Читать книгу Design For Murder: Based on ‘Paul Temple and the Gregory Affair’ - Francis Durbridge, Francis Durbridge - Страница 8

Wyatt said quietly:

‘Doctor Fraser!’

She turned sharply.

‘Anything wrong? You seem very surprised.’

‘That’s putting it mildly,’ he assured her.

‘Don’t I look like a doctor?’

‘I wouldn’t like to say. Anyhow, that’s not what I was thinking.’

‘What were you thinking, Mr Wyatt?’ There was a note of challenge in the slightly husky voice. Actually, Wyatt was wondering if she was the driver and this was the car which had forced them over the bridge.

‘Why did you want to see me?’

She leaned back in her seat and eyed him shrewdly

‘Well, now,’ she said, ‘that’s quite a story. Much too long to tell at the moment. Let’s pick up your wife and go back to Shorecombe, then we could all have a drink together at the pub after you’ve changed into some dry clothes.’

‘Yes, that’s a good idea,’ agreed Wyatt at once.

‘Will you need any help?’

‘No, no, Sally will be able to walk all right,’ said Wyatt, descending the sharp incline beside the bridge. He found Sally had already walked somewhat painfully up to the parapet, and had been listening to odd snatches of the conversation.

‘It’s all right,’ he whispered encouragingly. ‘She’ll take us back to Shorecombe.’

He gave Sally his arm, and they moved slowly towards the car. Doctor Fraser had already opened the back door and they climbed in rather painfully.

‘This is my wife – Doctor Fraser,’ Wyatt introduced them. Sally gave a tiny exclamation, but Wyatt squeezed her hand quickly, and she contrived to turn it into a polite greeting.

‘We are very grateful to you for giving us a lift,’ said Sally. ‘We seem to have been waiting hours, and there hasn’t been a soul passing by.’

Doctor Fraser expertly engaged the gears and they moved smoothly towards Shorecombe.

After they had proceeded in silence for almost a mile, the doctor said suddenly:

‘I know it’s no business of mine, but would you say that affair of yours was an accident?’

‘Certainly not,’ replied Wyatt promptly. ‘We were quite deliberately forced off the road.’

Doctor Fraser nodded thoughtfully.

‘Now who,’ she mused, ‘would want to do a thing like that?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine, Doctor,’ replied Wyatt. ‘Are you surprised to hear of all this?’

A tiny smile played around the shapely mouth.

‘I don’t surprise very easily, Mr Wyatt,’ she assured him. She did not offer to pursue the matter, but switched the conversation to the subject of avoiding chills.

‘I’ve got some tablets in my case, Mrs Wyatt. You must take a couple and get your husband to do the same when you go to bed. And a glass of hot whisky might help.’

‘Are you staying at Shorecombe?’ asked Sally.

‘No, I booked a room at the North Royal Hotel in Teignmouth – it’s only twenty minutes away by road. You can phone me there if you get any after-effects of this little adventure.’

When they arrived at the Silver Fleet, Doctor Fraser insisted on helping to put Sally to bed and examining her bruises, which she pronounced to be superficial and in no way serious. Then she went downstairs while Wyatt changed into a more presentable suit. He found her waiting for him in the back parlour.

‘You look a different man now,’ she greeted him.

‘I feel like two different men. I was glad to get out of that suit. I hope you’ll excuse my wife, Doctor. I think it will do her good to stay in bed now she’s there.’

‘Of course. Playing leap-frog over bridges isn’t exactly good for the constitution.’

Wyatt went over and switched on the small electric fire and at that moment Fred Johnson appeared with a tray.

‘I’ve taken the liberty of ordering you a whisky and soda,’ said Doctor Fraser. ‘I hope that’s OK.’

‘It’s perfect!’

Fred set the glasses down on a small table.

‘Two whiskies and sodas – is that right?’ he asked.

‘Just what the doctor ordered,’ replied Wyatt without realizing the significance of the phrase until he caught a twinkle in his companion’s eye. ‘Oh, I beg your pardon,’ he smiled, handing Fred a ten shilling note.

After Fred had gone they chose the most comfortable chairs and sat facing each other on either side of the fire. Wyatt swallowed half his whisky at a gulp, and felt better almost immediately.

‘Well, Doctor Fraser,’ he said presently. ‘I think you mentioned that you wanted to see me.’

