DEATH TAKES THE LIVING

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I

The Right Reverend Gerald William Kinghorn, Bishop of Fencaster, sat in his study at the Palace one January afternoon. It was a vast and rather gloomy room, and the smouldering embers in the great fireplace did little enough to warm it. On the central table, at which the Bishop sat, was a mass of correspondence, illuminated by a reading-lamp, for dark was already falling. One by one the items of correspondence were being read, annotated in a clear and precise hand, and stacked neatly aside. The Bishop had the gift of working quickly and accurately.

He was a man of sixty, tall and slender, with a pronounced stoop. His expression, and for that matter his official manner, was so distant as to seem at first acquaintance forbidding. But those with whom he came in contact very soon learnt that this was misleading. In familiar conversation the austerity was relaxed, and the steady grey eyes revealed, not only a glint of humour, but a wealth of sympathy. Gerald Kinghorn had not allowed his prelacy to shield' him from the concerns of lesser men. He was at all times approachable, even in his busiest moments. And those who consulted him came away feeling better able to cope with their own immediate problems.

Before his elevation to the See of Fencaster, he had been for many years Master of Satterthwaite College, one of the leading public schools. Here he had been universally popular with staff and boys alike. Even anxious parents, coming to consult him about the welfare of their progeny, had found this tall, severe-looking headmaster unexpectedly human. At Satterthwaite he had always been referred to as “G. W. K.,” from his initials. Perhaps the fact that at that time a popular motor car bore that designation made the letters come pat. This was behind his back, of course. Nobody would have ventured to address the Master in such disrespectful terms. But Gerald Kinghorn, who had an almost uncanny awareness, rightly regarded the appellation as a token of affection.

The door of the study opened, and the Bishop's chaplain came in. He was a bustling little man, with a perpetually harassed expression, as though he could never find himself able to get abreast of his work. This was quite possibly the case, for few people could keep up with the Bishop's rapidity in dealing with matters. The chaplain, who had learnt not to waste words, laid a card on the table and silently awaited instructions.

The Bishop picked up the visiting-card and read the name inscribed on it. “The Rev. Jonathan Denby” for the moment conveyed nothing to him. He knew all the parsons in the diocese, not only by name, but personally, and Denby was not among them. “Who is he?” he asked. “Do you know him?”

“No, my Lord,” the chaplain replied. “I have never seen him before. He asked if you could spare him time for a few minutes' interview. He told me that he was at Satterthwaite in your time.”

Then the Bishop remembered. He did not pretend that all of the thousands of boys who had passed through his hands remained in his memory, but there were exceptions. Boys who through outstanding brilliance, or even outstanding depravity, had made a lasting mark. Clearly now he recalled the two Denbys, major and minor, not brothers, but cousins. This must be Denby minor, for every one knew his cousin, at least by name. Something of a prodigy in his way was the Right Honourable Henry Denby, Minister of Iron and Steel, the youngest member of the Cabinet.

The Bishop picked up the card again which he had laid down, forming a mental picture of Denby minor as he had known him. He portrayed a lad of sixteen or thereabouts, for it was at that early age he had reached the Sixth Form, and so came under the immediate eye of the Master. Exceptional in that he combined a remarkable intellectual ability with an equally remarkable athletic prowess. Not only a true scholar, but by far the best three-quarters Satterthwaite had ever known. So Denby minor had taken Orders! Well, a man could do no better. But somehow the Bishop found his choice of a career unexpected. He would have imagined something more worldly for him. The Bar, perhaps.

While he meditated, the chaplain fussed round the room. He added some coal to the dying fire. The Bishop was apt to get so absorbed in his work that he would let the fire go out before his eyes. The Bishop, recalled from the past by this clatter, raised his head. “I will see Mr. Denby now,” he said.

The chaplain bustled out, to return a couple of minutes later with a man in clerical garb. He was in the early thirties, tall, athletic and good-looking. His expression was open, almost childlike in its trustfulness, but the firm set of his mouth and his prominent chin showed a strong determination. As the chaplain went out, closing the door behind him, Denby came forward. “You won't remember me, my Lord,” he began. “But—”

“I remember you very well, Denby minor,” the Bishop broke in. “And now that I see you again after all these years, the man recalls the boy very vividly. Sit down. There, in that chair by the fire. Now tell me what you have been doing since we last met.”

“I don't want to waste your time, my Lord,” Denby replied as he sat down. “It's very good of you to see me at all.”

“I am always glad to renew my acquaintance with my old pupils,” said the Bishop. “And a conversation with one of them is a welcome relaxation from the cares of office. A bishop is forced to become a mere scribe, rather than the spiritual father of his flock. Tell me about yourself.”

“Well, my Lord, after I left Satterthwaite, I went up to Oxford,” Denby replied simply. “While there, I decided that the Church was my vocation. Almost immediately after I was ordained, I volunteered as a temporary chaplain in the Royal Air Force. Most of my service in that capacity was in the Middle East. I have only recently been demobilised, and that is my reason for intruding myself upon you. I have wondered whether you have any vacant livings in your diocese, and if so, whether you would consider me a suitable incumbent.”

The Bishop's eyes twinkled as he looked at him. “Have you any preference for this diocese over any other?” he asked.

“I'll be quite frank about that, my Lord,” Denby replied. “In the first place, you, as my late headmaster, are the only Bishop I could venture to approach. And in the second, I have hoped for the opportunity of studying the vestiges of Saxon England. This part of the country seems a most suitable field for that.”

The Bishop nodded. “My diocese covers Icenshire, the ancient land of the Iceni. The site of this city may have been Boadicea's birthplace. Well, Denby, no one would be better pleased than I to see you established as one of my clergy. As you are probably aware, parsons, like all other useful commodities, are in very short supply just now. There are, I regret to say, many vacant livings in the diocese, but whether any of them would appeal to you I cannot say. What have you in mind?”

“A country living for preference, sir,” Denby replied. His form of address showed that he had slipped back in imagination to talking not to the Bishop of Fencaster, but once again to the Master of Satterthwaite. “I don't feel that I could discipline myself to the restrictions of life in a town. I am unmarried, I should say.”

The Bishop picked up a pencil, and began tracing the outlines of a Norman arch on the margin of a letter. This was a favourite trick of his. The chaplain always kept a piece of rubber handy, in order to erase these embellishments of the correspondence before it was filed. The Bishop had in mind the most flagrant case of a vacant living-a parish which had been without an incumbent for three years. During that time the place had gone utterly to pieces. A young and energetic man like Denby was just what was wanted to pull it together again. But there were difficulties. Would it be fair to ask Denby to face them?

Denby must to some extent have read his thoughts. “I should like a place where there is scope for good strenuous Christian endeavour, sir,” he ventured.

The Bishop smiled. “If you really mean that, I have a parish in mind that might suit you. Clynde, a village about twenty-five miles from here, on the edge of the marshes. But I must warn you that any rector who accepts the living will not find his task an easy one. The parish has been without an incumbent for so long that the parishioners have had time for a complete lapse into paganism. It would not surprise me to learn that they offered sacrifices to Baal, or passed their children through the fire to Moloch.”

Denby fell in with the Bishop's fantasies. “My antiquarian tastes would find that most interesting, sir. And I should enjoy using my powers of persuasion to induce them to return to the narrow path.”

“Perhaps by the employment of the methods once known as muscular Christianity,” said the Bishop. “I have not forgotten watching you play rugger. Do you remember that famous match against Petterbridge, when you scored the only try of the game? But to return to Clynde. There are other difficulties, of a more material nature. The parish is exceedinglv remote and difficult of access. Further, the living is by no means financially attractive. The stipend barely totals two hundred pounds a year.”

“That consideration would not weigh with me, sir,” Denby replied. “I'm in the fortunate position of having means of my own. My father settled a generous income on me when I came of age. And, as I say, I'm a single man.”

“You may not wish to continue permanently in the celibate state,” said the Bishop. “However, that is entirely your affair. Now you must understand that I am not entirely free where Clynde is concerned. There is a patron, whose wishes must, of course, be consulted. And he is a man who seems strangely difficult to please.”

He paused, to draw another arch in continuation of the first. His expression suggested that his whole attention was concentrated upon making it perfectly symmetrical. Actually, he was wondering how much he ought to tell Denby. The young man was obviously interested, and it would be a crowning mercy if at last a rector could be found for Clynde. But the Bishop was determined to use no persuasion. He had a feeling that Denby's abilities would be wasted in a remote village. Better state the facts impartially, and leave the decision to Denby himself.

“The patron is Lord Mundesley,” the Bishop resumed abruptly. “Alfred Victor Smith, the second baron. His father made a fortune out of a once popular patent medicine, and was rewarded with a title. You are too young to remember Smith's Elixir, but when I was a curate the name met me at every turn. I believe that it was responsible for the deaths of comparatively few people.

“However, that is beside the point. The present Lord Mundesley lives at Bromhoe Castle, in the next parish to Clynde. He is a good churchman, and on the few occasions that we have met we have got on quite well. But his attitude as patron is somewhat peculiar. He appears to allow personal considerations to override all others. On two occasions I have introduced him to men who might have accepted the living. And on both occasions he has told me that he did not like them, and did not want them as his neighbours. He contends that there is no need for undue haste in finding a rector. He would rather wait until the right man presents himself. Meanwhile he argues that the rector of Bromhoe is perfectly capable of looking after both parishes. Since the reverend gentleman in question is a widower in the late seventies, I find myself unable to agree.”

“Perhaps, sir, you would give me an introduction to Lord Mundesley?”Denby asked eagerly.

The Bishop smiled. “Behold the impatience of youth!” he exclaimed softly. “We must not be precipitate, for there are many things to be considered. Have you seen much of your cousin, Henry Denby, since your demobilisation?”

“I lunched with him at the House the other day, sir,” Denby replied, surprised at this change of subject. “But that's about all. He's a very busy man, of course, and he's not likely to have much use for a humble parson.”

“Would it be impertinent to inquire whether you share your cousin's political views?” the Bishop asked.

“Not at all, sir,” Denby replied readily. “To be quite frank, I have no strong political views, either way. Party politics have always seemed to me rather like a nursery game.”

“And, following St. Paul's example, when you became a man you relinquished childish things,” the Bishop remarked. “Well, that is all to the good. I have always set my face against the clergy concerning themselves in party politics. But what is in my mind is this. Lord Mundesley is a stalwart liberal, as his father was before him. I believe that the barony was conferred in recognition of services rendered to the Liberal cause. He might not be favourably disposed towards the cousin of a member of the present government.”

“Surely, sir, if you were good enough to recommend me, your wishes would prevail?”Denby suggested.

“They might, or they might not,” the Bishop replied. “In any case, I am in a position to override any possible objection on Lord Mundesley's part. But I am not prepared to ford that stream if I can find a bridge to carry me over it. May I ask if you came to Fencaster to-day for the sole purpose of calling on me?”

“Not exactly, sir,” Denby replied. “I came here yesterday, to study the Saxon exhibits in the museum, and I am putting up at the King's Head for a day or two. Being here, I had the presumption to think that you might see me.”

“It was not presumption on your part,” said the Bishop. “Now my advice to you is this. While you are here, go to Clynde and have a look round for yourself. You may find that so lonely a spot has no attractions for you. And there is the matter of accommodation to be considered. I lunched at the rectory when the late incumbent was in residence, and I remember it well. It is a rambling barrack of a place and, far from being Saxon, displays all the characteristics of the early Victorian period. One wing of it was shut off years ago and has since been disused. But enough of it remains to make it a formidable residence for a single man.”

“I will go to Clynde to-morrow, sir,” Denby replied promptly. “The size of the rectory doesn't alarm me. I could make myself comfortable enough in a couple of rooms in it, I dare say.”

The Bishop chuckled in fatherly indulgence. “You show a most praiseworthy spirit of determination, my young friend. There is one more thing. The rectory is alleged to be haunted. Would that be likely to deter you?”

“Not at all, sir,” Denby replied. “I might receive your authority to become an exorcist.”

“It shall not be withheld, should the necessity arise,” said the Bishop dryly; “though personally I am a confirmed sceptic on the subject of ghosts. Very well then, Denby. You say that you will go to Clynde to-morrow. Whatever may be your impressions, do not come to a decision too hastily. Your father is alive, I gather. Consult him, and any one else who may share your confidence. If, as the result, you decide that you would like to become the rector of Clynde, the necessary steps towards that end shall be taken.”

He paused, then continued impressively: “You must ask yourself, very humbly, whether you feel yourself competent to perform the manifold duties of a parish priest. Of these duties you have hitherto had no experience. The needs and claims of rural parishioners are very different from those of a body of disciplined men. And of this I must warn you. You must feel within yourself the abnegation of a missionary. For a young man like yourself to seek isolation in a place like Clynde must necessarily involve sacrifice. You will have to rely upon your own intellectual resources, for your immediate neighbours will afford you no help in that respect.”

At that moment the chaplain came in, bearing a tray full of correspondence. “I beg your pardon, my Lord,” he said, with a side glance at Denby, whom he privately thought had already taken up far too much of the Bishop's time. “The afternoon post has just come in, and there are several letters relating to the Diocesan Conference.”

Denby rose hastily, with a guilty appreciation of the chaplain's style of address. “Thank you, my Lord,” he said as he walked towards the door. “I will do as you say.”

The Bishop had already turned his attention to the letter the chaplain had handed him. “Good-bye, Denby,” he replied absently. “I shall hope to see, or at least hear from you, in due course.”

II

Denby's proceedings on leaving the Palace were typical of the habits of self-reliance he had acquired. It did not occur to him to make inquiries as to the location of Clynde, or the best means of getting there. He went first to a stationer's, where he bought a map of Icenshire. Studying this, he found that Clynde lay to the north-west of Fencaster, a couple of miles or so from the shore of the North Sea. A black line on the map indicated a single-line railway running deviously from Fencaster to the junction of Melby. In the course of its meanderings, this line passed within five miles of Clynde. Where it did so was the wayside station of Rendolvestone.

Having folded up the map and put it in his pocket, Denby walked to the Central Station, where he consulted the timetable. A train left Fencaster at 10.5 in the morning, arriving at Rendolvestone at 10.58. That would suit him well enough. His next call was at a bicycle shop, where he arranged to hire a machine for the following day. These preliminaries completed, he returned to the King's Head Hotel.

When he got up next morning he did not put on clerical dress. He chose instead a pair of flannel trousers, a pullover, and a sports coat. Since his object was merely to spy out the land, there was no point in advertising his calling. He had some experience of life in a village, and he knew very well what gossip would be excited in Clynde at the sight of a strange parson prowling around. If this gossip should reach Lord Mundesley's ears, he might be offended that he had not been first approached.

After breakfast he set out, collected the bicycle, and wheeled it to the station. After taking a third-class return ticket to Rendolvestone, he had the bicycle put in the van and took his seat. The only other occupant of the carriage was a commercial traveller, who was too much occupied with an attaché case full of papers to take any notice of him. The train pulled out, and proceeded on its leisurely way through the countryside.

As it plodded slowly along, stopping interminably at every station, Denby had plenty of time to think over his interview with the Bishop. Old G. W. K. hadn't changed much since those far-off days at Satterthwaite. He had still the same precise manner, with its occasional flashes of caustic humour. But beneath this Denby had sensed a genuine friendliness. For his part, he had always felt for the Master the loyal affection of a schoolboy. Now, in his riper years, this might develop into something deeper. It would be grand to become a parish priest in the Bishop's diocese. Whatever the difficulties connected with Clynde might be-and G. W. K. had outlined them frankly enough-he would always feel that he had behind him a strong and sympathetic mind.

Once more the train pulled up, and a raucous voice cried “Rendolston, Rendolston!”Assuming correctly that this was the local rendering of Rendolvestone, Denby opened the carriage door and stepped out. He collected the bicycle from the van and wheeled it out of the station. No need to ask the way, for staring him in the face was a signpost, one arm of which indicated “Clynde, 4 miles.”

