‘I did.’

  ‘Who was this person who you thought you might identify?’

  Inspector Crake broke the silence which followed this question. ‘Excuse me, sir,’ he said. ‘I was sent out to Dincombe to help in the emergency, as Superintendent Puckeridge knows. By July 31 there was only one body still unidentified — a young man’s.’

  ‘I’m sorry to probe into your private life,’ Pollard said, turning to Henry Stobart, ‘but you’ll hardly be surprised to hear that we’ve been making enquiries about you. We know that your wife left you in 1950, taking with her your son, a boy of about six. He would now be in his early twenties. Was there something in the description of this young man’s body which led you to think that it might be this same boy, now grown up.’

  ‘Your deductions are perfectly correct,’ Henry Stobart replied.

  ‘Had you seen your son in the interval?’

  ‘I had not.’

  ‘Did you really expect to recognize him beyond doubt after so many years, especially under the circumstances?’

  ‘Since the body was subsequently identified as a near relation by someone else, it seems that I was perfectly capable of arriving at a correct decision in the matter, doesn’t it?’

  Pollard experienced a curious sensation… ‘as if a dam in my mind had given a tremor, and was going to collapse at any moment,’ he told Jane afterwards. He realized that he must play for time.

  ‘I think that’s all for the present, then, Mr Stobart,’ he said. ‘May he wait somewhere, Superintendent, while we type out the statement he has just made?’

  ‘Check up with the Dincombe records?’ enquired Puckeridge, as the door closed. ‘Extraordinary yarn, but if he really went there, we’ll have a note of it.’ He pressed a bell on his desk in response to Pollard’s nod. ‘Bring the complete records of the Dincombe business,’ he said to a constable appearing in response to the summons.

  Inspector Crake, having disposed of Henry Stobart, arrived back at the same moment as several files were brought in. Pollard watched the flicking over of the pages, longing for some fact to emerge which would make the idea at the back of his mind formulate itself.

  ‘We put out a pretty detailed description,’ Puckeridge was saying. ‘Five foot ten … red hair … three molars filled … old angular scar faintly visibly above left eye … old appendix scar … about twenty years of age.’

  Henry Stobart had applied to view the body for purposes of identification at 8.10 pm on the evening of July 31. He had been taken to the mortuary by Sergeant Manley of Dincombe, and after careful scrutiny, especially of the scar on the forehead, had said that he couldn’t put a name to it. He had signed a statement to this effect, giving his correct name and address, and had then left.

  ‘Well, that’s a bit of luck,’ Puckeridge said. ‘Manley’s recently been transferred in here. Find out where he is, Crake, will you, and get him along as quickly as you can? I take it that you’ll want him to identify Stobart as the chap who came to Dincombe that evening?’

  ‘Sure,’ replied Pollard. ‘Thanks.’

  He knew that the only thing to do was to concentrate on the matter in hand. It wasn’t the slightest use trying to force an idea.

  ‘Assuming that Stobart walked home from Dincombe,’ he said, ‘roughly how long would it have taken him?’

  Maps were produced, and Puckeridge indicated possible routes.

  ‘If he cut across country, avoiding main roads as he probably would, three hours wouldn’t be far off the mark. He looks the sort of bloke who’d cover the ground with those great long legs of his.’

  ‘He can,’ said Pollard, ‘I can vouch for that. I’ve seen him loping along. But if he did walk all the way back, it doesn’t look as though there’d have been much time for stowing another body in the car boot, does it?’

  He spoke absently, and realized that Puckeridge was giving him a puzzled look as the door opened to admit Inspector Crake, with a stocky middle-aged man in tow, whom he introduced to Pollard as Sergeant Manley.

  Sergeant Manley had a capacious memory, but was irritatingly long-winded. He clearly remembered the incident of a tall grey-haired gentleman attempting to identify the last remaining flood victim at Dincombe, and that he had asked if there was any place open where he could get something to eat, as he’d walked over from Twiggadon and was going to walk back. He, Sergeant Manley, had been surprised that a gentleman like that hadn’t a car, and had authorized him using the emergency canteen, although rightly it was only for —

  Superintendent Puckeridge cut him short, and Henry Stobart, smiling sardonically, was ushered in, promptly identified by Manley, to whom he made an ironic bow of recognition, and escorted out again.