She nodded.

‘When I told you my name, Mr Wyatt, I got the impression that it came as a surprise to you – as if you’d heard it in some connection before. Had you?’

Wyatt refused to be drawn.

‘You still haven’t answered my question,’ he reminded her. ‘Why did you want to see me?’

She gripped the arms of her chair, and her attitude became noticeably more rigid.

‘Because I’m puzzled about something, Mr Wyatt. I’m worried and bewildered, and I need your help.’

‘Better tell me the whole story,’ he suggested.

She took a sip of her whisky and set down the glass. He offered her a cigarette and lit it for her. She leaned back in the chair and blew out a stream of smoke.

‘About six weeks ago I had a phone call from a girl who called herself Barbara Willis, who said she had been recommended to me by a certain Doctor Grayson. I’d never heard of him, but I made an appointment to see her at my flat in Wimpole Street. She was rather a highly strung, sensitive type of girl, but as far as I could make out from a routine examination, there didn’t seem to be much wrong with her.’

‘What did she say was wrong?’ asked Wyatt.

‘Miss Willis told me she was suffering from severe headaches and fits of depression. I had a suspicion that she had been drinking rather heavily, and when I questioned her as to her occupation – she didn’t seem to have any – and general background, I became sure of it. In fact, I told her that before I could start to treat her, she must cut down on liquor and go on the wagon for at least a month. I put this to her in quite a friendly way, but her reaction to the suggestion quite startled me.’

‘She felt insulted, perhaps,’ Wyatt put in.

‘She must have done. She simply got up, looked me straight in the eye, and said: “I get that sort of advice from my fiancé Maurice Knight, and it doesn’t cost me three guineas.” With that, she slapped down my fee on the desk and marched right out.’

She flicked the ash from her cigarette into the fireplace, and went on:

‘Of course, I’m pretty used to awkward patients – sick folk are inclined to be fractious at times, but that little incident rattled me a bit. But that was nothing to what came later.’

‘Well?’ said Wyatt.

‘It must have been three weeks after that interview that I read in the newspapers about the mysterious disappearance of Barbara Willis. There was a picture of her, with her fiancé, Maurice Knight. I could hardly believe my eyes.’

‘You mean she’d changed?’

‘Beyond all recognition. The girl I interviewed at my flat was not the girl in the newspaper … not the real Barbara Willis. I’m quite positive about that.’

‘Newspaper photos can be misleading at times,’ he reminded her.

‘I went out and got all the papers I could buy. There were pictures in four others – just the same. There can’t be any doubt about it, Mr Wyatt.’

Wyatt rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

‘But why on earth should anyone impersonate Barbara Willis and make an appointment with you?’ he murmured.

‘I don’t know, Mr Wyatt. But that isn’t all. About ten days ago I received an urgent telephone message, asking me to go to an address in St John’s Wood. When I got there I found a girl who seemed to be on the verge of a complete nervous breakdown. She told me that her name was Mildred Gillow.’

Wyatt whistled softly.

‘I gave her a sedative,’ continued Doctor Fraser, ‘and promised to look in again and see what I could do. Yet, when I went back there the next morning the house was completely deserted. There wasn’t a sign of life anywhere! I’ve never seen that girl again, from that day to this. But I saw the photo of Mildred Gillow which appeared after the body was found in your garage.’

‘And how did that compare with the original?’

‘It was not the girl I saw at St John’s Wood, Mr Wyatt,’ she asserted with quiet emphasis. ‘I am absolutely sure of that.’

Wyatt took a couple of sips of whisky without speaking, then asked:

‘Did you see anyone else at the house the first time you went there?’

‘Only the girl – she answered the door herself.’

‘Didn’t that strike you as rather odd?’

‘Well no, I don’t think so. It didn’t occur to me at the time, anyway.’

Wyatt stubbed out his cigarette and leaned back in his chair.

‘You certainly seem to have been running into a chain of amazing coincidences, Doctor,’ he mused, trying hard to fathom what might lie behind the woman’s story. ‘Though I can’t quite see at the moment how I can be of any help …’

‘Wait,’ said Doctor Fraser. ‘There’s more to come. Yesterday morning a girl came to see me – she said that her name was Lauren Beaumont. Does that name ring a bell?’

Wyatt shook his head.