He mounted and set off along a narrow road with high hedges on either side. Through the gaps in these he saw wide tracks of arable land, with tractors, each followed by a flock of gulls, busily ploughing between the widely-spaced farm houses. A pleasant country with woods at intervals to relieve the monotony of the furrowed fields. The road wound gently upwards towards a range of low hills in the distance. He pedalled gently along, enjoying the sharp clean air, with the faint scent of the sea in it. As he reached the hills, the gradient increased, and he got off his bicycle and walked. As he pushed it up the slope, he saw that the nature of the landscape was changing. The fields were giving place to rough moorland, with here and there bold groups of trees. As he neared the summit the fences ceased, only low banks bordering the road.

He topped the last rise, and stopped abruptly, overcome by the wonder of the panorama spread out before him. In the far distance was a mysterious shimmer beneath the winter sun. That must be the sea, but it was impossible to tell where the water ended and the land began. The shimmer blended imperceptibly into a wide belt of marshland, seamed with dykes over which the wild-fowl circled. Far away to the westward was a narrow inlet, brimming with the flood tide. A tiny dot on this marked the boat of some solitary fisherman.

Denby sat down on the bank beside the road, took out his map and oriented it. The inlet was a conspicuous feature, and he identified it easily enough as Bromhoe Creek. At the head of it, low down on the northern slope of the hills, but well above sea-level, was a church with a high square tower, surrounded by a cluster of buildings. This was the village of Bromhoe. Half a mile inland, and at a higher level, Denby could see a big house against a background of woodland. Reference to the map showed this to be Bromhoe Castle.

This, he remembered, was where the formidable Lord Mundesley lived. But his immediate concern was with Clynde, and that lay no more than a mile away, directly before him. The contour of the land was such that from where he sat the village itself was hidden. Only the top of the church tower appeared. Beyond it stretched out the unpopulated marshes, merging at last into the shimmering sea.

Denby remounted his bicycle and rode on. The descending slope was gentle, and the unfenced road curved down it easily. The highly cultivated land had now been left behind for good, and only a few clearings relieved the barrenness of the woodland. He wondered how the men of Clynde obtained their livelihood. Not by agriculture, apparently. If, indeed, the village was inhabited at all. Since he had crossed the hills he had seen nobody.

A turn of the road brought him in full view of the church, a sentinel standing above the village, and some little distance outside it. Almost opposite, on the other side of the road, stood a few stunted trees, surrounding a square, unprepossessing house, which seemed disproportionately large. As Denby approached it, he saw that it was empty and unoccupied. The windows facing the road had been boarded up from inside, and most of the panes were broken. This must be the rectory that G. W. K. had mentioned.

Even the most enthusiastic house agent could hardly describe it as a desirable residence, Denby thought. It stood only a little way back from the road, the boundary being a low brick wall, falling into ruins. In the wall were two gateways, with a weed-grown sweep between them. The gates, or what remained of them, hung drunkenly on their hinges, half open. The massive front door, from which most-of the paint had peeled, was uncompromisingly shut.

But Denby was not disheartened. Remembering the Bishop's words, he realised that the part of the house nearest the road must be the wing that was closed. He dismounted, wheeled his bicycle through the first gateway he came to, and leaned it against the inside of the wall. Better not leave it outside, to advertise his trespass. Then, seeing a wide path leading through the trees on the further side of the house, he followed it.

It led him past the disused wing, into a clearing, occupied by a lawn surrounded by flower borders, all sadly neglected. Facing this was the western front of the house, a narrow veranda covering the whole of its width. Into the veranda opened a door, with wide french windows on either side. This part of the house had been kept in good repair, and seemed to Denby not unpromising. Feeling slightly guilty, he tiptoed on to the veranda and peeped through one of the windows. It was that of a large, well-proportioned room, with panelling half-way up the walls. If the rest of the wing was equally habitable, there was little fault to be found with it.

He returned to his bicycle, and rode fifty yards or so further, until he came to the gate of the churchyard, which was tidy and well cared for. From the gate a wide concrete path led to the door of the church. The building was not very large, and rather dwarfed by its tall square tower. Denby tried the door, but found it locked, with a notice pinned to it to the effect that the key could be obtained from Number Two. Fisher's Row. There being no rector in residence, this was only to be expected.

He remounted and followed the road, which curved round the wall of the churchyard, still on a gently falling gradient. And then, almost suddenly, he found himself in the outskirts of the village. A few scattered cottages, weather-boarded and thatched with reed. Then a short and narrow street, which debouched upon a second, running at right angles to it. At the junction stood a signpost, the western arm pointing to Bromhoe, three miles away.

Denby rode for a short distance in this direction. This village street, if such it could be called, had buildings on one side of it only. The other was bordered by a wide dyke, full of water, upon the surface of which flocks of ducks sailed fussily. Beyond the dyke stretched for a mile or more the marshes, an expanse of marram grass, crossed by lesser dykes. The further edge of the marshes was bounded by a low seawall, an earthwork thrown up to secure the land from flooding. This hid the sea beyond from an observer on the level of the road.

The buildings on the landward side did not extend very far. Among them Denby noticed first Fisher's Row, a group of four low and snug-looking cottages. Then a taller and more imposing building, with an open space in front, and a post bearing a sign, on which was the faded painting of an anchor. There seemed to be not many people about, but the few he passed eyed Denby with a heavy curiosity. He guessed that, at this time of the year at least, strangers were rare birds of passage in Clynde.

He rode on to the extremity of the village, then turned back as far as the Anchor. Leaving his bicycle propped against the signpost he opened the door and walked in. On his left was the taproom, empty but for a burly middle-aged man behind the counter, on which he was leaning, reading a newspaper and smoking a pipe. He looked up as Denby came in. “Good morning, sir,” he said in a deep, powerful voice. “Nice bright morning for the time of year. But we'll get a sharp frost to-night, I reckon, the wind being where it is.”

“It is a wonderful morning,” Denby agreed. “May I have a glass of mild and bitter? And I've brought something to eat with me. Do you mind if I sit here while I have it?”

“Not a bit,” the landlord replied. “You please yourself. Sit yourself down by the fire, and I'll draw the beer.”

As he did so, Denby took a packet from his pocket and opened it. It contained a couple of stale rolls, cut open and smeared with potted meat. The best austerity could provide. He started to munch these, working the dry mouthfuls down with the contents of the glass the landlord had brought him. “There don't seem to be many people about to-day,” he remarked, as an opening gambit to conversation.

The landlord seemed ready enough to respond. “That's a fact,” he replied. “But it's always the same on Bault market day.”

Denby remembered that the station before Rendolvestone had been Bault Road. The commercial traveller had got out there, now he came to think of it. “Bault is the nearest town?” he asked.

“That's right,” the landlord replied, with thinly-veiled curiosity. “You're a stranger in these parts, then, not to know that?

Denby felt bound to give some explanation of his presence.

“I've never been to this part of the country before,” he said. “I'm staying in Fencaster for a day or two. I came by train to Rendolvestone, and rode here from there.”

“Ah Fencaster!” the landlord exclaimed nostalgically. “It's a fine city, to be sure. Plenty of folk there, and always someone to pass the time of day there. I ought to know, for I spent the best part of my life there, in the police. I dare say if you was to ask, you'd find lots to remember Sergeant Wayburn. That's me.”

“I've no doubt I should,” said Denby. “How long is it since you retired from the police?”

“A matter of a couple of years,” Wayburn replied. “I always meant to keep a pub when my time was up, and when we heard this place was going, the missus said we'd better take it. She wanted to get out of the city and live somewhere she could have a garden and that. So that's how it is we came here.”

“You find Clynde very different from Fencaster, I dare say,” Denby remarked. Wayburn shrugged his shoulders. “It's like living in another world. It's not so bad in summer, for then there's plenty of visitors about. At least, there used to be when there was any petrol to be had. But at this time of year it's a proper caution. You'd hardly believe it, but often enough I don't see a strange face from one week to another. But there, the missus likes it, so I mustn't grumble. She's got her garden, and a few fowls and ducks. And once a week, on market days, there's a bus into Bault and back. That's where she's gone now.”

“Leaving you alone,” said Denby sympathetically. “But you've got your customers to look to.”

“In the evenings, maybe,” Wayburn admitted. “I don't get many in till then, as you can see for yourself. But there's not much talk to be had with them. Not what you'd call talk, that is. They've got nothing in their heads but the weather and the wildfowl and the shellfish. It's always the same thing, over and over again. It makes me fair tired to listen to them. What one says the other contradicts, and so they go on.”

Denby nodded. “I don't suppose there is much here to occupy their minds? No amusement of any kind?”

“That's a fact,” Wayburn agreed heartily. “A few of them will come here to play darts or dominoes of an evening, but that's about all. They don't seem able to get anything up for themselves, such as a whist drive or dance. And the trouble is that there's nobody to do anything like that for them. Nobody to give them a lead, if you take my meaning. There hasn't been a parson here for a long time. And not even a school teacher, for the children go to Bromhoe. The missus I and I tried to pull things together a bit when we first came, but it was no good. You see, we're foreigners, even though we come from no further away than Fencaster.”

“Is there no squire to take an interest in the village?”Denby asked.

“Not properly speaking,” Wayburn replied. “I suppose you'd call Lord Mundesley the squire, for he owns most of the property hereabouts. But his place is in Bromhoe, which is the next parish. He doesn't seem to find time to concern himself overmuch with Clynde. Not that I've anything against him, for the once or twice I've met him he's been pleasant enough. But I will say this: It's his job to find us a parson, as I understand it, and it's time he did. It's a parson we want here, more than anybody.”

“Wouldn't the villagers regard a parson they didn't know as a foreigner?”Denby suggested.

“Maybe they would,” Wayburn replied. “But a parson's different. He's a cut above the ordinary run of chap, and that gives him a sort of authority. If he was the right sort, who knew how to handle folk, they'd soon get to look up to him, even though they mightn't go to church. He'd have to interest himself in things, of course, and get about the village. Not sit at home in that old rectory all day, and only show himself in the pulpit on Sundays.”

Denby found himself in full agreement with this definition of a parson's duties. But he made no comment, and after a while Wayburn went on: “They're a rum crowd, and no mistake! Most of them have never gone anywhere or seen anything, and they seem to think that the whole world is like Clynde, maybe a bit bigger. One or two of the older chaps have never been as far as Fencaster. It's my belief they'd be frightened out of what wits they've got at seeing so many folk together.”

Denby smiled. “They don't meet many crowds on the marshes, I take it,” he remarked.

“It's a fact they don't,” Wayburn agreed. “Some of them go all day without speaking to a soul. And there's another thing. Clannish isn't the word for them. You see, they've married among themselves so long that they're all related. All one family, as you might say, and as usually happens in families, they're always squabbling among themselves. But let a stranger come along and interfere, and they're up in arms at once. It doesn't do even to ask a simple question. They think you're being nosy, and shut up tight.”

“How do they earn a living in a place like this?”Denby

“That's one of the questions it's best not to ask,” Wayburn replied. “I've wondered myself, but most of them seem to have a shilling or two to spend on a drop of beer. A few of them work on the land over the hill. You saw the farms there as you rode from Rendolvestone, I dare say. As for the rest, they pick up what they can. Longshore fishing, crabs in the season, wild-fowling, shellfish in the creeks, samphire from the marshes, and what not. There's not what you'd call a fortune in it, but they manage to make enough to rub along.”

Denby finished his glass of beer, got up, and laid an unfinished roll on the counter. “Will you dispose of that for me?” he said. “I'm very glad to have made your acquaintance, Mr. Wayburn. Perhaps we shall meet again.”

Wayburn glanced at the roll without enthusiasm. “It'll do for the fowls, maybe,” he replied. “If you should be coming this way again, sir, I hope you'll look in. Good morning to you.”

As he left the Anchor Denby looked at his watch. He had a couple of hours before him before he need start back to Rendolvestone to catch his train. Leaving his bicycle where it was, he walked a short distance along the road to a rough bridge spanning the dyke beside it. Crossing this, he found himself on a track which stretched out across the marshes towards the sea-wall. As he followed this, he congratulated himself upon having found such a mine of local information as Mr. Wayburn. Being a foreigner, his opinion of his neighbours might be tinged with prejudice. One thing at least was certain. In Clynde, a parson was badly needed.

And Denby felt that he was the right sort, as defined by Wayburn. His experience in the Royal Air Force had taught him the art of handling folk, men especially. He might, by patient effort, succeed in raising the mental and spiritual standard of his parishioners. And that, in his own view, was the whole duty of a parson. The remoteness of the place had no terrors for him. Such time as he could spare from his duties he intended to devote to study. And the rectory, from the glance he had had of it, seemed an ideal place for that.

The track followed a more or less direct course. Here and there it crossed a lesser dyke by means of a perilous plank, slippery and without a hand-rail. Not a pleasant path to negotiate after dark, Denby thought. He had the marshes to himself, but for the flocks of birds feeding upon it. At length he reached the sea-wall and scrambled up the steep slope to the top. On the farther side was a bank of shingle, sloping sharply to the grey-blue sea, empty but for a few fishing boats, far off from shore.

To his left was the mouth of Bromhoe Creek, seeming in the clear light to be nearer than it actually was. Turning round, he found a wide panorama. The line of low hills, bare but for a few scattered trees here and there. The cluster of houses that was Clynde, dominated by the church standing above the village. Away to the right, at the head of the creek, the slightly larger cluster of Bromhoe. This contained two landmarks: the church tower and a tall iron chimney, stayed so that it resembled the funnel of a ship. A clump of trees on the hill beyond marked the position of Bromhoe Castle, but from this point the house itself was hidden.

For a long time he stood there, absorbing every detail of the scene. His mind was already made up. If it could possibly be managed, and his faith in his old headmaster was such that he felt sure it could, he would become the new rector of Clynde. He walked briskly back to the Anchor and picked up his bicycle. Then he rode to Rendolvestone, and thence by train back to Fencaster.

III

Sir Ambrose Denby, tenth baronet of that name, had had a rather unusual career. The second son of the three sons of the eighth baronet, he had, at his father's death, been left with very little money, but a keen determination not to allow this to hamper him. What slender resources he had he invested in purchasing an interest in a small engineering firm. By dint of hard work, aided by his own mechanical genius, the firm had prospered and grown out of all recognition. In 1946 he had retired, a rich man, from active participation in the business.

His elder brother had died childless some years earlier, and he had succeeded to the baronetcy. His younger brother had been killed in an air raid in 1941, leaving an only son, Henry, who had adopted the career of a politician. Having a natural gift for hoodwinking the simple electorate, he had been returned to Parliament. Since then he had soared like a rocket to the political stratosphere, and was now a member of the Cabinet.

Sir Ambrose's own son, Jonathan, was an only child, two years younger than his cousin. The two boys had been at Satterthwaite together, where, without being antagonistic, they had gone their separate ways without much regard for one another. Of the two, Jonathan, Denby minor, as the Bishop had remembered him, had seemed by far the more promising. Henry's cocksureness, and his gift of getting what he wanted by dubious means, were not such as to appeal to either masters or pupils. It was supposed by most people, including his father, that Jonathan would develop into a shining light in one of the learned professions.

It had come, if not as a shock, at least as a matter of profound surprise to Sir Ambrose, when, after a couple of terms at Oxford, Jonathan had announced his intention of taking Orders. Sir Ambrose, far from being antagonistic to the Church, was a man of strong and genuine Anglican convictions. Nor had there been any question of Jonathan following his father in the engineering business. His undoubted brilliance was intellectual rather than mechanical. Jonathan had always known his own mind. If he had decided upon his vocation, argument would serve no purpose. But Sir Ambrose had always been ambitious on his son's behalf. It hardly seemed to him that a parson had very much chance of making a name for himself in this world.

Lady Denby, an eminently sensible woman, had been alive at that time. And, after discussion with her husband, summed up the matter: “Jo means to be a parson, and we couldn't do anything about it even if we wanted to. The boy has brains, as you know well enough, and brains can't be kept under. Our son will be Archbishop of Canterbury one day, though it's not likely that either of us will live to see his enthronement.” She did not, for she died shortly after her husband's retirement, leaving him forlorn in the house in Kensington where they had lived together, 12 Guist Square.