  ‘What I’d like to know,’ said Puckeridge, glaring at the closing door, ‘is just what the old bastard’s laughing at. He —’

  ‘Sergeant,’ Pollard interrupted unceremoniously, ‘what reason did Mr Stobart give for coming to see the body? Who did he say he had thought the young man might turn out to be?’

  Manley was maddeningly slow and deliberate. ‘As I recall the conversation, sir, the intervening period, of time notwithstanding, the gentleman told me that he felt there was a possibility that the body might be that of a relation of his wife’s.’

  The idea which had been hovering on the threshold of Pollard’s consciousness suddenly took shape. It was so startling that he instantly decided to keep it to himself for the moment, but its corollary was urgent.

  ‘What about the chap who eventually did identify the body?’ he asked, trying to keep all excitement out of his voice. ‘Who was he?’

  ‘Gentleman of the name of Twentyman, sir. Mr Bryce Twentyman. Very unusual names, both of them, which no doubt helped to fix them in my mind. He identified the body at once as his half-brother, Stephen Finch. Mr Twentyman is a resident of Torcastle. For your information, sir, Torcastle is a town about —’

  ‘Never mind about Torcastle, man. What was Mr Twentyman like? Age, and so on?’

  ‘I should be inclined to place him in the early thirties age group, sir,’ Sergeant Manley replied in an injured tone. ‘A well-dressed, pleasant gentleman in a good position. The branch manager of one of the big insurance companies, he told me. Just at the moment I can’t quite call to mind —’ Puckeridge and Crake, several beats ahead, were searching through one of the folders in front of them.

  ‘Here it is,’ said the Superintendent. ‘A full record was kept, of course. The Galaxy. They’ve got a lot of business, in these parts.’

  Pollard suppressed an exclamation. ‘The chap from the Galaxy at Torcastle,’ he said.

  TEN

  ‘Algy met a bear,’ recited the Assistant Commissioner, eyes closed, and leaning back in his chair at an angle of nearly ninety degrees from the vertical.

  ‘The bear was bulgy.

  The bulge was Algy.’

  Pollard listened respectfully. He had been summoned to report on the Twiggadon case immediately on arriving in London by an afternoon train from Bridgeford.

  ‘You see my line of thought,’ pursued the AC. ‘There are intriguing suggestions of dual personality in this case of yours. The skeleton could be Steve Mullins. The young man drowned at Dincombe last year has been identified by Twentyman as his half-brother, Stephen Finch. Your fertile imagination is advancing a theory that he was the illegitimate son of Henry Stobart’s wife, a situation which has enabled Stobart to enjoy misleading the police without actually telling lies. Finch could be both, of course, but if he rather improbably turns out to be Stobart’s wife’s by-blow, unrelated to Bryce Twentyman, why did the latter make a false identification? Was it an honest mistake, arising from a fortuitous likeness? After all, the body had been bashed about in the water, and kept in the mortuary for some days. Or had Twentyman some sinister motive, and if so, what? I’d like to know what you are doing to get all this cleared up.’

  ‘First of all, sir,’ replied Pollard, hoping that he sounded more confident than he felt, ‘we’re searching at Somerset House for the date of birth of the boy presumably registered as Henry Stobart’s son, and aged about six in 1950. At the same time Sergeant Evers is at the Ministry of Defence, collecting the details of Stobart’s war service. If he was overseas for any length of time it might throw light on the legitimacy question. Then we’re also checking up on the Twentyman family, and trying to find out if they’re connected with the Stobarts, legally or otherwise. For instance, if Mr Twentyman senior had a child by Mrs Stobart, he would be Bryce’s half-brother. I thought I’d get on to the Galaxy up here about Bryce. They must have vetted him pretty thoroughly before putting him into a responsible position. And everything possible is being done to trace Mullins. The trouble is that he may have been going under an alias.’