‘Anyhow,’ Doctor Fraser resumed, ‘this girl said she was worried about being a little overweight, and that she had been recommended by a friend of mine, Doctor Clayburn.’

‘Is there a Doctor Clayburn?’

‘Oh, yes – he really is a friend of mine. I happened to bump into him at the clinic that same afternoon, and thanked him for sending Miss Beaumont along. To my amazement he didn’t seem to know what I was talking about. Said he’d never set eyes on the girl.’

‘I should have thought he would have remembered an unusual name like that. Did you describe her to him?’

‘Oh, yes, I told him what I’d prescribed for her – everything. But he insisted that he knew nothing about it.’

‘It’s certainly very odd,’ said Wyatt in a guarded tone.

‘I don’t know who that girl was, or the real reason why she came to see me, Mr Wyatt. But I’ve a premonition – an awful feeling – that the girl was an impostor, and that what happened to the genuine Barbara Willis and Mildred Gillow will sooner or later happen to Lauren Beaumont.’

‘What was she like – your visitor, I mean?’

‘Rather a well-built brunette. Nicely spoken and quite well dressed.’

‘H’m … and did you go to the police?’

‘No, I was bewildered and rather confused about things, but I didn’t want to go to the police. Then, this morning, I switched on the early news bulletin and heard about your discovery in your garage last night. I telephoned your home and your man said you’d just left. I decided I must see you at all costs, so I got in my car and came straight away … got here soon after tea, and traced you to the Silver Fleet. They told me you were out, so I fixed somewhere in Teignmouth, then went scouting around … and that’s how I found you at the bridge.’

‘Well, you certainly turned up at an opportune moment,’ he commented. ‘Now, about Barbara Willis – had you heard of her before that girl who impersonated her telephoned you?’

She shook her head.

‘And Maurice Knight – her fiancé, did you know him?’

‘Never heard of him until the girl mentioned the name. The same goes for Mildred Gillow. I didn’t know there was such a person until I had that call asking me to go to St John’s Wood.’

Wyatt finished his drink, set down his glass, yawned heartily and then apologized.

‘I’m afraid I haven’t had much sleep just lately,’ he said. ‘What with last night’s affair, then driving up here, then the accident—’

‘Mr Wyatt,’ she interrupted, ‘don’t you believe my story?’

‘Would you like another drink, Doctor?’

‘No, thanks. What I do want is to get to the bottom of this affair. I’ve an idea there are several things I should be told, Mr Wyatt. Don’t hold out on me. I’m used to giving out bad news, and I guess I can take it myself.’

Wyatt offered her another cigarette, but she waved it aside.

‘Come on now, Mr Wyatt – I want the truth.’

Wyatt shrugged.

‘I don’t know if Scotland Yard would approve of my telling you this, but I’ll take a chance. You asked me some time back if I’d heard your name before this evening. As a matter of fact, I had. It was found on a prescription that belonged to the real Barbara Willis. It was also established that you supplied the real Mildred Gillow with a prescription for a bottle of medicine. It was made up for her by a chemist who—’

‘I don’t believe it!’ interrupted Doctor Fraser, her eyes ablaze. ‘How could I prescribe for them? I never set eyes on either of those girls.’

Wyatt shrugged again.

‘That’s your story, Doctor; now I’m telling you the one the police are working on.’

‘But what does it mean, Mr Wyatt?’ she demanded in some apprehension.

‘I don’t know,’ he admitted with a thoughtful frown. ‘The whole affair seems to be getting rather involved. But I don’t think there’s anything for you to worry about. If I were you I should go back to Town and just carry on normally. I shall be up there myself very soon, and I’ll contact you if there’s anything important.’

She stared broodingly into the fire for a few moments, then rose and picked up her handbag.

‘All right, I’ll do that,’ she agreed. ‘But what if the police—?’

‘If it becomes necessary I’ll tell your story to the police,’ he assured her.

‘You’re very kind,’ she said in a relieved tone. ‘Is there anything else I can do for Mrs Wyatt?’

‘Sally will be OK when she’s had a night’s rest,’ he replied. ‘She’s pretty tough really, you know – she used to be in the police force!’

Doctor Fraser smiled appreciatively, and moved over to the door.

‘I shall leave first thing in the morning – here is my London address and phone number.’