It was here, in the comfortable drawing-room, that Sir Ambrose and his son were sitting on the evening of the day after the latter's visit to Clynde. Jonathan had described his interview with the Bishop, and the steps he had taken in consequence. “I'm strongly attracted to Clynde,” he said. “I feel I might be able to do some good there. G. W. K. wants me to go there, I could see that, and I'd rather be in his diocese than any other. But he told me I was to discuss the matter with you before I came to any decision.”

Sir Ambrose smiled, for he knew very well that the decision was already made. That his son wanted to bury himself in a remote country parish was a bitter disappointment to him. He had seen little or nothing of Jo while he had been with the R.A.F., and he had hoped that now he was demobilised they might have some life in common. He had had visions of a London parish for Jo, where his abilities would surely earn him preferment. It seemed to him that a country parson, lost in the wilds of Icenshire, would be lucky if he ever became a Canon of Fencaster. And from that to the Primacy was a far cry.

“Discuss it with me?” he said as cheerfully as he could. “Well, I'm ready. I remember your Bishop when he was Master of Satterthwaite, and always thought him a wise man. He doesn't seem to have tried to persuade you; rather the reverse. Do you think you would be acting for the best in going to this place?”

“I do,” Jonathan replied earnestly. “Not materially, perhaps, but owing to your generosity I needn't consider that. But, spiritually, I feel I can be useful there. And, after all, a parson ought to consider the spiritual before the material. There's only one lion in the path, as I've told you. The patron, Lord Mundesley.”

“Yes,” said Sir Ambrose. He was sorely tempted, for a word from him in season might put an end to this Clynde idea. But what would be the good? If Jo found he couldn't go to Clynde he might well hit upon some other outlandish spot, even more remote. “I know Lord Mundesley,” he went on quietly. “He's a fellow-member of my club, and I often see him there when he's in town. It took him some time to forgive me for being Henry's uncle. To say that he dislikes the members of the present government and their works would be an understatement. But since I've convinced him that I don't share Henry's political views, we've become good friends.”

“G. W. K. gave me a hint about that,” Jonathan replied. “It never occurred to me that you might know Lord Mundesley. That ought to make things much easier. What sort of a fellow is he?”

“You won't find a bottle of Smith's Elixir in his medicine chest at Bromhoe Castle,” said Sir Ambrose. “He does his best to forget that he's the son of a patent medicine vendor, and he's very much the grand seigneur. But when you can persuade him to unbend, he's not at all a bad chap. Mind you, I've only met him at the club. I know nothing of his family, or what sort of state he maintains at Bromhoe Castle. I enjoy talking to him, for I find him remarkably intelligent. So much so, that I've wondered more than once if he hadn't something up his sleeve.”

“What sort of thing?”Jonathan asked, puzzled by his father's cryptic remark.

“I've no idea,” Sir Ambrose replied. “Something unexpected, if you know what I mean. He makes a great show of being a landed proprietor, looking down on us lesser mortals who are, or have been, engaged in industry or commerce. But he knows quite a lot about such things, just the same. The patent medicine strain in his blood, I dare say. It wouldn't surprise me to learn that he was the hidden hand behind some enterprise or other.”

Jonathan laughed. “The hidden hand? That sounds a bit sinister, doesn't it?”

“Oh, no,” his father replied. “It's a form of snobbery, that's all. There are men like that. They don't want their names to appear in connection with any commercial activity. Such matters are not compatible with their aristocratic dignity. So they remain in the background, exercising their control through their members on the board. It's only a guess on my part that Lord Mundesley is one of these men. But his violent reaction against the associations of Smith's Elixir would make such an attitude on his part quite understandable. And there's another thing. He comes up to London pretty often. What for?”

But Jonathan was not really interested in the possible commercial interests of Lord Mundesley. They could have no bearing upon his patronage of the living of Clynde. “I wonder if you could say a word to him on my behalf?” he asked.

“Wait a bit,” Sir Ambrose replied. “You're supposed to be asking my parental advice, you know. And in my capacity of a fond father I'm going to ask you a question. Is there any one else whom you ought to consult?”

Jonathan smiled affectionately. “I know very well what you mean. No, there isn't. It's not that I'm allergic to women, or that I believe in a celibate priesthood. The simple fact is that I have not yet met any woman whom I have had the slightest inclination to marry. You'll believe me when I say that, I know.”

“Of course I believe you,” Sir Ambrose replied. Secretly he wondered how Jo, with his many attractions, had escaped so long. “Very well, then. You, a bachelor, propose to establish yourself in this outpost of civilisation. Have you considered the material factors? To begin with, where do you mean to live?”

“At the rectory,” Jonathan replied unhesitatingly. “Married or not, that's where the rector ought to be. I've thought it all out. I've still got my old campaigning kit, camp-bed and all. I shall start with that, and get what furniture I want by degrees. I've been far less comfortable in many a R.A.F. station overseas.”

“Yes,” said his father doubtfully. “But there at least you had someone to look after your bodily needs. You needn't worry about furniture. There's far too much in this house for my needs, and you can take what you like. I hope you won't be too spartan to equip a spare room, so that your aged parent can come and stay with you now and then. But who's going to look after you? Do the cooking, and that sort of thing?”

“Again, I've thought of that,” Jonathan replied. “I'm not all that unpractical, you know, I don't want a housekeeper living on the premises. There's sure to be a woman in the village who'll come in every day and do what's necessary. But I'm not going to make any arrangements of that kind in advance. I'd rather have time to look round and get to know my parishioners before I make a selection. Meanwhile, I shall set to and fend for myself. It won't be the first time I've had to do that, I assure you.”

Sir Ambrose shrugged his shoulders. “Very well. I suppose you know better than I do how a rector should enter upon his duties. Now I don't know whether you've ever given thought to the future. Taking the longest view, I don't suppose that you'll be permanently content with a remote country parish. This is what I want to impress upon you. Don't let financial considerations stand in the way of anything you may want to do. You know very well that you can always call upon me for anything you want.”

“I do know that,” Jonathan replied sincerely. “And I can't tell you what a comfortable feeling it gives me. It means I can stretch out a helping hand to those in need. But it isn't likely that I shall ever call upon you. You've already given me more than I want for myself.”

“For yourself, perhaps,” his father said meaningly. “But some day you may have others beside yourself to consider. Never mind. Let's look further ahead still. At my death you will be amply provided for. I have made a will, leaving everything I possess to you. And since at the time I made it there was always the possibility that you might be killed in action, I made a provision that, should you die unmarried, the money should go to Henry, my only surviving relative.”

Sir Ambrose checked Jonathan's instant protest at any mention of his death. “We've all got to die sometime,” he went on tranquilly. “And now that we're on the subject, you'd better know exactly how you stand. I'm going to tell you, in the strictest confidence, something that until now I've kept to myself. Some years ago, when Henry was an obscure opposition backbencher, he came to see me. He told me frankly that he was ambitious, but that to realise his ambitions would cost him more money than he possessed. He had in mind some political job or other, but what it was I didn't ask him. By the way, has it ever struck you what a subtle jest it is that a successful politician should acquire the title of the Right Honourable? When any consideration of honourable behaviour is the last thing to enter into their calculations?

“But that's beside the point. To cut a long story short, Henry asked me for a loan of five thousand pounds, and, though I disagreed with Henry's particular brand of politics, I let him have it. After all, he's my nephew, and I could afford it. He has never mentioned the matter since, nor has he made any attempt to repay the money. I dare say that he thinks the word loan, as between uncle and nephew, is a mere euphemism for a free gift. The point is this. My will provides that all debts due to me on my death shall be forgiven. And that, as it stands, includes Henry's five thousand. I hope you don't feel that you've been swindled by that provision?”

“Why, of course not!”Jonathan exclaimed. “I look upon it as just one more example of your generosity. From this moment I mean to forget that you've ever told me about the loan to Henry.”

“I'm relieved to hear you say that,” Sir Ambrose replied. “We'll both forget it. Perhaps, if and when Henry becomes Prime Minister, he'll remember it for himself. By the way, I thought it only fair to tell him at the time that, failing you, he would be my heir. You see, if you'd been killed, and while the war was on that horror was always present in my mind, he would have been the heir to the baronetcy in any case, and he might as well know that the money would be his too. Well, I've got that off my chest. Now let's return to your affairs. If you have definitely made up your mind you want to go to this place, Clynde, I won't attempt to dissuade you. What do you want me to do?”

Jonathan hesitated. He could tell, from his manner, that his father was not wildly enthusiastic about the Clynde idea. “Well, if you could have a word with Lord Mundesley,” he said. “I gather from what G. W. K. said that he can insist upon an appointment, but naturally he'd rather things didn't come to that. Lord Mundesley might be more kindly disposed if I were introduced to him by you, rather than more formally by the Bishop.”

Sir Ambrose nodded. “I'll do that. Lord Mundesley isn't in town just now. At all events he hasn't been to the club lately. The best thing I can do is to write to him at Bromhoe Castle.”

“That's awfully good of you,” Jonathan replied gratefully. “I'll write to G. W. K., telling him that you've done so.”

In the course of a few days Sir Ambrose received a cordial reply. The gist of it was that Lord Mundesley would be in London very shortly. Would Sir Ambrose and his son lunch with him at the club on the following Thursday?

Sir Ambrose chuckled as he showed this to Jonathan. “I shall have a diplomatic cold that day,” he said. “I'm not going to play the part of a proud parent exhibiting his off-spring to a prospective patron. You can go alone and show on your paces. Once the stiffness has worn off, you'll find him easy enough to get on with, I fancy.”

Jonathan had been to the club more than once before with his father, but it was with some trepidation that he presented himself there on the appointed day. He was left standing in the hall while the porter took his name to the smoking-room. Shortly Lord Mundesley appeared. He was a man verging on sixty, rather short and inclined to stoutness. There was nothing aristocratic about his features, which were rather commonplace. Jonathan's immediate impression was that his manner was more dignified than his appearance.

Lord Mundesley stopped short, a yard or so away, and looked at Jonathan searchingly. “I should have known you anywhere for Denby's son,” he said in a slow and ponderous voice. “The likeness is quite remarkable. But where is your father, may I ask? Has he not come with you?”

Jonathan was not prepared to tell even a diplomatic untruth. “My father felt unable to come with me,” he replied.

“I am sorry,” said Lord Mundesley. “But no doubt we shall meet another day. You and I shall have a few minutes' conversation before lunch. Come with me.” He led the way to a small room, which they found unoccupied. “We can talk here undisturbed,” he went on. “I am given to understand that you are seeking my sanction to your appointment as rector of Clynde?”

“That is so,” Jonathan replied. “The Bishop of Fencaster is prepared to appoint me, subject to your approval.”

“So he informs me,” said Lord Mundesley. “I received a letter from him to that effect a few days ago. But you appear somewhat young to perform the duties of a rector. How old are you?”

“I'm thirty-three,” Jonathan replied. “I'm bound to confess that I have had no previous experience as a parish priest, for since my ordination I have been a chaplain with the R.A.F.”

“Indeed?” said Lord Mundesley, with an air that such details were beneath him. “I fail to understand why the Bishop is so insistent upon an appointment to Clynde. He has already introduced candidates to me, who were in my opinion quite unsuitable. It seems to me that one rector should suffice for both parishes. You are a single man, I believe?”

“I am,” Jonathan replied. “And I have, at present at least, no intention of getting married.”

“Perhaps you are wise,” said Lord Mundesley. “A parson's wife can do much good in a parish. On the other hand, she can do considerable harm. What terms are you on with that brilliant star in the political firmament, our gifted Minister of Iron and Steel, Henry Denby?”

Jonathan was struck by the bitterness in his voice. “We're friendly enough when we meet, which isn't very often,” he replied. “But I do not share his political views, to which I am completely indifferent. I believe that it is not consistent with a parson's duties to concern himself with politics.”

Lord Mundesley nodded pontifically. “I fully agree. The rector of a parish should confine himself exclusively to the , spiritual welfare of his flock. You are aware, I assume, that the stipend attached to the living is inconsiderable. In your own interests, would it not be better for you to seek a more lucrative post?”

“The stipend doesn't worry me,” Jonathan replied. “Thanks to my father's generosity, I have means of my own.”

“And one day you will succeed to the barony,” said Lord Mundesley, as though speaking to himself. He relapsed into silence, regarding his guest with a contemplative frown. Jonathan had an acute sense of being weighed in the balance, and earnestly hoped he would not be found wanting. Then, after a long interval. Lord Mundesley roused himself abruptly. “Let us go in to lunch,” he said.

During the meal Lord Mundesley did most of the talking. He described Clynde and its neighbourhood in terms which were hardly encouraging, pointing out the remoteness of the district and the difficulties of access. From this he went on to speak darkly of the winter storms which ravaged the unprotected coast. But he must have realised that his words made very little impression upon Jonathan, for over the coffee he grudgingly gave his consent. “I have a great regard for your father,” he said. “I am prepared to accede to his wishes in regard to his son. If the Bishop desires to appoint you to Clynde, I shall raise no objection.”

“That is extremely kind of you, Lord Mundesley,” Jonathan replied politely.

Lord Mundesley waved this aside. “Whether you are wise to accept the appointment is another matter. You may find conditions such that you will be forced to relinquish it before very long. There can, of course, be no question of a single man inhabiting the rectory. It is a large and rambling house, and most of it is in a state of hopeless disrepair. However, I own most of the property in the parish. No doubt I shall be able to arrange for you to occupy a house more suitable to your needs. You will leave that to me. I will take the necessary steps on my return to Bromhoe Castle next week.”

Jonathan saw nothing to be gained by arguing the point. He had obtained the patron's not very enthusiastic approval, and that was enough to go on with. He took his leave of Lord Mundesley and returned to Guist Square, where he found his father awaiting him. “Well, Jo, how did you get on?”Sir Ambrose asked.

“Not too badly,” Jonathan replied. “At all events. Lord Mundesley promised to raise no objection to my appointment. I can't make him out. His attitude seems to be that he doesn't particularly want a rector at Clynde. But if there's got to be one, I should be no more undesirable than any other.”

Sir Ambrose laughed. “He's a queer chap. I found him difficult at first. But you'll get on with him all right, once you've settled down.”

“I hope I shall,” Jonathan replied. “It's comforting to know that once I'm appointed he can't turn me out.”

IV

Jonathan said nothing, even to his father, about the matter of the rectory. His ideas on that subject he kept to himself. But nonetheless they were very definite. He had no intention of being beholden to any of his parishioners, even to the patron. He felt that Lord Mundesley's intention of establishing the rector in one of the houses he owned was not altogether disinterested. Such an arrangement would give the squire a very definite hold over the parson. Any difference of opinion between them would be overshadowed by a veiled threat of eviction.

Whereas, entrenched in the rectory, the parson's position would be impregnable. It was Church property, beyond Lord Mundesley's control. The only person who could dispossess the parson of his freehold was the Bishop. Besides, other considerations apart, it was Jonathan's view that a rector should live in his rectory, or at least in a part of it. Not only was it his official residence, but his parishioners would expect it of him.

Jonathan did not anticipate any serious difference with Lord Mundesley. His father was a good judge of character, and when he said that once one had got over Lord Mundesley's pompous and dictatorial manner, he was comparatively easy to get on with, he was probably right. But Jonathan's interview had shown him that the patron was a man who expected his dictates to be obeyed. That was all very well in the material sphere. But in spiritual matters Jonathan was resolved to preserve his complete independence. He would allow of no interference with the manner in which he performed his duties. And, now he came to think of it. Lord Mundesley had displayed little interest in Jonathan's clerical qualifications. He hadn't even asked him if he was High Church or Low. That hardly suggested the likelihood of interference.

In any case, Jonathan had no intention of beginning his incumbency by bickering over where he was to live. Lord Mundesley was a masterful sort of person, and in Jonathan's experience such types were best met by a show of determination. He would, so to speak, take the position by storm, and face Lord Mundesley with a fait accompli. When he woke up one morning to learn that the new rector had already established himself in his rightful habitation, he would probably shrug his shoulders and say that if the silly young ass liked to live by himself in a barrack, it was no concern of his.