  ‘Quite,’ said the AC dryly. ‘All these steps you’re taking are perfectly sound, but apart from tracking down Mullins, have they got any bearing on your case? The sole link between Stobart and the skeleton, is that he was seen near the car dump one night just after a dubious and eccentric female says she saw a light there. Aren’t you accepting this light a bit too readily, and letting it focus your attention on that particular night rather exclusively? There’s no evidence that the body was put into the boot then. And the only link between Twentyman and the cars is that Bickley took him to look at them some time ago, when he wanted advice about his legal responsibilities. It’s all a bit thin, you know.’

  ‘I admit that, sir,’ Pollard said unhappily. ‘The fact is that there’s so little to go on in the case that the only thing seems to be to check up on anything in the least unusual involving the locals. They are, after all, much the most likely suspects. But Mullins, at any rate, has a definite link with Twiggadon, and there are definite points of resemblance between him and the skeleton. We’re doing everything we can think of to find out if he’s still alive.’

  ‘Reverting to your idea of contacting Galaxy House about Twentyman,’ the AG said after a pause. ‘I can help you along there. I know Lord Lympstone, their Chairman. I’ll give him a ring right away: these companies are a bit sticky when it comes to enquiries about their people. Get an appointment yourself with their Personnel Big Chief for tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Thank you very much, sir,’ said Pollard gratefully.

  The AC opened an eye and looked at him quizzically. ‘Press on,’ he said. ‘It’s the hell of a case, I grant you. But keep your eye on the ball, there’s a good chap.’

  Back in his room, heaving a sigh of relief, Pollard fell avidly upon the first findings of the searcher at Somerset House, which had just been telephoned through to him. On August 29, 1942, Henry Stobart had married June Chadwick by special licence at a London register office. A boy, Peter, was recorded as being born to the couple on October 15, 1943, and there was no registration of his death. June Stobart had apparently reverted to her maiden name on leaving her husband, and her death from injuries received in a motor accident had taken place eighteen months ago. No children born to her after the break-up of her marriage had been traced as yet, but the search was continuing.

  Apparently irrationally, Pollard felt a sudden conviction that he was moving, however blindly, in the right direction. Picking up the receiver of his desk telephone he asked the switchboard operator to connect him with Galaxy House. An appointment made for the following morning, he rang his wife to say that he was on the point of leaving for home.

  ‘Can you take it in your delicate state of health?’ Pollard asked. ‘I feel it might clear my mind to give you a summary of the case in words of one syllable.’

  ‘Not so much of the one syllable touch,’ Jane Pollard replied, refilling his coffee cup. ‘May I remind you that I got three high-grade ‘A’ levels, and my headmistress took it hard when I plumped for Art School instead of the university. Let me fetch the tiny garment I’m knitting, and then you can go ahead.’

  She settled herself on a settee with her feet up, and prepared to listen. Watching her, Pollard thought that she had never looked more vital and attractive … that colouring, and that marvellous red-gold hair…

  ‘Twiggadon,’ he began, ‘is a small hamlet…’

  ‘Surely the percentage of odd people and happenings is a lot above the average in this case?’ Jane said thoughtfully, when the long and complicated narrative came to an end. ‘There seems no end to them. The skeleton, to start with. Then rootless boys who either vanish into thin air, or get drowned and stay unclaimed for days, and an extraordinary recluse like this Henry Stobart, and a witch like the Pendine woman. You’d hardly call Derek Wainwright an ordinary, everyday type, and old Bertha and the family feud simply aren’t true. Even the Bickleys seem to have something to hide. There’s so much of it that one can’t believe there isn’t a link-up.’

  ‘That’s just what I feel. Whatever the AC says about keeping one’s eye on the ball, we’re not going to get anywhere simply by concentrating on that hopelessly uninformative skeleton itself. Much more chance of discovering who it is, and how it got there by investigating some of these odd goings-on.’

  ‘That reminds me, the witch has given the Evening Flashback an interview about ritual murder. It’s over there, by the TV.’

  ‘Good God!’ Pollard leaped to his feet and fetched the paper. ‘Can the Past claim a sacrificial victim in the Present?’ he read aloud. ‘Mrs Sybil Pendine, well-known spiritualist and creator of miracle-working herbal remedies and aids to beauty, whose cottage, aptly styled “Watchers Way”, lies but a stone’s throw from the scene of tragedy… Heavens, there’s yards of it. I hope I’m not responsible.’