She opened her bag and gave him a small card, which he slipped into his waistcoat pocket.

As he held the door for her, Wyatt asked quite casually:

‘By the way, do you happen to know a young man called Hugo Linder?’

She hesitated, as if trying to recall the name.

‘No,’ she said eventually.

‘You’ve never heard of him?’ insisted Wyatt, noticing her hesitation.

‘I’m afraid I haven’t. Of course, I get a lot of patients, and I don’t remember all their names …’

‘Yes, he might have been a patient,’ said Wyatt. ‘He looks a nervy type.’ He went on to give her a brief description of Linder, but again she shook her head.

‘Have you any particular reason for asking, Mr Wyatt?’

‘No,’ he replied blandly. ‘I just wondered – that’s all.’ He walked out with her to her car, and as he was returning, Fred Johnson beckoned to him.

‘You’re wanted on the telephone, sir. It’s in the sitting-room behind the bar. There’s nobody there.’

‘Thanks, Fred,’ said Wyatt, following his host’s directing finger.

If Wyatt was a little surprised to hear the voice of Hugo Linder at the other end, he gave no sign of it.

‘Mr Wyatt, I’ve just heard about your accident,’ he began in an anxious voice. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Perfectly all right, thanks,’ replied Wyatt somewhat mechanically, for his mind was busy with a dozen conjectures. Had Linder telephoned to find out if there had been any fatalities? Had he, in fact, been the driver of the overtaking car?

‘What about Mrs Wyatt?’ went on Linder.

‘She’s a bit shaken up, but I think she will be all right in the morning.’ Wyatt paused a moment, then added as casually as possible: ‘How did you find out about the accident?’

‘I drove over the bridge about ten minutes ago,’ was the immediate reply. ‘I saw the breach in the parapet, so I stopped to investigate. It gave me quite a turn when I recognized your car.’

‘How did you recognize it?’

‘It was standing in front of the Silver Fleet when I came to see you. I knew it again at once. My word, you must have had a narrow squeak! It’s quite a relief to hear that neither of you was badly hurt.’

‘Thank you, Mr Linder,’ replied Wyatt politely. ‘It was very nice of you to telephone.’

‘Not at all. By the way, did you see Mr Tyson?’

‘No, we were actually on our way there when the accident happened.’

‘How very unfortunate. I had told him to expect you.’

‘Never mind. We’ll probably pop over in the morning if I can get a car. I should imagine that ought not to be too difficult.’

‘I’d lend you mine, but I’m going back to Town tomorrow.’

‘That’s rather sudden, isn’t it?’ said Wyatt, still trying to suppress any note of curiosity in his voice.

‘Yes, there’s something rather important come up, and I have to attend to it right away. If you want to get hold of me in Town, my number’s in the book.’

Just as Linder was about to ring off, Wyatt said suddenly:

‘I almost forgot to tell you, Mr Linder … I saw a friend of yours tonight. She sends her kind regards.’

‘Oh? Who was it?’

‘Doctor Fraser,’ replied Wyatt without a moment’s hesitation, wishing he were face to face with Linder so as to be able to note his true reaction.

‘Oh … Doctor Fraser,’ said the voice on the wire, in a tone which defied analysis. ‘How is she?’

‘She’s fine.’

‘Is she staying down here?’ Wyatt imagined he detected a note of caution in the inquiry.

‘Just for the night. Apparently, some special business brought her down here.’

‘I see. Well, goodbye, Mr Wyatt. I expect we shall meet in Town.’

‘I expect so, Mr Linder. Goodbye.’

Wyatt thoughtfully replaced the receiver and slowly made his way back to the bar, where he drank a final whisky by way of a nightcap.

Next morning he was very glad to find Sally showing no after-effects of the accident. He was also relieved to find that his leg was none the worse. It was a fine sunny morning, and they sat by the window where they had a glimpse of the sea between two ancient cottages. Sally ate an enormous breakfast, and seemed quite anxious to discuss the events of the previous day. Wyatt told her that he had been making some inquiries about Barbara Willis, but that no one had seen her if she had stayed in Shorecombe prior to the tragedy. He had called at the local police station to report the accident, and had made further inquiries there about the elusive Miss Willis, but without success.

‘And what did you make of Doctor Fraser when you had me safely out of the way?’ smiled Sally.