So Jonathan made his preparations, quietly but swiftly. On Monday, January 31st, he took leave of his father, and went by a morning train to Fencaster, taking with him a kit which would have served him for a remote station in the desert. On arrival at Fencaster he left this in the cloakroom, and, having lunched, called at the Palace.

The Bishop was away visiting a town in the diocese, but the chaplain received him. The chaplain's attitude, though distant, was not unhelpful. “The Bishop was glad of your decision to accept the living of Clynde,” he said. “I understand that you have secured the patron's approval. The Bishop wrote to Lord Mundesley on the matter, and received the reply that he had no objection to your appointment.”

“Is there any reason why I should not start my duties at once, pending formal induction?”Jonathan asked.

“None whatever,” the chaplain replied. “The sooner the better. The date of the ceremony of induction can be arranged later.”

Little more was said. On leaving the Palace, Jonathan went to a firm of taxi proprietors, and engaged a car and driver to take him to Clynde. He picked up his kit and started off. The driver proved taciturn, and replied to Jonathan's attempts at conversation merely in monosyllables. After a silent journey they reached their destination, and under Jonathan's direction drew up at the rectory. Their arrival was entirely unheralded, for there was nobody about. Between them they carried the kit round the house and deposited it in the veranda. The driver, having been paid, with a substantial tip in addition, set off on his way back to Fencaster.

Left alone, Jonathan felt strongly elated. This was his first parish, and he was, in his own sphere, master of all he surveyed. The gaunt appearance of the empty rectory, and the growing darkness of the afternoon, did not depress his spirits in the least. Obviously, the first thing to be done was to secure admission to his future home. He recalled the notice on the church door. Whoever held the key of the church would have the key of the rectory as well. Or at all events they would know where it could be obtained.

He set off down the slope, and passed through the village without attracting attention. He was wearing a heavy black overcoat over his clerical dress, and in the failing light a casual glance would not reveal him as a parson. He reached Fisher's Row, and knocked on the door of Number Two. It was opened by a middle-aged woman, bent and rheumatic, who eyed him with evident curiosity. “If it's my husband you want to see, he's not back from work yet,” she said.

Jonathan unbuttoned his overcoat sufficiently to display his collar. “My name is Jonathan Denby, and I'm the new rector,” he replied cheerfully. “I've come to ask you where I can get the key of the rectory.”

“Bless my soul!” she exclaimed. “We did hear a new parson was coming. My husband is one of the churchwardens, and he heard about it from his Lordship. Well, sir, he'll be glad to know you're coming, to be sure.”

Evidently she took this to be merely a preliminary visit. Well, so much the better, Jonathan thought. He didn't want any fuss made over the fact of his arrival. Let the parish awake to the reality of the rector being already in residence. “May I ask what your husband's name is?” he suggested tentatively.

“George Docking, sir,” she replied. “He works over at Bromhoe, and he won't be home just yet. And you're asking for the key of the rectory. You'll be wanting to look over it, I don't doubt. It's here, I'll get it.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Docking,” said Jonathan. He waited on the doorstep for a minute or two until she returned with a key, to which a label was attached. “It's the key of the door round at the back,” she explained. “The front door, what you can see from the road, is nailed up and has been these many years.”

Jonathan thanked her, and went off with the key in his pocket. Next morning would be time enough for him to begin making the acquaintance of his parishioners. The very few people he met glanced at him inquisitively, but did not speak. He regained the rectory, and inserted the key in the lock of the door leading on to the veranda. It turned with some difficulty; evidently the door had not been unlocked for a considerable time. However, at last the key turned, and the door swung open, squeaking on its hinges.

He went in, to find himself in a fairly wide hall, at the further end of which he could just perceive in the dim light . the foot of a staircase. On either side an open door revealed an empty panelled room. The first thing to be done was to shift his kit from the veranda. He brought it in piece by piece and deposited it in the room on the right, of which the marble mantelpiece suggested that it was intended as a drawing-room.

This done, he continued his exploration. Passing down the hall he found a third and smaller room, which he immediately decided should be his study. Like the other two rooms it was panelled, and had a distinctly ecclesiastical appearance. Under the rise of the staircase was a baize door. Pushing this open, be found himself in a stone-flagged passage. Facing him, at the end of this, was a heavy oak door. He tried this, and found that it was securely locked and fastened; it was too dark to see how. This door, he realised, had been the connecting link with the wing of the house now disused.

Opening off the passage were the domestic premises. A kitchen, with a fairly modern, but very rusty range, probably installed by the late incumbent. A pantry, fitted with shelves, empty but for a number of empty bottles. A big scullery and wash-house, in one wall of which was the back door of the wing, locked and bolted. Beside the sink was a pump with a long handle, from which radiated a complicated system of pipes. The purpose of the pump was obvious enough. Water was not laid on from the mains, and this was the sole source of supply. Jonathan did not mind. Pumping the water every day would be good healthy exercise.

Another thing he had already noticed was that neither gas nor electricity was available. During his visit to the Anchor he had seen electric fittings there, but evidently the current had not been led up from the village. That matter could be rectified in due course, and meanwhile he would have to be content with oil lamps. Details like that didn't worry him overmuch. Though it bore every sign of having been for long unoccupied, with plenty of dust everywhere, this wing of the house at least was in excellent repair.

He mounted the staircase, to find at the head of it a landing. At the far end of this was an archway, bricked up and plastered, which had evidently been the first-floor communication with the disused wing. On this floor were five bedrooms, two of them large, and a combined bathroom and lavatory. There were no attics above, but a trap-door in the ceiling of the landing gave access to the roof.

Having finished his exploration, Jonathan went downstairs again to unpack his kit. It was quite dark by now, but he had brought with him a couple of portable electric lamps, and a supply of batteries for them. These he set so as to throw light upon his proceedings. While rummaging about in the scullery he had found a bunker which contained some scraps of wood and several lumps of coal. With these he started a fire in the room that was to be his study. In front of the fireplace he set up a folding table and a camp stool. Then he divested himself of his clerical garb, folded it up carefully, and laid it on a second camp-stool This done, he put on the clothes he had been wearing when he first visited Clynde. For to-night he could afford to be, not the rector, but a householder intent upon setting his house in order.

When he had finished changing, he carried upstairs his suitcases, and his old camp-bed with its equipment of bedding, and put them in one of the smaller bedrooms. He had brought with him a Primus stove, a few pots and pans, cutlery and a supply of food. These he took into the kitchen, and having arranged everything else to his satisfaction, he set to work to prepare a meal. Water was the first requirement. The pump in the scullery worked stiffly but efficiently, and after a couple of hundred strokes or so the overflow pipe began to trickle. He got the Primus going, filled a kettle from the tap over the sink, and put it on. When it boiled, he made a pot of tea. Then he put on a frying-pan with a couple of chops in it, cut two slices of bread and smeared them with margarine.

As he ate his meal before the study fire he felt supremely contented. This was luxury, compared with some of the billets he had known. He could carry on like this for a week or two, and then, when he had got the rectory furnished, it would be an ideal place in which to live. What his father had said was perfectly true. There was plenty of superfluous furniture at Guist Square, stored away and never used-enough at all events to satisfy his son's requirements. He decided that he would furnish the three ground-floor rooms, the drawing-room as a lounge in which he could receive visitors, the dining-room, and his own study. Upstairs, the two larger bedrooms would be enough. One for himself, and one for his father when he chose to visit him.

When he had finished his supper he cleared away, and sat down to make a list of what he would want. It was extraordinarily quiet and peaceful in the study. The only sound that came to him was the faint whispering of the breeze in the tops of the trees surrounding the house. It took him all the evening to make out the list, thinking of every detail. Then he wrote a letter to his father, asking him to get a firm of movers to pack the things and bring them to Clynde. He concluded the letter: “Don't you worry about me. I'm going to be very happy here, and I hope it won't be long before you come and stay with me.” He enclosed the list with the letter, addressed it, and laid it aside, ready for posting in the morning.

Glancing at his watch, he saw that it was past ten o'clock. He tidied up what few belongings he had, and locked the outer door. Then he went upstairs, washed and went to bed. He read a chapter in his pocket Bible, then turned off the lamp he had set on the floor beside the bed. A few minutes later he was asleep.

When he woke, it was with a sudden start. Had he been dreaming, or had he really heard a queer noise? He listened, but the noise was not repeated. The luminous dial of his watch showed the time to be half an hour after midnight. The uncurtained window was plainly visible, for the moon had risen and shone fitfully between the drifting clouds. Jonathan turned over to compose himself to sleep again. But this time there could be no mistake about it. A faint but unmistakable scraping, as of a heavy object being dragged across a floor. It ceased; then, after a fairly long interval, recurred again.

The first explanation that occurred to Jonathan was rats. One might expect a house so long unoccupied to be infested with them. And, in the silence of the night, rats made the oddest noises. Then he remembered something he had almost forgotten: the Bishop's remark that the rectory was alleged to be haunted. Well, ghosts wouldn't worry him, as long as they refrained from keeping him awake. Then came a heavy muffled thud. It would take an outsize rat, or a particularly hefty poltergeist, to make a row like that.

It was impossible to tell where the noises came from, but their source seemed to be inside, rather than outside, the house. Jonathan sat up and listened. Burglars were unthinkable, if only because no burglar would operate so noisily. Wait a minute, though. Nobody, with the possible exception of the Dockings, knew that he was in the house. An intruder might believe that he could make as much noise as he pleased with impunity. On the other hand, if he thought the house was empty, what could he gain by breaking in?

As these reflections passed rapidly through Jonathan's mind a fresh sound reached him. A faint rattling, as of glass bottles being moved about. He remembered the empty bottles he had seen in the pantry. There was a famous case on record of bottles being thrown about by supernatural agency. Was this a manifestation? A protest against the rectory becoming occupied again, after having stood empty for so long? Well, the poltergeist was sadly mistaken if he thought that such disturbances would drive out the present occupant.

The rattling was repeated, and Jonathan decided that it was too muffled and distant to proceed from the pantry, which was immediately beneath the room in which he was. In any case, he told himself, supernatural manifestations were the last resort of the credulous. All the same, he was not quite so unperturbed as he tried to pretend. These mysterious noises in an empty house were eerie, to say the least. He felt the hair at the back of his head rising uncomfortably. Then an inhuman screech, at which he started violently.

Inhuman? Yes, but it didn't follow that it was necessarily superhuman. It had been not unlike the noise made by an iron-bound crate being dragged across a stone floor. Anyhow, it would never do just to sit up in bed and listen. That could only end in reducing him to a state of dithering funk. He felt he must take some sort of action before his courage ebbed away. Without switching on his lamp, he got out of bed and put on his trousers and coat over his pyjamas. Then with a pair of bedroom slippers on his feet, and his lamp, unlighted but ready for instant use, in his hand, he softly opened the door of the room.

For the moment all was quiet. He crept out on tiptoe to the landing, and listened there. All the windows were of course uncurtained, and, as he had expected, enough dim moonlight filtered through them for him to be able to see his way about. He glanced into all the rooms on that floor, especially the bathroom. It occurred to him that the plumbing there might be responsible, but the only sound that came to his ears was the slow drip of one of the taps into the bath.

He made his way silently downstairs, and went to the outer door leading on to the veranda. This was locked, with the key on the inside, just as he had left it. In the pantry he found the bottles undisturbed. The fire in the study had gone out, but his belongings there had not been touched. In none of the other rooms was there any sign of interference, and the back door in the scullery had not been unbolted. It was perfectly clear that no human intruder had entered the house, and Jonathan felt the creepy dread of the supernatural returning.

He shivered as he stood in the flagged passage beyond the baize door. It was cold there, and the dim light, coming and going as the clouds sailed across the moon, cast the most disturbing shadows. One might easily imagine spectral forms flitting in and out through the open doorways. Then, suddenly, there was another muffled thud. This time there could be no doubt of the direction from which it came: from beyond the fastened door leading into the disused wing.

This was so incredible that Jonathan felt he must be mistaken. But the thud came again, removing any vestige of doubt. Whoever, or whatever, had caused it was on the other side of that door. He switched on his lamp and examined it. It was rigidly fixed, but the fastenings were invisible. They must have been secured from the other side. But one thing was manifest. The door had not been opened for a very long time. The dust and cobwebs clinging to the edges of it showed that clearly enough.

The only other means of access to that wing, apart from the bricked-up archway on the first floor, was the front door. This, according to Mrs. Docking, had been unused and fastened up for a long time. If the noises Jonathan had heard had been due to human agency, the wing must have been broken into. But why, if it had been empty and unoccupied for so long? And then an idea occurred to him. Was it possible that squatters, unaware of his arrival, had decided to take possession of the vacant property?

Anything more unlikely could hardly be imagined. But Jonathan knew very well that further sleep was impossible until he had solved the mystery. One thing was pretty obvious. If any one was in the wing, he could only have got there by breaking down the front door.

He switched off his lamp, came back to the veranda door, unlocked it and stepped outside. As he did so, the moon came out from behind a cloud. Keeping under the shadow of the trees, he made his way cautiously along the path, noiseless m his slippered feet. So he reached the corner of the deserted wing, and turned it.

V

After Jonathan's departure from the house in Guist Square, in a taxi laden with his carefully chosen kit. Sir Ambrose Denby felt strangely lonely. During the last few weeks he had got used to having his son about the place, and now he realised he was going to miss him badly. To distract his thoughts he went to the club, as he frequently did in the morning when he was alone. He looked into the smoking-room, but found none of his cronies there. Lord Mundesley was not in London, and he saw no one else he felt like talking to.

He picked up a newspaper, and sat down to read it. But he couldn't concentrate upon the news of the day, for his thoughts were with Jonathan. How would he get on in his parish? Perfectly well, of course. He had the gift of making himself popular wherever he went, and he would very soon find his feet. There might be some initial friction with Lord Mundesley, but that would very soon smooth itself down.

Sir Ambrose sighed, wishing that his son had found a living rather less remote. As it was, it might be months before he saw him again. For a long time to come, Jonathan would be far too busy to spare much thought for his old father. Sir Ambrose put the paper aside, got up and went into the writing-room. He might be a sentimental old fool, but he would like to know that the first letter Jonathan received had been from him. He sat down and wrote, no more than a few lines, wishing him the best of luck. This he posted in the box in the hall. Jonathan would be sure to get it by the first post next morning.

About an hour after Jonathan's visit to Mrs. Docking that afternoon, her husband came home. George Docking was a heavy, taciturn man nearing sixty. He had been born and bred in Clynde, and rarely journeyed further than Bromhoe, where he worked. Mrs. Docking was getting tea, but when he entered by the back door she desisted. “What do you think, George!” she exclaimed. “The new parson's been here, and a very nice young gentleman he is too. He wanted the key of the rectory, so I gave it him.”

George nodded. “I guessed he'd be along soon. But what did he want the key of the rectory for? He's not going to live there.”

“What do you mean, not going to live there?” his wife asked. “Where is he going to live, then?”

“I'll tell you about that later on,” George replied impatiently. “Now we've got to get those arks shifted before we have tea. Bring the lantern along, so we can see what we're at.”

They went out by the back to the little meadow where they kept their fowls. Assisted by his wife, and with much clacking protest from their inhabitants, George shifted the wooden structures to fresh positions. It took them half an hour or more, for George was deliberate in his movements, and Mrs. Docking was unhandy with the lantern. When the job was finished to George's satisfaction, they went back to the cottage and at length sat down to tea. “Now then!” said Mrs. Docking. “Just you tell me about the parson, and how you know he isn't going to live at the rectory.”

George knew that he would get no peace until he had satisfied his wife's curiosity. “I don't know that it's any concern of yours,” he grumbled. “But if you must know, I'll tell you. Lordy”—Lord Mundesley was always referred to as Lordy by his humbler neighbours-” Lordy sent for me up to the castle at dinner-time. He told me he'd seen the new parson while he was in London and that as he was a single man he wouldn't want to live at a great place like the rectory. He said he'd arrange to let him have that house in the street, that old mother Hanson went out of at Christmas.”

