make sense.
Detective-Constable Crosby reported back to the police station with what he had gleaned about Peter Hinton and the death of Mrs Mundill.
âI checked on her death certificate like you said, sir.'
âYes?' said Sloan. You couldn't be too careful in this game.
âCachexia,' spelt out Crosby carefully.
âAnd?' said Sloan. Cachexia was a condition, not a disease.
âDue to carcinoma of the stomach,' continued Crosby. âIt's signed by Gregory Tebotâhe's the general practitioner out there.'
Crosby made Collerton sound like Outer Mongolia.
Sloan assimilated the information about Peter Hinton too.
âSo,' he said, âthere's just the widower â¦'
âFrank Mundill.'
âAnd a niece â¦'
âElizabeth Busby.'
âAnd there was a boy-friend,' said Sloan.
âPeter Hinton.'
âIt wouldn't do any harm,' said Sloan slowly, âto check on Celia Mundill's will.'
Crosby made an obedient note.
âThough,' said Sloan irascibly, âwhat it's all got to do with the body in the water I really don't know.'
âNo, sir.'
âAnd Crosby â¦'
âSir?'
âWhile you're about it, we'd better just check that Collerton House wasn't where our body fell from. I don't think it's quite high enough. And there are shrubs under nearly all the windows. They wouldn't have healed.'
In time Nature healed all scars but even Nature took her time.
Frank Mundill was ready and waiting at Collerton House when Sloan and Crosby arrived at the appointed time.
âWe've just heard about the body that they've found in the estuary,' he said. âSomeone in one of the shops told my niece this morning.'
Sloan was deliberately vague. âWe don't know yet, sir, if there is any connection with it and the boat that was taken.'
The architect shuddered. âI hope not. I wouldn't like to think of anyone coming to any harm even if they had broken in.'
âThe inquest will be on Friday,' Sloan informed him. âWe may know a little more by then.'
Once over at Marby the architect confirmed that the boat beached beside the lifeboat had come from Collerton House.
âNo doubt about that at all, Inspector,' he said readily. âIt's been in that boathouse ever since I was married and for many a long year before that, I dare say.'
Crosby made a note in the background.
Mundill gave the bow a light tap. âShe's good enough for a few more fishing trips, I should say. She's hardly damaged at all, is she?'
It was true. The boat had dried out quite a lot overnight and in spite of its obvious age looked quite serviceable now.
âI suppose,' said Mundill, âthat I can see about getting it back to Collerton now?'
âNot just yet, sir,' said Sloan. âOur Scientific Laboratory people will have to go over it first.'
Mundill nodded intelligently. âI understand. For clues.'
âFor evidence,' said Sloan sternly.
There was a world of difference between the two.
âThen I can collect it after that?'
âOh,' said Sloan easily, âI dare say they'll drop it back to the boathouse for you.'
âWhen?'
âIs it important?'
âNo, no, Inspector, not at all. I just wondered, that's all. It doesn't matter a bit.'
Elizabeth Busby had hardly slept at all that night. And when she had at last drifted off sleep had not been a refreshment from the cares of the day but an uneasy business of inconclusive dreams.
Waking had been no better.
She came back to consciousness with her mind a blank and then suddenly full recollection came flooding back and with it the now familiar sensation that she was physically shouldering a heavy burden. The strange thing was that this burden seemed not only to extend to an area just above her eyes but to weigh her down from all angles. At least, she thought, Christian in
The Pilgrim's Progress
only had a burden on his backânot everywhere.
Propped beside her bedside lamp was Peter Hinton's slide rule. She had considered this again in the cold light of day. And got no further forward than she had done the evening before. It really was very odd that Peter should have taken a water-colour painting of a beach and left his slide rule behind him.