‘She seemed quite an affable sort of person,’ said Wyatt in a non-committal tone. ‘What did you make of her?’

‘I rather liked her. Did she have much to say?’

‘Yes, quite a lot.’

He gave her a brief outline of Doctor Fraser’s experience.

‘Do you believe all that?’ asked Sally when he had finished.

‘Do you?’ he countered. ‘You’re the woman; you’re supposed to work by intuition.’

She shook her head thoughtfully.

‘I don’t know,’ she had to confess. ‘She doesn’t look the type who would make up an involved story like that.’

‘On the other hand,’ he reminded her, ‘we have to remember that she is a doctor; a woman with a brain well above the average. I shouldn’t think concocting a story like that would be beyond her powers.’

‘Is there no way of checking it?’

‘Not till we get back to Town. I think it can wait till then.’

Sally left the table and stood by the window, watching a cart move slowly along the narrow street outside.

‘What are we going to do today?’ she inquired eagerly.

Wyatt slowly tipped all the remaining sugar into his last cup of coffee, then said:

‘I thought we’d go out and see Tyson this morning, then probably catch the 3.45 back to London.’

‘Must we go to London?’ asked Sally rather wistfully.

‘I’m afraid so,’ said Wyatt. ‘I’ve got to see Sir James as soon as possible.’ He lit a cigarette and sipped his coffee. When the door opened to admit a handsome young man, they both had the idea that he was another guest at the inn. He was well dressed; his hair was smoothly plastered and he had a neat toothbrush moustache which distracted attention from his slightly receding chin.

‘I must apologize for interrupting you,’ he began, ‘but if you could spare me a few minutes …’

Sally turned and eyed the intruder curiously, while Wyatt rose.

‘It’s Mr Maurice Knight, isn’t it?’ he inquired.

‘Why yes, how did you—’

‘Your picture’s been in the papers rather a lot,’ Wyatt reminded him.

‘Oh, yes, I was forgetting that wretched business for the moment – at least, that aspect of it.’

He smiled at Sally.

‘I am sorry to barge in like this, Mrs Wyatt, but I’m on my way back to Town, and I did rather want to see Mr Wyatt for a few minutes, if he can spare the time.’

‘I’ll ring for some fresh coffee,’ said Sally. ‘I’m sure we could drink another cup – if you’ll join us.’

Wyatt pulled up a chair for their guest, and when the landlord had taken their order, he looked a trifle apprehensive.

‘I suppose it’s all right to talk here,’ he began in a low voice.

‘As good as anywhere, I should imagine,’ replied Wyatt. ‘I don’t think we can possibly be overheard.’

Maurice Knight sat on the edge of his chair and leaned forward; he spoke in a confidential tone.

‘Mr Wyatt, you know why I came to Shorecombe?’

‘I could probably guess,’ said Wyatt.

‘I wanted to find out what had brought my fiancée, Barbara Willis, down here.’ He suddenly became tense. ‘I wanted to find out the swine who deliberately, brutally, and sadistically strangled her.’

Sally gave a little shudder.

‘I’m sorry – please forgive me, Mrs Wyatt … you understand I’ve been very upset …’

‘Did you satisfy your curiosity, Mr Knight?’ inquired Wyatt evenly.

Knight shook his head somewhat wistfully.

‘Even as an amateur detective I’m afraid I’m a complete washout,’ he had to admit. ‘But I did stumble across one rather interesting point, Mr Wyatt. That’s why I wanted to see you.’

At that moment Fred Johnson returned with the coffee. After he had left Wyatt said:

‘Well, Mr Knight? What was it you discovered?’

Knight leaned forward again, and said:

‘Last night, Mr Wyatt, when I heard about your accident, I began to put two and two together. You were on your way to see Mr Tyson last night, weren’t you?’

‘How did you know that?’

‘I went to see Tyson myself a couple of days back.’ He stirred his coffee, then added significantly: ‘Do you know what happened, Mr Wyatt?’

‘I haven’t an idea.’

Knight dropped his voice to an even more confidential level.

‘I went to see Tyson in my car. When I reached the bridge, the one where you had your accident, I heard another car coming behind me. He was blowing his horn, and I pulled over to let him pass. Suddenly, and quite deliberately, he attempted to force my car off the road.’

‘But that’s exactly what happened to us!’ cried Sally excitedly.