“He'll do well enough there,” Mrs. Docking replied. “It's large enough for a gentleman all by himself.”

“Lordy told me I was to see Ted,” George went on. “He's to look round the place, see what wants doing, and let Lordy know. I'll slip round to Ted's presently.”

“He told me his name was Denby,” Mrs. Docking replied. ' I expect he came over from Fencaster or somewhere, just to look round. And he'd want to see what the rectory's like, even if he isn't going to live there.”

George had no comment to make upon this. He didn't feel called upon to concern himself about the new parson until he came to take up his duties. He finished his tea in silence, then smoked a reflective pipe by the fireside. When he had digested his tea, he got up and went out, again by the back door. Like most country folk, the Dockings always entered and left the house by that door. The front door was rarely used, and was habitually kept locked.

George's first visit was to Ted, the local builder and decorator, who lived in the village street. He gave him Lord Mundesley's message, then retraced his steps to the Anchor. Half a dozen customers were in the taproom, arguing the point what effect the latest weather forecast would have upon. the tides. George took no part in the discussion. He probably did not utter a dozen words before he left at closing time. It certainly did not occur to him to mention the visit of the new parson.

Next morning, after breakfast, he took his bicycle from the shed at the back, and wheeled it to the road. Happening to look back, he saw something hanging on the knob of the front door. On going to investigate, he found it was the key of the rectory, with the label attached. He took it round to the back. “Here, missus!” he called. “Here's that key. I found it hanging at the front. You'd best put it back where it belongs.”

“Well, I never!”Mrs. Docking exclaimed. “Mr. Denby must have brought it back yesterday evening while we were in the meadow. As he couldn't make any one hear, he left it there for us to find.”

“That'll be it,” George replied, lacking interest in the matter. He mounted on his bicycle and rode off towards Bromhoe.

Mrs. Docking was busy in the kitchen after her husband's departure when a female voice summoned her. “Are you there, Mrs. Docking?”She went to the back door to find the postwoman, smart in her uniform. “Good morning, Mrs. Docking,” she said. “Sorry to trouble you, but I've got a letter here I hardly know what to do with. I'll show it to you.”

She looked through the bundle of letters she was carrying, took one out, and gave it to Mrs. Docking. It was addressed to the Rev. Jonathan Denby, M.A., the Rectory, Clynde, Icenshire. Mrs. Docking nodded. “That's right. That's our new parson. He was over here yesterday.”

“So we've got a new parson coming at last?” the post-woman asked. “And high time too. The place has gone all to pieces since the last one left. But he's not living at the rectory yet, is he?”

“No, nor likely to,” Mrs. Docking replied. “If you like, you can leave it with me, and I'll give it to him when he comes.”

“I'm not supposed to do that,” said the postwoman doubtfully. “It's addressed to the rectory, you see.”

“Then drop it in the letter-box there,” Mrs. Docking replied handing the letter back. “Mr. Denby will be over here again before long, I don't doubt. And when I see him I'll tell him it's there waiting for him.”

The postwoman went on her way, and Mrs. Docking returned to her household duties. As she scrubbed the kitchen table, it occurred to her that she had better see if Mr. Denby had shut up the rectory properly. She had to go out to do some shopping anyhow, and it wouldn't take her long to go up the rise. So, later in the morning, which was fine for the time of year, she set out with the key and her shopping basket.

Mrs. Docking did not share her husband's taciturnity, and she was thrilled with her importance as the first person in the village who had spoken to the new parson. She found occasion to go into each of the three shops in the village, and to stop and speak to every one she met. Within half an hour nearly everybody in Clynde must have known that a new rector was coming, that his name was Denby, that he was young and ever so nice to look at, and, most exciting of all, that he was unmarried.

Eventually Mrs. Docking tore herself away from the village, and laboriously climbed the slope towards the rectory. Truth to tell, she felt a trifle guilty. It was her job to keep the empty house aired and dusted, and for some time she had neglected to do so. The last time she had been at the rectory must have been well before Christmas. Mr. Denby must have noticed the dust lying everywhere. Well, if he said anything, she would tell him that the weather had been that nasty, and her rheumatics that bad, that she hadn't been able to manage it.

With this resolve she entered the gateway, and walked along the path round the house. Everything looked exactly the same as she had last seen it. The door opening upon the veranda was locked. She inserted the key, turned it, and entered. The daylight from outside, shining through the open doorway, showed up the dust on the floor of the hall shockingly. It was so deep that it showed Mr. Denby's footprints quite plainly. She looked into the rooms on the ground floor, and found just the same state of affairs. Upstairs things were no better. Mr. Denby couldn't have failed to see the dust for himself, for his footprints were all over the house. And that was the only trace of his visit. He must just have had a good look round, then locked up and hung the key on the knob of Mrs. Docking's front door.

But it would never do to neglect the place any longer. If Mr. Denby didn't come there again, someone else might. Perhaps, if he wasn't going to live there, the rectory might be let. Mrs. Docking decided that she would get to work that very afternoon, and give the place a good sweep round. As she left, she glanced at the wire letter-box fixed inside the veranda door. The letter the postwoman had shown her was there all right.

The Bishop returned to Fencaster that Tuesday. As soon as he entered the Palace, the chaplain fell upon him with the correspondence which had accumulated during his absence. The Bishop glanced through it, and laid it aside to be dealt with in due course. “Anything else?” he asked.

“Nothing of any importance, my Lord,” the chaplain replied. “Mr. Denby, the newly appointed rector of Clynde, called here yesterday afternoon, and I had some conversation with him.”

“Ah!” the Bishop exclaimed reminiscently. “Denby minor, rector of Clynde! How the years pass! It seems only yesterday that he was sitting in the Sixth at Satterthwaite. I am very glad that we have at last been able to present someone acceptable to Lord Mundesley. What did Mr. Denby say to you?”

“He seemed most anxious to commence his duties immediately, my Lord,” the chaplain replied. “He asked me if there was any objection to his doing so before he was inducted, and I told him there was not. That meets with your approval, I trust?”

“Certainly it does,” said the Bishop. “I will arrange to induct him at the earliest possible opportunity. Look through my list of engagements and let me know when it will be most convenient to do so. We shall hear from Mr. Denby again very shortly, no doubt. Did he tell you when he meant to take up residence at Clynde?”

“At once, my Lord,” the chaplain replied. “I gathered that he was on his way there when he came here.”

“Excellent!” the Bishop exclaimed. “That shows a most commendable keenness. I have no doubt that Mr. Denby will come to be numbered among the most active clergy in the diocese. Thank you, that will do.”

That same morning Sir Ambrose Denby went again to the club. He was thinking that by now Jonathan would have got his letter, and might be pleased to know that his father had not forgotten him. Perhaps he would be able to spare time to scribble a line in reply.

Shortly before one o'clock Sir Ambrose was sitting in the smoking-room. He had decided to lunch at the club, for he found meals by himself at home rather trying. He would get over Jonathan's departure sooner or later, he supposed, but meanwhile it was no use pretending that he didn't feel lonely. As someone approached his chair, he looked up from his newspaper, to see his nephew standing beside him.

Henry Denby was a member of the club, but since he had become a Cabinet Minister he had found very little time to make use of it. He was tall, rather cadaverous, with sparse sandy hair and a cunning, foxy expression, and habitually gave the impression of being in a tearing hurry. He was the typical popular demagogue, without a trace of natural dignity or even of good manners. Perhaps he considered such things as incompatible with the doctrines of the party to which he belonged. “I thought I should find you here,” he began, without preliminary. “Anyway, having five minutes to spare, I dropped in on the chance. I've got something to say to you.”

He lowered himself into a chair beside his uncle, and went on in a low impressive tone: “I was speaking to the Prime Minister just now. He happened to mention that the rectorship of St. Withberga's, Westminster, has become vacant. The chap who's there now has been made a Dean or something. The job is in the P.M.'s gift, and he asked me if I knew any one to fill it. He wants a young and energetic parson, who'll put his back into the job. Of course I thought at once of Jonathan. Nothing like keeping the plums in the family. Will you tell him to come and see me at the Ministry at four o'clock? 111 take him over to Number Ten and introduce him to the P.M.”

Having given his message, he got up to go, but Sir Ambrose detained him. “Hold on a minute, Henry. Jonathan isn't in London. He left yesterday to take up the living of Clynde, to which he has been appointed.”

“Clynde?”Henry replied vacantly. “Where the devil's that? I never heard of the place.”

“It's in Icenshire,” Sir Ambrose replied. “About twenty-five miles north of Fencaster, I believe.”

Henry frowned. “North Icenshire? The member for that constituency is one of those confounded Liberals. I can't think how he got in; our agent must have been asleep. The trouble there is the influence of that pompous old reactionary, Lord Mundesley. How electors can let themselves be diddled by a man like that I can't imagine. And that reminds me. The P.M. will want some assurance from Jonathan that his views are perfectly sound. It would never do to appoint a man to St. Withberga's who might run counter to the party. Send him a wire, will you, and tell him to come back at once and get in touch with me. We mustn't let the grass grow under our feet, or some other candidate for the job is bound to come along.”

“This wants talking over,” said Sir Ambrose. “Can't you stay and have lunch with me?”

Henry shook his head. “Not possibly. I've got to attend a function at half-past one. Lunch with the Women's League of Progress, at which I'm to speak. I shall be late if I don't dash off. Besides, there's no need for talk. Just you tell Jonathan to come and see me without delay. I'll fix it up all right.”

Before Sir Ambrose could say another word Henry was gone, striding across the smoking-room towards the door. Sir Ambrose frowned at the retreating figure of his nephew, resenting his dictatorial manner. He had made up his mind that Jonathan should take what he called the job. The wishes of Jonathan or his father need not be considered. It would never enter Henry's head that the behest of a Cabinet Minister should not be obeyed. Confound the fellow's swollen head!

Later, while Sir Ambrose was having his lunch, his indignation abated somewhat. After all. Henry's intentions, if not his manners, were good. His instinct had been to keep the plums in the family. Or was it that, by doing Jonathan a good turn, he hoped to set off the loan he showed no inclination to repay?

Well, that hardly mattered. The point was that St. Withberga's was indeed a plum. The incumbent there was always in the eyes, not only of the public, but of the politicians. Henry had said that the present rector had been preferred to a Deanery, and he was by no means an exception. St. Withberga's had always been regarded as a first step towards promotion in the Church. Whereas, at Clynde, Jonathan in spite of his talents might languish in obscurity indefinitely. At the back of Sir Ambrose's mind was the thought that, as the rector of St. Withberga's, Jonathan would be close at hand. But he tried to put this behind him. He must consider his son's interests, without any selfish bias on his own part. And surely those interests would best be served by Jonathan obeying Henry's instructions.

But would those material considerations weigh with him? Having set his hand to the plough, would he consent to turn back? And there was a further difficulty. Henry had said that the Prime Minister would require an assurance from Jonathan that his political views were perfectly sound. That was quite understandable, even though it implied that his doctrinal views were a matter of indifference. Sir Ambrose knew that his son had always kept aloof from politics. Would he be prepared to conform, if only outwardly, to the programme of any particular party, as a necessary condition to appointment to a clerical post?

One thing was quite certain. Henry's easy suggestion would not work. No telegram, however urgently worded, would bring Jonathan back to London. In the first flush of his enthusiasm he would refuse to abandon his parish for any prospect, however bright. Persuasion would have to be brought to bear, and the only person who could apply that persuasion was Sir Ambrose himself.

But what line was he to take? He knew that his son would listen patiently to his arguments, but would he agree with. them? Material arguments alone would not suffice. He must discover some appeal to Jonathan's conscience, point out to him that his talents would be far more valuably employed at St. Withberga's than they could possibly be at Clynde. Talents, that was the clue! The parable of the talents! He would accuse Jonathan to his face. By burying his talents in the seclusion of Clynde, he was playing the part of the unprofitable servant. It was his manifest duty to accept Henry's offer.

Sir Ambrose realised, clearly enough, that this involved a journey to Clynde, and that with the least possible delay. Under ordinary circumstances he would have shrunk from such an undertaking. But Jonathan's welfare must not suffer from considerations of his own personal discomfort. Jonathan had told him how he intended to reach Clynde. His father could do the same. Go by train to Fencaster, and hire a car there. He would drive to Clynde, talk to Jonathan, and bring him back to London.

But that could hardly be done in a single winter afternoon. When he had finished his lunch Sir Ambrose consulted a timetable. He found that a train left Liverpool Street at 10.25 in the morning, arriving at Fencaster three hours later. He decided to take that next day. Should he warn Jonathan that he was coming? No, better not. Let him burst suddenly upon Jonathan, with his arguments red hot. He contented himself by writing a note to Henry, asking him to make an appointment for Jonathan to see him on Thursday morning. This he left at the Ministry on his way home.

In the course of the afternoon he received a telephone call from Henry's private secretary. The Minister would see the Reverend Jonathan Denby at eleven o'clock on Thursday morning. So far, so good. Jonathan could hardly refuse to keep the appointment, whatever the outcome might be. Sir Ambrose spent the evening in marshalling his arguments and anticipating any difficulties that might arise. There was the Bishop to be considered, of course. He might not be best pleased at Jonathan's resignation of the living as soon as he had accepted it. But the Bishop was an eminently reasonable man. He would not stand in the way of any one's advancement, especially that of a former pupil of his. He, of all people, would understand the application of the Parable of the Talents. Sipping his port after dinner. Sir Ambrose persuaded himself that the Bishop might be regarded, not as an opponent, but as a powerful ally.

VI

On Wednesday morning. Sir Ambrose set forth, rather in the spirit of a crusader. He lunched on the train, and on arrival at Fencaster asked a porter to find him a taxi-driver who was willing to drive him to Clynde, wait there for a while, then drive him back. After a short delay a man willing to do this was found.

In contrast to the driver Jonathan had engaged on Monday, this man proved both talkative and helpful. He was perfectly familiar with Clynde and its neighbourhood, for he was a native of Bault, the market town. He was very interested when Sir Ambrose told him that he was the father of the new rector. He had heard that a parson was coming, but didn't know that he had got there already. A parson was just what Clynde wanted, to brighten things up a bit. The folk there were no better than savages.

They reached the rectory about half-past two. Sir Ambrose recognised it at once from Jonathan's description. A forbidding-looking place, he thought at first sight of the boarded windows. But when he reached the further side, he changed his opinion, as Jonathan had done. Beside the veranda door was an old-fashioned bell-pull. He tugged at this, and a bell clanged emptily in the distance. But no one answered it, and after a pause he impatiently tried the door, to find it locked. He peered through the windows, to find both rooms empty. Quite obviously, Jonathan was not at home.

Sir Ambrose told himself that this could not be wondered at, in the middle of the afternoon. Jonathan was probably in the church, or he might be visiting his parishioners. He decided to try the church first, and crossed the road to the gate. As he passed through the churchyard, an ancient stone vault caught his eye. In the side of it was a nail-studded oak door, and it bore a carved inscription, now undecipherable. The tomb of some forgotten family, no doubt. He reached the church, to find the door locked. But the notice regarding the key might be helpful. Whoever lived at Number Two, Fisher's Row, should know where Jonathan was to be found.

He returned to the car, and gave this address to the driver. They drove down the slope to the village, where the driver hailed the first person they met, to be told that Fisher's Row was just round the corner. They proceeded on their way, and pulled up outside Number Two. Sir Ambrose got out and ignorant of the ways of the countryside, knocked on the front door.

After an interval, he heard sounds inside the cottage and the turning of the key in the lock. The door opened and Mrs. Docking appeared, to stare at him open-mouthed. To receive two strange visitors within a couple of days was an event entirely outside her experience. “Good afternoon,” said Sir Ambrose civilly. “Can you tell me where to find Mr. Denby, the rector?”

Mrs. Docking shook her head. “No, that I can't, sir. He was over here on Monday, and spoke to me, but I haven't seen him since.”

This seemed rather puzzling. “I've tried the rectory,” said Sir Ambrose, “but he's not there, and the door's locked.”