  ‘What on earth do you mean?’

  ‘I suggested to her in so many words that finding a bigger market for her products would be a healthier way of earning her living than blackmail. Think what an advertisement this will be… You know, she really has got something. No, I’m not joking. I didn’t mean to tell you about it because I felt a bit of a fool afterwards, but there was a moment when she absolutely gave me the jim-jams. Remember, my asking you over the blower if you’d been hanging curtains?’

  Jane looked up at him with interest. ‘Yes, I meant to ask you. What was it all about?’

  ‘It happened the first time I questioned her. She suddenly went all sibylline, and gazed over my shoulder, saying she saw a pregnant woman high up, with gold on her head, and a golden river flowing from her hands. You see, I’ve got an awfully clear mental picture of you looking down at me from the steps, that time I came in when you were hanging these curtains. You know how a single incident will stick in one’s memory. I suppose she’s some kind of thought-reader and managed to intercept it.’

  ‘How simply terrific! I’m immensely gratified to think I made such an impression. My hair, too. Definitely one of my best points, don’t you think? Were you afraid she was going to cast a spell on me? Was there any more?’

  ‘Not about you. But when we went to see her again, to see if she’d sign a statement about having seen Stobart in the lane that night last year, I made the suggestion about trying to increase her sales. She seemed genuinely grateful, I thought, and announced that she had been born under Aquarius, and had some sort of affinity with water. She went on to say that water mattered a lot to me just now.’

  ‘Curious,’ said Jane, ‘with this drowned lad suddenly cropping up in the case. Perhaps you ought to focus on him a bit. I don’t think one can simply write off people like the Pendine woman.’

  ‘Actually we are following him up in quite a big way. Not because of her, of course,’ Pollard added hastily.

  ‘Naturally not. What an idea,’ she replied, looking at him out of the corner of her eye.

  Galaxy House was a post-war colossus of concrete, steel and glass. On entering its portals on the following morning Pollard immediately recognized the type of interior decoration which Jane called overtones of good taste. There was elegant panelling, muted colour, and much skilfully concealed lighting. As he approached the imposing reception area with Toye discreetly bringing up the rear, he realized that he was to receive an inferior grade of VIP treatment. As they departed under escort in the direction of a special lift, he heard his arrival being communicated to a higher sphere.

  They were shot upwards at breath-taking speed, and decanted into the arms of a preternaturally solemn young man who led them to a door inscribed MISS M. E. FOSTER: PERSONAL ASSISTANT TO MR J. L. HIBBERD. Within, a smart middle-aged woman rose to welcome them with a nicely-adjusted blend of graciousness and efficiency.

  ‘Mr Hibberd will be entirely at your disposal the moment he comes out of conference, Superintendent,’ she informed Pollard. ‘Coffee will be sent in to you in the Visitors’ Room immediately. Mr Tothill?’

  The young man ushered them through a communicating door, begged them to be seated and withdrew.

  ‘Lush,’ remarked Pollard, his feet sinking into the carpet as he made for an opulent-looking armchair. He gazed round appreciatively at some excellent reproductions of domestic interiors and rural scenes by painters of the Dutch School. ‘Look at these pictures,’ he said. ‘A touch of genius. Security and comfort — solid comfort, too, linking up in the subconscious with insurance.’

  Toye looked about him with an air of disapproval, and said that it was easy to see where your premiums went.

  The coffee arrived on a trolley propelled by a young woman in an immaculate white overall, and was excellent. So, too, were the accompanying sandwiches. Pollard wandered over to a side table where copies of most of the national dailies were laid out for the entertainment of Mr Hibberd’s visitors. He selected some of the more lowbrow, and read the latest comment on his case with a mixture of amusement and exasperation. After an interval of about ten minutes the door opened once more.

  ‘Mr Hibberd will see Superintendent Pollard,’ announced Mr Tothill.

  Miss Foster was poised in the middle of her room, and rendered a variation on the theme. ‘Mr Hibberd is now free, Superintendent. Would you be good enough to follow me?’ She led the way to another communicating door, opened it, announced him, and stood aside to let them enter.

 

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