‘Go on, Mr Knight,’ said Wyatt.

‘Fortunately for me,’ continued Knight, ‘I went into a skid, or he’d have forced me right over the bridge. He was off like the devil, of course.’

‘Didn’t you follow him?’ asked Wyatt.

‘Well, I was a bit shaken,’ Knight admitted. ‘And there was really not much point in my chasing him.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because,’ explained Knight impressively, ‘I managed to get his number.’

Sally sat up straight in her chair.

‘You got his number!’ she repeated.

Knight slowly took a small, black notebook from his waistcoat pocket and read out:

‘GKC 973. Perhaps you’ll take a note of it, Mr Wyatt.’

Wyatt did so.

‘It looks as if someone was trying to prevent you from seeing Mr Tyson,’ said Sally shrewdly.

‘Exactly, Mrs Wyatt. And I think the attempt on your life was for precisely the same reason.’

Wyatt balanced on the two rear legs of his chair and considered this.

‘It’s quite a theory, Mr Knight,’ he said at last.

Sally was looking puzzled now.

‘But surely Tyson can’t know anything about this business,’ she put in. ‘After all, he’s just an old fisherman who happened to discover the body.’

‘I wouldn’t be too sure about that, Mrs Wyatt, if I were you,’ said Knight. Wyatt gave him a quick glance.

‘You saw Tyson?’ he demanded.

‘Yes,’ said Knight, ‘I saw him. He was annoyed and rather bad tempered.’

‘I expect he’s had quite a lot of people questioning him lately,’ suggested Sally.

‘I have an idea he’s holding something back,’ persisted Knight, turning to Wyatt. ‘I wish you’d go and see him, Mr Wyatt. I think a dose of third degree might not do any harm.’

Wyatt shrugged.

‘I’m afraid third degree is hardly in my line,’ he said slowly. ‘But I certainly propose to see Mr Tyson.’

Knight rose at once.

‘Good – I can’t tell you how relieved I am to hear you say that,’ he declared. ‘When do you think you’ll go?’

‘Some time this morning, I dare say.’

‘That’s fine. I hope you’ll catch him in a better temper – and if he isn’t, don’t hesitate to throw a scare into him.’

‘I rather gather that you don’t much care for Mr Tyson,’ said Wyatt with a faint smile.

‘I think he knows more than he’s told anyone so far.’ He finished his coffee and picked up his hat.

‘I must rush off now. Perhaps I’ll see you in London?’

‘It’s quite possible,’ nodded Wyatt, taking his stick and crossing to the door with him.

When he returned a minute later, he found Sally standing at the window watching their departing visitor.

‘Well?’ said Wyatt.

‘He’s much too good-looking,’ she murmured. ‘I don’t like it.’

‘I thought he had a singularly weak face,’ said Wyatt.

‘He’s a typical playboy, of course.’

‘Do you think he was telling the truth about that car?’

‘I can easily get it checked when we’re in Town.’

‘If he was telling the truth,’ continued Sally, ‘it rather looks as if there is some sort of plot to prevent people going to see Mr Tyson.’

‘I suppose that’s one way of looking at it,’ he conceded. ‘All the same, we are going to see Tyson – this very morning, just as soon as I can get a car.’

Sally turned from the window.

‘Darling, why don’t we walk over there? It’s only four miles, and it’s a lovely morning.’

‘All right,’ he agreed, ‘if you’re quite sure you feel up to it.’

‘I feel fine.’

Two hours later they were slowly climbing the cliff road on which Bill Tyson’s cottage stood. They had enjoyed their walk, but Sally was feeling a little tired and was holding on to her husband’s arm. Occasionally they stopped to admire the view across the bay, or to watch a seagull as it swooped overhead.

There was a sudden sound of footsteps descending the rough road, and round a corner came Hugo Linder, whistling to himself. He greeted them warmly.

‘I thought you were going back to Town this morning,’ said Wyatt casually.

‘In half an hour,’ replied Linder. ‘I’ve just been to say goodbye to Tyson.’

‘As a matter of fact, that’s where we’re going. Is the old boy in?’

‘Yes, he’s in all right,’ said Linder, with a certain amount of hesitation, ‘but I’m afraid you won’t find him in a very good humour. He seems quite morose just lately.’

‘How far is the cottage?’ asked Sally.