“Yes, that's right,” said Mrs. Docking. “Mr. Denby did look over the rectory. He got the key from me and brought it back again. But he's not going to live there. Lordy-Lord Mundesley, I should say-is fixing him up with a house in the street. It's being got ready for him now.”

Sir Ambrose found this most astonishing. Had Jonathan allowed himself to be persuaded by Lord Mundesley not to live in the rectory after all? Such compliance on his part, after the determination he had expressed, would be most unlike him. “Are you quite sure that. Mr. Denby isn't living at the rectory?” he asked.

“Well, I ought to know,” Mrs. Docking replied scornfully. “I was up there only yesterday, giving the place a thorough sweep out. And Mr. Denby wasn't there; no, nor nothing belonging to him neither. And what's more, he couldn't be, for I've got the key here, put away safe.”

“Then where is he living now?”Sir Ambrose asked. “Is he staying somewhere in the parish?”

“He's not stopping in the parish, or I should have heard about it,” Mrs. Docking replied with decision. “As I say, he was over here on Monday, but he didn't tell me where he was stopping. In Fencaster, I expect. Or maybe nearer than that, in Bault, at the Crown there.”

Sir Ambrose thanked her and walked thoughtfully back to the car. Why on earth hadn't Jonathan left word where he was to be found, he wondered irritably. But there was one obvious clue. If he had agreed to fall in with Lord Mundesley's plans they must have met. Perhaps, on inspecting the rectory, Jonathan had found it definitely unhabitable. It was then that he had gone to see Lord Mundesley, who had told him to leave the matter of a residence to him. He might have offered to put Jonathan up at Bromhoe Castle, while the house in the street was being got ready for him. Anyhow, he would know where he was.

The driver was quite willing to take Sir Ambrose to Bromhoe Castle, and they set off along the road past the Anchor. It followed the edge of the marshes, in wide curves to avoid the swampy ground.

In a few minutes the car covered the three miles to Bromhoe village, a trifle larger than Clynde, and looking much busier. In the centre of it was a group of brick buildings, above which rose a tall iron chimney. Over the main gateway was a signboard: “North Icenshire Transport Ltd., Agricultural and General Hauliers.” In the yard beyond were several lorries, with men at work among them.

The driver, with local pride, pointed this out to Sir Ambrose as they passed. “They be a go-ahead lot,” he remarked. “I've got a brother working for them and he says they've more to do than they can properly manage. And it's only a few years back that they were quite in a small way. Just two or three lorries, carting sugar-beet to the factory and that. Now they've got a fleet of them, going about all over the country. And they've got their own repair shop, where they can do everything for themselves.”

Sir Ambrose was politely impressed, and they drove on, past the church, which looked rather neglected, and then up a winding and fairly steep rise. After half a mile or so they reached a lodge with a pair of gates standing wide open. The driver turned in, and Bromhoe Castle came into view. The house belied the name, for though an ancient castle might have occupied the site, the present building was comparatively modern, and had nothing castellated about it. It was square and unbeautiful, imposing only by its size.

The car drove up to the front entrance, and Sir Ambrose got out. He rang the bell, and the door was opened by an elderly butler. Yes, his Lordship was at home. Sir Ambrose gave his name, and was led to a room where Lord Mundesley was seated before a blazing fire. He rose as his visitor was announced. “Why, Denby, I am delighted to see you,” he said. “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”

“I'm hunting my boy Jonathan,” Sir Ambrose replied. “I have an urgent message for him. You know where I can find him?”

Lord Mundesley's expression evinced a certain displeasure.

“I certainly do not. I understand from the Bishop that your son has been presented to the living of Clynde. I told him that I would take steps to find a house suitable for him to reside in, and I have done so. I have expected to hear from him, but he has not communicated with me. I have neither seen nor heard anything from him since he lunched with me at the club that day. I am bound to point out that this displays a discourtesy on his part which I should not have expected, particularly from a son of yours.”

Sir Ambrose curbed his annoyance with Lord Mundesley's pompous manner. “Jo didn't mean any disrespect, I'm quite sure,” he replied. “He left me on Monday morning, and got to Clynde that afternoon. I've spoken to a woman who saw him. I can't think where he can have got to.”

Lord Mundesley's manner showed that he had very little interest in Jonathan's whereabouts. “I am sorry that I cannot help you, Denby. You will, I trust, remain and take tea with me?”

“I can't do that, I'm afraid,” Sir Ambrose replied. “I've got a car waiting for me.”

“I will not detain you,” said Lord Mundesley. “I regret that you are unable to pay me a longer visit, but no doubt you are anxious to resume the search for your son.” He pressed a bell-push, and the butler reappeared. Sir Ambrose made his farewells and was escorted to the front door. It passed through his mind that Smith's Elixir must have been a gold-mine to its proprietor, for the castle flaunted an air of slightly vulgar opulence.

His first sensation when he regained the car was one of relief. After all, Jonathan hadn't allowed himself to be browbeaten by that pompous ass. He had gone his own way, with the self-reliance he had always shown. But where could that way have led him? Even if he had found the rectory impossible, he was the last person in the world to have abandoned the living in despair. He must have settled somewhere temporarily close at hand. That woman at Fisher's Row had declared that he was not in the parish. Her conjecture was probably right. He was staying in Bault, or possibly at the fine's Head in Fencaster, where he had stayed before.

Sir Ambrose consulted the driver, who had by now become almost an old friend. If Mr. Denby was staying at Bault, he would be sure to have gone to the Crown, for there was nowhere else a gentleman would stay. It wouldn't be far out of the way to return to Fencaster by Bault. So once again they started off. Their route took them through Clynde, and Sir Ambrose could not resist a second visit to the rectory. But as before the door was locked, and judging by what he was able to see through the windows, the woman had been right. The house appeared completely empty, with no sign of Jonathan's belongings anywhere.

On reaching Bault, a small but prosperous-looking market town, Sir Ambrose inquired at the Crown. But here again he drew blank. The Reverend Jonathan Denby was not staying there, nor had any one in the hotel heard his name. On the way back to Fencaster Sir Ambrose began to feel just a trifle anxious. It was so unlike Jonathan to behave as he apparently had. He had set out from London fully intending to camp out in the rectory and get down to work without delay. It appeared that he had actually been to the rectory on Monday afternoon. What on earth could have induced him to change his plans? It could not have been the patron's insistence, for Lord Mundesley had not seen him.

At the King's Head in Fencaster the girl in the reception office remembered Jonathan's name. He had stayed there for a few days, a few weeks previously. But he had not been back since then. He might, of course, have gone to one of the other hotels in the city. She mentioned the names of one or two of these, but Sir Ambrose was not inclined to drive round making inquiries. He had another idea. If Jonathan had, for some reason of his own, decided to stay in Fencaster for the present, he would certainly have informed the Bishop. So the next call might profitably be at the Palace.

Sir Ambrose was received there by the chaplain, who listened to his explanation with a polite show of interest. “Mr. Denby called here on Monday, and I understood that it was his intention to proceed at once to Clynde. I am expecting to hear from him on the subject of his induction.”

“He did go on to Clynde,” Sir Ambrose replied. “I am sure that he looked over the rectory. But he is not there now, and apparently no one in Clynde has seen him since. Don't you know where he is?”

“I regret that I do not,” said the chaplain. “It is possible that the Bishop may know. If you will excuse me, I will ask him.” He went out, to return shortly. “The Bishop will see you himself. Will you come with me?”

The Bishop was in his study, and greeted his visitor warmly. “I remember you quite well, Sir Ambrose. You were a. regular attendant at Satterthwaite on the annual speech day. I am very glad of this opportunity of telling you how pleased I am that your son has become one of my diocesan clergy. I understand that you are in search of him. Can I help you in any way?”

Sir Ambrose felt that he had found a sympathetic listener. “I have a very urgent message for my son,” he replied. “I've just come from Clynde, and he isn't there. I may say that I've had no word from him since he left London on Monday.” And he proceeded to give a brief summary of his adventures.

“That is curious,” said the Bishop thoughtfully. “You tell me that Lord Mundesley has offered your son a house in the village?”

“That's what he said just now,” Sir Ambrose replied. “When he saw Jonathan in London he told him he would do so. Jonathan didn't want to make trouble by arguing with him, but he was determined to live at the rectory, whatever its drawbacks might be. He left London intending to take possession.”

The Bishop smiled. “I admire his strength of purpose. But I am not at all sure that Lord Mundesley is not right. I warned your son myself that a single man might find Clynde Rectory something of a white elephant.”

“He was prepared for that,” Sir Ambrose replied. “But he's not there, and I can't imagine where he's got to.”

“And you have an urgent message for him,” said the Bishop. “Nothing of a distressing nature, I hope?”

Sir Ambrose hesitated. He had not told Lord Mundesley why it was so necessary for him to find Jonathan without delay. The mention of Henry Denby's name would have caused the reaction of a bull to a red rag. But the Bishop would have to know sooner or later, and this was an opportunity of enlisting his support. “Distressing?” he began, feeling his way tactfully. “Oh, no, far from it. I don't know what your views on the subject may be, my Lord. The fact is that Jonathan has a very good chance of being appointed to St. Withberga's, Westminster.”

The Bishop raised his eyebrows slightly. “One has almost come to regard St. Withberga's as a political, rather than a clerical, appointment. The living is in the gift of the Prime Minister. Do I sense the intervention of another of my late pupils, Denby major, as I knew him?”

After this it was no use trying to hide anything, and Sir Ambrose came out with the whole story. “Like most parents, I am ambitious for my son's career,” he went on. “It seems to me he'd stand a far better chance of advancement at St. Withberga's than he ever could at Clynde. But I know Jonathan well enough to be sure that he will be guided by your advice in the matter.”

“It is a matter which must be left entirely to your son's conscience,” the Bishop replied gravely. “He gave me to understand that he felt his vocation to be that of a priest of a country parish. If he decides that the prospects of advancement outweigh that vocation, I shall in a measure be disappointed, but I shall not stand in his way. On the contrary, I will do all I can to further his choice. Does that satisfy you?”

“It more than satisfies me, my Lord,” Sir Ambrose replied gratefully. “But the first step is to find Jonathan.”

“Obviously the offer will not remain open indefinitely,” said the Bishop. “Your son might be spared a painful mental conflict if he were not found until the opportunity had passed. But we must not let that consideration influence us. Your son is a free agent, and the choice must be his.”

“Yes,” Sir Ambrose agreed. “It's up to him. But it's most exasperating not to know where he is.”

The Bishop nodded. “Just so. And in that I cannot help you. My advice to you is this. Whenever I lose anything, I go to the police, and they nearly always find it for me. I recommend you to call on my friend Colonel Heythrop, the Chief Constable of Icenshire, and ask him to set enquiries on foot. If you do decide to do so, I will tell my chaplain to ring him up and tell him that you are on your way to see him.”

Sir Ambrose thought this an excellent idea. He expressed his gratitude to the Bishop and left the Palace. As he drove to the headquarters of the Icenshire Constabulary, he felt more puzzled than ever. Self-reliance was an excellent quality, and he had always encouraged Jonathan to develop it. But he was carrying self-reliance rather too far in not letting any one know where he was to be found.

Upon introducing himself at police quarters. Sir Ambrose found that he was expected. “The Chief has had a message from the Palace, saying that you were coming, sir,” said the sergeant on duty. “Will you come with me?”

Colonel Heythrop, a man of vigorous appearance and shrewd expression, greeted his visitor cordially. “Sit down, Sir Ambrose, and tell me what I can do for you.”

Sir Ambrose repeated his story. “Of course, my son has billeted himself somewhere not far off,” he said. “I should not have troubled you, but for the fact that it is most important that I should get into touch with him without delay. It was the Bishop who suggested that you might be willing to help me.”

“Of course I'll help you,” Heythrop replied warmly. “As it happens, I've heard about your son already. I was at Bromhoe Castle the other day, shooting the last of the pheasants with Lord Mundesley. He told me that a new rector was coming to Clynde, and mentioned the name, though I had forgotten it until now. Don't you worry, Sir Ambrose. If your son is anywhere in the county we'll find him before many hours are past. What shall we say to him when we do find him?”

“I shall be very much obliged if you will ask him to come back to London at once,” said Sir Ambrose. “Tell him that his father wishes to see him upon a matter of the utmost importance, which cannot be delayed.”

Heythrop scribbled a note on a pad. “We'll do that,” he replied jovially. “And if he refuses, we'll bring him to you under escort. I'll send out instructions to my people at once.”

Sir Ambrose drove to the station, where he paid off his driver and amply rewarded him. It was very late in the evening when he reached Guist Square. His first words were to ask if any letter or message had come from Jonathan. There had been nothing.

VII

No policeman was stationed at Clynde. Constable Swale, who lived at Bromhoe, kept a supposedly watchful eye upon both parishes. His rather uneventful existence was disturbed by no very serious crime, for the local population seemed law abiding enough. His main concern was alleged poaching, a subject upon which, in his own private opinion, Lord Mundesley was just a trifle potty. Many a night had he spent in the woods adjoining the castle, in the company of the gamekeeper, who was almost as sceptical as he was himself. But never had they encountered a poacher there, nor any sign of one.

It was natural that Swale should be among the first to receive the instructions from headquarters. He could have given a negative reply off-hand, for he knew very well that no strange parson could have stayed in the neighbourhood for a couple of days without the fact coming to his ears. But that would not satisfy his superiors. He must make enquiries, and send in a formal report. Well, a real parson, as an object of search, would be a change from imaginary poachers.

He set out and made a round of Bromhoe, ending up at the inn. But, as he had anticipated, the only parson any one had seen was the Reverend Edmund Laverstock, the aged rector of Bromhoe. It occurred to Swale that birds of a feather flocked together. Mr. Laverstock might know where his colleague was to be found.

So he called at the rectory, a pleasant house just beyond the church, on the road leading to the castle. The rector's youngest daughter admitted him, and called her father. Mr. Laverstock was an old man, infirm and rather deaf, who disliked being disturbed in the evening. “Ah, Swale, what's all this about?” he asked testily. “If you want to see me, can't you come in the morning?”

“I'm sorry, sir,” Swale replied. “I only wanted to ask you if you know where Mr. Denby is.”

“Eh, what's that?”Mr. Laverstock asked. “Want to ask me what? Speak up, man, don't whisper.”

' Do you know where the Reverend Mr. Denby is, sir?”Swale shouted. “The new rector of Clynde.”

Oh, that's it,” Mr. Laverstock replied. “Why couldn't you say so at once? How should I know where Mr. Denby is? Lord Mundesley told me that he had been appointed to Clynde, but he hasn't arrived yet. If he had, the first thing he would have done would be to come and see me, since I have been in charge of the parish since the living has been vacant. When he does so, I will let you know. Good night.”

Swale left the rectory, thinking it a pity that the old chap didn't pack up and make room for a younger man. He mounted his bicycle and set off towards Clynde. By this time it was getting on for ten o'clock, a still winter night with a mist drifting in from seaward and over the marshes. He pedalled steadily along the lonely road, meeting no one until he reached the Anchor. Here it was closing time. The door was open, and Mr. Wayburn's stentorian voice could be heard, like an angel with a flaming sword expelling sinners from paradise. The customers stumbled into outer darkness, still arguing as they switched on their torches. Swale waited until they had dispersed, then, as Mr. Wayburn was about to shut the door behind them, made his appearance.

“Hallo, Swale!”Wayburn exclaimed. “Doing a bit of snooping, then? I don't serve drinks after hours. You ought to know me better than that by this time. Come along in.”

Mr. Wayburn, as an ex-policeman, was very much in Swale's confidence. On the rare occasions when there was any hint of trouble at Clynde, the landlord was the first person Swale consulted. “You can draw me one, for I'm dry,” he replied, as he entered the house. “That'll be all right.”

“Have it with me,” said Mr. Wayburn. “Well, what's up? Traced one of Lordy's pheasants to the village, have you? You didn't get much sleep on Monday night, from what they tell me.”