‘Only just round the next bend, Mrs Wyatt. It’s quite a climb up here, but I always think it’s worth it.’

Linder bade them a cheerful farewell, and went swinging down the road.

‘Come on, darling, put your best foot forward,’ urged Wyatt, whose leg was beginning to ache for the first time since their arrival.

They toiled on up the hill, and sure enough there was a very small cottage standing well back from the road just round the next bend. They stopped to admire the neatly kept front garden, then Wyatt pushed open the gate and went up the stone-flagged path. He knocked at the front door and waited for some time.

Sally followed him up the path, stooping to smell the old-fashioned stocks and wallflowers.

‘The old boy doesn’t seem to be in after all,’ said Wyatt, knocking again.

‘He may have gone down to the shore,’ said Sally.

‘It can’t be more than a few minutes since Linder was here.’

Wyatt knocked again and stood listening intently. He imagined he heard a slight movement inside, but could not be certain.

‘What are we going to do now?’ asked Sally.

‘I don’t know. I should like to have seen Tyson before we leave Shorecombe and—’

The unmistakable sound of a revolver shot cut him short.

‘Lionel!’ Sally clutched his arm.

‘It came from inside the cottage – the room at the back,’ he said quickly. ‘You stay here, Sally. Stand clear of the door, just in case …’

Sally moved along to the corner of the cottage, and Wyatt vanished round the back.

He was not very surprised to find the back door half-open. He stopped for a moment and listened, but all seemed to be quiet inside. He moved up to the door and slowly put his head inside.

The back room was a kitchen-scullery, with a sink under the window. A door opposite led into the front room; this was closed, but across the table near it lay the shirt-sleeved figure of an elderly man. Wyatt walked over to the table and saw that the man had been shot through the forehead. Wyatt picked up his left hand, felt the pulse, then let it fall again. The man was dead.

A revolver lay on the floor, and Wyatt carefully picked it up with his handkerchief. One cartridge had been fired. He replaced the weapon in the exact spot where he had found it, and looked round the room. There was nothing that looked in any way unusual, and he went through into the front room and opened the door, having carefully closed the connecting door behind him.

‘You’d better come inside, Sally,’ he called, and she came running along the front of the cottage.

‘What was it?’ she demanded rather breathlessly.

‘It’s a nasty business,’ he replied tersely. ‘I’m afraid Tyson’s dead.’

‘Dead!’ repeated Sally wonderingly, gazing at the scullery door.

‘I’d rather you didn’t see him,’ said Wyatt, interpreting her thoughts. ‘He isn’t exactly a pleasant spectacle.’

‘What happened?’

‘He’s been shot through the head; he must have committed suicide.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Everything seems to point to it.’

‘Was that the shot we heard?’

‘Yes. And if it was fired by anyone but Tyson, then he made a very quick getaway.’

‘He might still be in the house,’ she reminded him.

‘Yes … there’s just a chance. Wait here, Sally …’

He opened a third door beside the fireplace, which led upstairs, and mounted the narrow stairs as silently as possible. But both the bedrooms were empty, and showed no trace of an intruder. He came down slowly, to find Sally sitting on a rocking-chair and staring at the scullery door.

‘Is he in there?’ she asked.

‘Yes, he’s sprawled across the table. Don’t go in, darling; it’ll only upset you.’

‘You’re quite sure it’s suicide?’ she insisted in a pensive tone.

Wyatt walked slowly to the window.

‘You’re thinking of Linder?’

‘I can’t help it. We’d only just met him; I’ll admit he didn’t look like a man who’s out to commit a murder, but one can’t be absolutely certain …’ Her voice trailed away.

‘But we heard the shot, Sally, as we stood at the front door. There’s no one else in the place, and no one came out.’

‘All right, darling,’ she agreed, with a little sigh. ‘It must be suicide. We’d better get the police, hadn’t we?’

‘I’d just like to take a last look round in there. You stay where you are; I won’t be five minutes.’

He went into the scullery and closed the door.

After methodically examining the room for some minutes his eye suddenly caught a scrap of white paper which was partly hidden by the dead man’s sleeve. Wyatt moved the arm slightly so that he could see the paper. The red ink was a trifle smudged, but he had no difficulty in deciphering the sentence:

‘With the compliments of Mr Rossiter.’