Swale took a long draught from the mug Wayburn brought him. “That's better!”he said appreciatively as he put it down. “Monday night! Lordy's got a bee in his bonnet, that's what it is. He rang me up that evening, just as I was having my supper, and said that he'd heard shots in the Hanging Coppice, and that I'd better go along there at once. I went to old Davey, the keeper, but he hadn't heard anything. All the same, the two of us went to the coppice and hung about there the best part of the night. But never a soul came near the place. Lordy must have been imagining things, as usual.”

Mr. Wayburn nodded. “Old Davey dropped in at dinner-time and told me. He says Lordy is crazy about his pheasants. But if it isn't poachers, what is it? You didn't come all this way for nothing.”

“It's not poachers, but a parson,” Swale replied. “You 'haven't seen one straying about, have you?”

“No, I haven't seen him,” said Mr. Wayburn. “But there's one about. The new rector, so I'm told. He was here on Monday, but the only person he spoke to was Mrs. Docking. She was telling the missus about him yesterday.”

“That's the one I want,” Swale replied. “What did Mrs. Docking tell Mrs. Wayburn?”

Wayburn shrugged his shoulders. “A lot of tittle-tattle, I dare say. You know what women are. She took a great fancy to him, from what I can make out. It seems he walked along to her place on Monday afternoon and asked her for the key of the rectory. She didn't see him again when he brought it back, but he must have done, for George Docking found it hanging on the front-door knob next morning.”

“Walked?”Swale asked. “He can't have come from far away, then. Where did he walk from?”

“That I couldn't say,” Mr. Wayburn replied. “No farther than the rectory, maybe. This is about the way of it. He drove over here, just for a look round, and left his car at the rectory. Then he walked down through the village to Mrs. Docking's. I've heard one or two say there was a stranger about that day. Tall, youngish, and wearing a heavy black coat. And after he'd taken the key back, he drove away again.”

“That's just it,” said Swale. “Where did he drive away to?”

“Why, wherever he came from, I suppose,” Mr. Wayburn replied. “But what I'm wondering is what you want him for?”

“I don't want him,” said Swale hastily. “Not what you mean, anyhow. It's his family that wants him. Headquarters rang me up to say that I was to find him and give him a message. He's to go up to London to see his father on urgent business. And that's all I know about it.”

“If his father doesn't know where he is, I don't know who else would,” Wayburn remarked. “He's not here anyhow.”

Swale finished his beer. “I'll be getting along,” he said. “Mr. Denby his name is. If you hear anything of him, you might send word along to me. Good night.”

He left the Anchor, but as he reached the roadway he hesitated. All he had learnt about the parson was that he had taken the key of the rectory and returned it. He must have been to the house, then. Wasn't it just possible that he had left something there to say where he had gone off to?

Obviously the first step was to see Mrs. Docking. He wouldn't knock her up if she had gone to bed, but he might as well go and see. He made his way round to the back of Fisher's Row, and was relieved to find a light in the kitchen of Number Two. He knocked on the back door, and Mrs. Docking answered it. “Why, Mr. Swale!”she exclaimed on recognising her visitor. “Whatever do you want at this time of night? There's nothing wrong?”

“There's nothing wrong, Mrs. Docking,” Swale replied soothingly. “It's about Mr. Denby, that came to see you on Monday afternoon. Do you know where he's stopping now?”

“No, that I don't!”she exclaimed. “There was a gentleman come here this afternoon and asked me the very same question. I'll tell you—“ And she launched upon a lengthy description of Jonathan's visit, and of how her husband had found the key next morning. “And I haven't seen, or heard word of him, since,” she concluded.

“Thank you, Mrs. Docking,” said Swale. “May I borrow that key for a while?”

“You can take it and welcome,” she replied. “But you won't find anything there. I was along yesterday to give the place a sweep out. Besides, Mr. Denby isn't going to live there. Lordy's getting the house that old Mrs. Hanson used to have ready for him. And by the time you've done with the key we'll be in bed, I don't doubt. Just hang it on the front-door knob, like Mr. Denby did.”

Swale took the key, and cycled off. He was not superstitious, a policeman couldn't afford to have ideas like that. He had heard often enough that the rectory was haunted, but yarns like that were only for ignorant villagers, afraid of their own shadows in the moonlight. Spooks or no spooks, he was going to have a look round.

All the same, as he left the village behind him and began to pedal up the slope, he began to feel vaguely uncomfortable. The mist had risen well above the level of the marshes, and was beginning to invade the higher ground, where it played strange tricks. His bicycle lamp was electric, and more than usually powerful. At one moment it showed nothing but a blurred circle of haze, at the next he could see the road clearly ahead of him, with another patch of mist like a stone wall beyond.

As he rounded the wall of the churchyard, he found himself in one of the clear spaces. The light of his lamp fell on the ancient vault, outlining it sharply and distinctly. In the background ghostly shapes flitted, appearing and disappearing. The apparitions were so realistic that he stopped and dismounted. But they were only the advance guard of the encroaching mist. He felt a faint cold air upon his cheek. The spectres advanced slowly, revolving in a solemn dance, until they enveloped the vault, shrouding it from his sight.

He shivered. It was a spooky sort of place, and no mistake. It wasn't to be wondered at that folk said it was haunted. He pushed his bicycle through the mist the few remaining yards to the rectory gate. It was so thick there that he almost had to feel his way. Once inside, he took the lamp off his bicycle, and by its light groped his way round the house. As he rounded the corner the mist cleared a little, and he was able to see his way clearly enough to the veranda door.

He stood there listening, but everything was deathly quiet. The only sound that reached him was the faint insistent barking of a dog, apparently at a vast distance. He unlocked the door and entered the hall. As he turned to close the door behind him, something white in the letter-box caught his eye. Was this the clue he had hoped to find? He opened the box and took out a letter. But it was addressed to the Rev. Jonathan Denby, and bore a London postmark. That couldn't help him much.

When he had put the letter back, he started to explore the house. The rooms, if not furnished, were certainly swept. Mrs. Docking had done her job thoroughly. He pushed open the baize door and reached the back passage. There he stopped suddenly, frozen into immobility. An indefinite sound came to him from overhead, He switched off his lamp and listened. He found himself in utter darkness, for the mist allowed no light whatever to penetrate the uncurtained windows. And the sound persisted. A steady, regular tapping, slow and unrelenting.

Still with his lamp extinguished, he felt his way back to the foot of the stairs. Then step by step he ascended, his rubber-soled boots making no noise. The floor above was in profound darkness, but the noise became louder with every step he took. He reached the landing, felt his way cautiously in the direction from which the sound seemed to come, and switched on his light.

He found himself in the bathroom, and the origin of the sound was immediately apparent. A tap was dripping, the drops of water falling resonantly upon the metal of the empty bath. Of course he might have guessed. But it was careless of Mrs. Docking to have left any water in the cistern of an empty house, with no fires being lighted. A sharp frost, and the whole system might easily freeze up. And then there would be a pretty job of plumbing for Ted the builder to see to.

Swale looked into all the rooms on this floor. As in the case of those below, they were utterly empty. If Mr. Denby had been over the house, he certainly hadn't left any traces behind him. Come to think of it, it wasn't very likely that he would, especially if he didn't mean to live there. And no wonder he didn't want to do that. It would drive any one potty to live in a house like this, all by himself. Why, there mightn't be another living soul within miles.

Swale's meditations were inspired by the profound silence. But for the steady dripping of the tap, the rectory was utterly soundless. Indoors, even the distant barking of the dog was inaudible. He felt impelled to whistle unmelodiously, just for the sake of hearing something. Having completed his circuit of the house, he went out, locking the door behind him. The mist was as tricky as ever, thick patches alternating with comparatively clear intervals. He rode down the hill to the village, seeing no signs of life. He would have been vastly surprised had he met any one, for the villagers were more than shy of that bit of road after dark.

In the village there were very few lights to be seen in the windows, and none in those of Fisher's Row. Swale hung the key on Mrs. Docking's front door and rode on. But at this lower level the mist was s»consistently opaque that he very soon dismounted and walked. It would be fatally easy to ride off the edge of the road into the dyke which ran beside it. He plodded on in a silence broken at regular intervals by the foghorn of the Ainsley Sand Lightship, far out at sea. It was just after midnight by the time he got home.

By next morning the mist had been swept out to sea by a steady south-easterly breeze. As soon as it was light enough to see, Eli Norgarth opened the door of his cottage and looked out. He was a man in the fifties, weather beaten and powerfully-built, with hair and closely trimmed beard both iron-grey. The cottage stood on a low spit of sand jutting into Bromhoe Creek, a short distance below the village. The tide was running up, lapping gently against the banks of the creek, and the air, though cold, gave promise of fine weather. In the distance, the occulting lantern of Ainsley Sand Lightship showed dimly in the first dawn, always a good sign. If it showed too clearly, it presaged heavy weather from the northward, bringing a nasty sea on that coast.

Eli was already clad in jersey, heavy trousers and long thigh-boots. As a matter of fact, except on Sundays, he was rarely seen in anything else. He was a member of the lifeboat crew, and so quick was he in answering the call, even at dead of night, that it was popularly supposed that he went to bed thus attired. He looked round the horizon, sniffed, and re-entered the cottage. “Rouse out, Ben lad!”he called in a deep voice. “We'll get started as soon as we've had a bit of grub.”

Eli's family consisted of his wife and two sons, of whom the elder worked with his father. Mrs. Norgarth was already getting breakfast ready, and following Eli's call, Ben appeared, yawning and sleepy-eyed. He was a younger edition of his father, strong, and when thoroughly awake, active. The three of them breakfasted, without undue haste, but wasting few words. The meal over, Eli and Ben left the cottage and walked across the spit to where their boat lay bobbing lazily in the muddy water.

She was an open craft, clumsy to look at, but eminently seaworthy. A short half-deck forward, with a mast stepped abaft of it. Astern of the mast, the casing which housed the semi-diesel engine. And in the stem a well, in which were scientifically stowed the long lines with pots attached to them at intervals.

Eh and his son waded out and climbed into the boat. “Weather's right for the patch inside the sands,” said Eli. “Shan't want the engine, she'll fetch out with the breeze as it is.” He hauled up the lugsail, which flapped encouragingly. “All right, let go,” he called, as he hauled in the sheet.

Ben, in the bows, slipped the moorings, throwing overboard the empty petrol can which served as a buoy. With Eli at the tiller, the sail filled and the boat gathered way. By this time the sun had risen, and the lantern of the lightship had been extinguished. In the growing light, the low banks of the creek slipped slowly past. The boat pitched sharply as she entered the broken water covering the bar at the entrance. Then she steadied to a slow gentle motion as they reached the open sea.

There was no need for conversation, for each knew exactly what to do. Eli sat at the tiller, a short pipe between his teeth, steering by the mast of the lightship, hull down in the distance. Ben opened the hatch of the engine-casing, and checked the lubrication. He was the engineer, and though they might not want the engine now, they would on the return journey. He whistled softly to himself as he worked. Then, satisfied that everything was in order, he went back forward, and curled himself up on the half-deck.

It was his business to keep a look-out. Not that there was anything to look out for, since, but for the lightship, the sea was empty. Vessels navigating along this coast kept well outside Ainsley Sand, and only their smoke was visible on the horizon. Only fishing boats used the waters between the Sand and the shore, and on this particular Thursday morning only Eli's boat was yet at work.

All the same, Ben was alert enough. It often happened that they came across flotsam well worth picking up, if only a baulk of timber, dropped overboard from some passing vessel, and swept inshore by the tide. That would come in for firewood, if nothing else. Or it might be something more valuable. Once they had salvaged a whole drum of oil, which had served as fuel for the engine for weeks.

They were rather less than half-way to the whelk-ground when Ben's sharp eyes caught sight of something bobbing among the waves. At this distance it was impossible to tell what it was. It showed for a moment, then vanished. A dolphin, perhaps. Ben stood up, shading his eyes as he peered into the low sun. The light on the wave-crests dazzled him, but he was sure the object appeared again. It could not be a dolphin, for it seemed inanimate, floating sometimes on the surface, sometimes just beneath it. “Hey, Dad!”he called. “There's something in the water yonder to wind'ard. Can't tell what it is.”

“Aye, aye,” Eli replied. “Best have a look. If it's to wind'ard, we'll want the engine.”

Ben sprang to the casing and pressed the starting-lever. There was an angry hissing of compressed air. The engine gave one turn, then stopped, with a deafening bang and a cloud of black smoke from the exhaust-pipe. That always happened, and Ben tried again. This time the engine responded, and after a preliminary cough or two started chugging noisily. Ben jumped forward, and after a few seconds caught a glimpse of the object. “There you are, Dad!”be shouted, pointing with outstretched arm. “Away yonder to starboard.”

Eli had lowered the sail. He kicked the clutch-lever into the ahead position, and as the boat gathered way under the engine, put the tiller hard over. “That'll do. Dad!”Ben called. “Steady as she goes.”

Very soon Eli saw the object for himself, rising and falling with the waves, and sometimes disappearing altogether. As the boat forged towards it, it dawned upon him what it was, and he shivered. It might have been the cold, now that they were heading into the wind. In his experience as a lifeboatman Eli had seen too many similar objects to be unduly perturbed by this one. “Stand by, lad,” he said soberly.

As Ben came aft, his father manoeuvred the boat alongside the object, and kicked out the clutch. Without a word the two of them leant over the side, and, seizing their opportunity, grasped the body. A powerful heave, and they dragged it from the water, to lay it in the bottom of the boat beside the engine-casing. From under the half-deck forward Ben produced a yellow oilskin coat, and laid it tenderly over the dead man.

Eli kicked in the clutch, and turned the head of the boat homewards. There would be no whelking for them that day. It passed through his mind that the reward for bringing in the body would make up for that. Noisily they chugged their way back up the creek, until Eli brought the boat to rest alongside Bromhoe quay.

VIII

Swale did not get up very early that morning. Having been out all Monday night, and half of the previous night, he felt entitled to a lie in. As he was dressing, preparatory to a late breakfast, there came a sharp rap on the door of his house. He heard his wife open it and speak to someone. Then she called up the stairs: “Come down. Jack, will you? You're wanted.”

He slipped into his coat, buttoning it as he came down. In the kitchen stood Ben Norgarth, looking preternaturally solemn. “Hallo, Ben!”Swale greeted him. “What's brought you here?”

“Dad sent me along,” Ben replied. “We've picked up a stiff 'un, about four mile off shore. Dad's there with him in the boat, alongside the quay. He says you'd better come along and see him.”

Swale nodded. It was not very unusual for bodies to be brought ashore on this coast. “Hold on a minute,” he said. He took a key from a hook on the dresser and put it in his pocket. Then he went to a shed at the back of the house and drew from it a wheeled stretcher. Accompanied by Ben, he set out.

The edge of the quay was lined with folk, peering gloomily into the boat below. But they stood aside as Swale appeared, leaving him a clear passage. Eli was standing in the boat beside the shrouded body and looked up as Swale hailed him. “Don't know who he is,” he said. “A stranger. Washed from a wreck somewhere, I reckon.”

The tide was by now full, and the gunwale of the boat was only a foot or two below the level of the quay. Between them the three men lifted out the body and laid it on the stretcher. Under the interested eyes of the onlookers Swale wheeled it away, water trickling from the stretcher as he went. On reaching the small mortuary at the back of the quay, he opened it with the key he had put in his pocket and pushed the stretcher inside.

He wasted no time in preliminary examinations, but went straight to the doctor's house. Dr. Puckpool was an elderly man, who had been in practice at Bromhoe for many years. Under a gruff manner he concealed a thoroughly kindly nature, and was well liked by everybody, from Lord Mundesley downwards. “Well, Swale, and what's your trouble?” he asked as the policeman was shown into his surgery.

“There's a body been brought ashore by the Norgarths, Doctor,” Swale replied. “Will you come and have a look at it?”

“A body?”Puckpool grumbled. “I've got enough to do looking after the living, without bothering about the dead. Never mind, I'll see this body of yours, if I must.” He picked up his bag and set off with Swale to the mortuary.

Arrived there, Puckpool drew off the cloth covering the body. It was that of a youngish man, but the features were unknown to either of them. The outer garments consisted of a pair of grey flannel trousers and a sports coat. No shoes or socks, and no hat. “Here, help me undress him,” Puckpool growled. They took off the trousers and coat, to find beneath them not normal underclothing, but a pair of pyjamas.

“That explains it,” said the doctor. “Shipwreck. This poor chap was down below when whatever it was happened. He put on the first things that came to hand and went on deck. Somehow he didn't get into the boats. Missed his footing and went overboard instead. Washed away before he could be picked up. That's it.”

“There's been no wrecks reported off this coast,” Swale objected. “Not for a long while.”

Puckpool shrugged his shoulders. “You don't know how far he may have drifted. All right, leave him to me. I'll have a look over him.” While Puckpool examined the body, Swale turned his attention to the clothing. The articles were not new, but of very good quality. There was nothing about them to throw any light upon the identity of the owner. All the pockets were empty, and there was not even a laundry mark on the pyjamas.

“I fancy I'm right,” said the doctor as he covered the body up again. “He's been in the water at least forty-eight hours, possibly longer. Whether drowning was actually the cause of death, I can't say, after that time. I'm inclined to think though that it wasn't, for he's got a fractured skull. Cracked his head when he fell overboard, no doubt, and that's why he couldn't save himself. I can't do any more. You'll inform the coroner, of course.”

They left the mortuary, and Puckpool went back to his surgery. Swale also went home. Before he sat down to his long-delayed breakfast he rang up police headquarters at Fencaster and reported the bringing in of the body. The sergeant who took the message undertook to let the coroner know. After breakfast Swale went out again. He would have to get statements from the Norgarths. He had only gone a few yards from the door of his house when a familiar figure cycled past. “Good morning, Mr. Wayburn!”he hailed. “What brings you over here?”

“Why, my lawful occasions, to be sure,” Mr. Wayburn replied as he got off his bicycle. “My customers want Jim Royston of the Cockleshell here to bring a team of dart-players over to my place next week. So I thought I'd just run over and fix it up with him myself, that's all. Well, have you found our parson yet?”

“No, I haven't,” said Swale. “But there's just been a body brought ashore. Care to have a look at it?”

“Not likely!”Mr. Wayburn exclaimed. “I've seen enough bodies in my time, while I was in the force at Fencaster. I've done with all that now. You can mind your body, while I slip along and see Jim Royston.”

“I'd like you to see this one,” Swale replied. “It won't take a minute, and you can surely spare that. The doctor says he's a shipwrecked mariner, but I'm not so sure. He doesn't altogether look like one to me. I'd be glad if you'd come along and tell me what you think.”

Mr. Wayburn allowed himself to be led to the mortuary. Swale unlocked the door and drew back the cloth. Mr. Wayburn stooped over the body and gazed at it intently. “Well I'm blest!”he exclaimed slowly and deliberately.

“Eh?” said Swale sharply. “What's got you? You don't know who he is, surely?”

“I don't know who he is,” Mr. Wayburn replied, still staring at the dead man's face. “For he didn't tell me his name. But I'm ready to swear he's the stranger who had his lunch in my taproom a few weeks back. A very pleasant-spoken gentleman he was. And he was wearing grey trousers and a brownish coat, I remember.”

Swale turned to the pile of clothing and held up the garments. “Like these?” he asked.

Mr. Wayburn nodded soberly. “Those are the very ones. That's him, there's no doubt about it.”

“Well, if you don't know who he was, that doesn't help us a lot,” said Swale. “Did he tell you where he came from?”

“Fencaster, he said,” Mr. Wayburn replied. “He'd taken a train to Rendolvestone, and biked from there.”

“What-brought him to Clynde?”Swale asked. “At this time of the year, too. Did he come to see somebody there?”

Mr. Wayburn shook his head. “I couldn't say. He didn't tell me much about himself or his business. And he didn't mention that he knew any one in the place. He did say that he'd never been in this part of the country before.”

“He's like to be buried in it, poor chap,” Swale remarked. They left the mortuary and parted company, Mr. Wayburn going on his way to the Cockleshell, and Swale to Spithead Cottage, to interview the Norgarths. Having secured their statements, he returned homewards, wondering who the dead man might be.

Already he had begun to think that he was faced with something more sinister than the recovery of the body of a shipwrecked mariner. But it had not occurred to him to associate the event with the instructions he had received from headquarters. There was nothing in common between them. No one would expect to find a parson, even dead, clad as this body had been. When Mr. Denby had called on Mrs. Docking, he had been dressed as a parson should be. She had described how he had undone his overcoat to show his dog-collar. But there was just this. The doctor had said the body had been in the water forty-eight hours or longer. That covered Monday evening, and that afternoon Mr. Denby had been seen in Clynde. And, it appeared, no one had seen him since.

All the same, it didn't seem very likely that the body was Mr. Denby's. What could he have been doing in his pyjamas? But it might be as well to make quite sure. The only person who had spoken to Mr. Denby was Mrs. Docking, and she would be certain to recognise him if she saw him again.

Bromhoe boasted a car for hire, aged and disreputable in appearance, but still serviceable. Swale made his way to its owner's house, and asked him if he could be driven to Clynde. The owner agreed, and they set out, to pull up at Fisher's Row. Mrs. Docking was at home, and naturally associated Swale's visit with his enquiries of the evening before. “I haven't seen or heard anything of Mr. Denby,” she began before he could get a word in. “I don't suppose he'll be back here now till Mrs. Hanson's house is ready for him.”

Swale did not want to put ideas into her head. Her inspection must be made with an open mind. “I've come about something else this time, Mrs. Docking,” he replied. “A body has been brought ashore at Bromhoe. Mr. Wayburn thinks it may be someone from Clynde, and suggested that you might recognise him, as you know every one in the village. Will you come and see? I've got a car waiting to take you to Bromhoe and back.”

As Swale had anticipated, the bait was successful. Mrs. Docking was flattered by the assumption that she was the fount of local knowledge. Besides, if it should turn out to be someone she knew, she would be the first with the news. Her story on her return would cause a sensation. “Well I never!”she exclaimed. “Whoever can it be, I wonder? Yes, I'll come with you, Mr. Swale, and willing.”

During the short drive Swale was relieved to find that this fresh excitement had driven Mr. Denby out of her head. She never once mentioned his name. They reached the mortuary, where Swale drew back the cloth, exposing the dead man's features. “Will you look now, Mrs. Docking?” he said.

She stepped forward, looked, and started back. “Never! It can't be!”she exclaimed, in a shocked whisper. Then she came forward again, and stared with wide open eyes, as though fascinated. “Yes, it is!”she said at last, in a tone of complete conviction. “It's Mr. Denby, that came to see me on Monday afternoon. It's no wonder he couldn't be found. But however did he come to get drowned like that, poor gentleman?”

Swale was neither able nor willing to answer that question. He ushered Mrs. Docking out of the mortuary and into the car. Having seen her start homewards, he walked back to his own house, rapt in thought. Mrs. Docking was not likely to be mistaken. He rang up headquarters and reported the identification.

“Well, that's a rum 'un, and no mistake!”the sergeant on duty commented. “Here, you'd better speak to the Chief, and tell him yourself. I'll switch you through.”

Colonel Heythrop listened to Swale's story with amazement. “This is extraordinary!”he exclaimed. “This woman you speak of. She's quite reliable? She's not imagining things?”

“I think she's all right, sir,” Swale replied. “I didn't suggest to her in advance who it might be.”

“Very well, I'll deal with the matter,” said Heythrop. “Is there any reason to suspect foul play?”

Swale did not commit himself to any definite reply. “Dr. Puckpool says the skull is fractured, sir.”

“The devil it is!”Heythrop exclaimed. “All right, Swale, that will do for the present.” He rang off and sat frowning at the desk in front of him. How in the world had the body of the newly-appointed rector of Clynde come to be floating out at sea with a fractured skull? And in such a curious combination of garments? It didn't seem to make sense. Obviously the first thing to do was to break the news to Sir Ambrose. In any case, he would have to view the body. Identification by this Mrs. Docking wasn't nearly good enough.

Then one of those minor hindrances, so often attendant upon emergency. Sir Ambrose hadn't left his address. It hadn't been necessary, since he had expected his son to get his message. The Bishop, who had suggested his visit, would probably know. Heythrop rang up the Palace and spoke to the chaplain. He did not know Sir Ambrose's address. But a letter had been received by the Bishop from Mr. Denby not long ago. If the Chief Constable would hold on, he would look it up. Yes, the letter was written on paper with the address 12 Guist Square, S.W.5. And there was a telephone number.

Heythrop put a trunk call through to this number. As it happened. Sir Ambrose had not gone to the club that morning, and replied himself. “This is Colonel Heythrop, the Chief Constable of Icenshire, speaking from Fencaster,” he heard. “You will remember calling upon me yesterday afternoon?”

“I remember very well,” Sir Ambrose replied. “It's very good of you to ring me up. You've got news of my boy?”

Heythrop's voice hesitated. “You must prepare yourself for bad news,” he said gravely.

“Eh, what's that?”Sir Ambrose replied sharply. “Bad news? You mean something has happened to Jonathan? You needn't trouble to break it gently. Tell me the worst straight out, whatever it is.”

“It is the worst,” Heythrop said slowly. “A body has been found, and is believed to be that of your son.”

For a few seconds Sir Ambrose made no reply. The blow had deprived him of the power of speech. He could only stare n front of him with unseeing eyes. Then, as the depths threatened to overwhelm him, he snatched at the straw. Believed to be that of your son! It wasn't certain. It mightn't be Jonathan after all. His energy returned in a sudden flood. “I will catch the next train to Fencaster,” he said firmly.

Heythrop sat at his desk, considering what was to be done. Swale's story was full of puzzles, which at first sight seemed insoluble. The salient fact was that the dead man, whoever he might be, had a fractured skull. This might have been due to an accident, or it might mean that he had been violently assaulted. Neither alternative seemed satisfactory. It was difficult to reconcile the circumstances with the theory of accident. On the other hand, who could have attacked him, and why?

It seemed to Heythrop that, even at the risk of ruffling the feelings of his own force, this was a case upon which the aid of Scotland Yard should be sought. Whether or not the dead man turned out to be indeed Jonathan Denby, he was certainly a stranger to the district. It was most improbable that an inoffensive stranger had been murdered by any of the local inhabitants. Far more likely, he had been followed from elsewhere by someone who bore him a grudge. In which case the inquiry would extend beyond the jurisdiction of the county constabulary. If the Metropolitan Police were to be involved, better sooner than later.

Having reached this conclusion, Heythrop made a second telephone call. This time it was to Scotland Yard, where he asked to speak to Sir Edric Conway, the Assistant Commissioner, who was a personal friend of his. He was put through, and gave Sir Edric a very brief outline of the case. “We believe the dead man to be a parson, of the name of Denby,” he concluded.

Sir Edric repeated the name. “Denby, did you say? Any relation to the Minister of Iron and Steel?”

“I never thought of that,” Heythrop replied. “His father is Sir Ambrose Denby, if that's any guide to you.”

“It is,” said Sir Edric. “Sir Ambrose is Henry Denby's uncle. Your parson was the Minister's cousin.”

“The devil he was!”Heythrop exclaimed. “Well, if we're going to move on such a high level, that's all the more reason why you should lend us a hand. If the cousin of a Cabinet Minister has been murdered, it's surely up to you.”

“We're no respecter of persons,” Sir Edric replied. “However, if you want us to step in, we'll do our best. I'll send one of my people to contact you right away. Will that do?”

Heythrop thanked him and rang off, congratulating himself upon the step he had taken. It might be quite true that the Yard was no respecter of persons, but, all the same, Henry Denby was a power to be reckoned with. If the Yard had not, been called in immediately to solve the mystery of his cousin's death, he would have wanted to know the reason why.

A few minutes later Heythrop was informed that the coroner had arranged to hold the inquest next day at half-past two. Swale had been instructed to make the necessary arrangements, and to summon a jury, under the general supervision of the superintendent from Bault. All this was a matter of routine, with which Heythrop had no need to concern himself. There was little more he could do for the present.

Sir Edric Conway sent for Inspector Arnold, who happened to be available, and repeated what Heythrop had told him. “It's all rather vague,” he said. “The identity of the dead man doesn't seem to be established with any certainty. You'd better get along to Fencaster as soon as you can, and report to Colonel Heythrop.”

Arnold caught the next train from Liverpool Street. Among his fellow passengers, though neither of them was aware of the other's identity, and they travelled in separate carriages, was Sir Ambrose. On arrival at Fencaster station, each took a taxi, and in consequence they arrived at police headquarters practically simultaneously.

Heythrop saw them in succession, exchanged a few words with each, and then introduced them to one another. He had his car in readiness, and Swale was warned to expect them. Late in the afternoon they set out for Bromhoe, and during the journey Heythrop told his passengers what little he knew. They reached the mortuary, where Swale was waiting for them, as dusk was falling. “Will you go in, Sir Ambrose?” said Heythrop gently.

Swale unlocked the door, revealing the darkness of the Ulterior. Sir Ambrose, like a man in a dream, followed him into the dingy little building. Silently Swale drew back the cloth, switched on his torch, and directed its powerful light on to the dead man's face.

For a long while Sir Ambrose stood rigidly, the icy hand of despair closing on his heart. At last, without a word, he staggered out into the open air. He stared about him with a bewildered air at the quayside, deserted but for the group beside the car, at the creek, from which the tide had ebbed leaving only a trickle of water. Then, as Heythrop laid a sympathetic hand upon his arm, he spoke. “That is my son Jonathan Denby,” he muttered brokenly.

IX

Arnold was a man of method. After some conversation with Swale, he drove back to Fencaster with Heythrop and Sir Ambrose. The latter did his best to control his grief, and expressed himself perfectly ready to give all the information in his power. The three of them sat down to a conference in Heythrop's office.

Sir Ambrose's statement was detailed and precise. He told what he knew of Jonathan's actions and intentions, then went on to describe the enquiries he had made the previous day. “I cannot understand it,” he said. “On Monday morning Jonathan left home with a complete kit, it being his intention to camp out in the rectory till it could be furnished. On reaching here, he called on the Bishop's chaplain, whom he told that he wished to take up his duties immediately. The woman I spoke to yesterday, whose name I am now told is Mrs. Docking, saw him that afternoon, when she gave him the key of the rectory.”

“Which, I understand, he brought back later?”Heythrop remarked.

“That is what I find so extraordinary,” Sir Ambrose replied. “For some reason, Jonathan must have changed his mind about camping in the rectory. But where can he have gone? And what did he do with the kit he had brought with him? Mrs. Docking says there was no sign of anything belonging to him when she went to the rectory next day.”

It seemed to Arnold that the kit might provide a useful clue from which to start. He asked Sir Ambrose to describe the various articles it comprised, which he did to the best of his ability. “It was just about as much as could be loaded into the taxi.” he concluded. “I was present when Jonathan left our house in Guist Square.”

“And he intended to take this kit to Clynde Rectory that same day?”Arnold asked. “How did he mean to get it there?”

“By train to Fencaster, where he meant to hire a car for the rest of the journey,” Sir Ambrose replied.

Arnold made a mental note of this. If he had in fact done so the car should not be hard to trace. “I should like to ask this,” he said. “Your son had been appointed rector of Clynde. It was generally known that he was going there on Monday?”

“Well, no, it wasn't,” Sir Ambrose replied. “For reasons of his own, which I need not go into, Jonathan wished to establish himself at the rectory without proclaiming in advance his intention of doing so. I think I can safely say that, until he spoke to the Bishop's chaplain that afternoon, nobody but he and I knew that he was going to Clynde on Monday.”

Arnold scented some mystery behind this, but for the moment he was not inclined to press the point. “Had your son any enemies, Sir Ambrose? Do you know of any one who had a personal grudge against him?”

“I am perfectly sure no such person exists,” Sir Ambrose replied emphatically. “Jonathan was of a cheerful disposition, and made friends wherever he went. I am certain that he hadn't an enemy in the world.”

“Does any one benefit financially by your son's death?”Arnold asked.

A slight frown contracted Sir Ambrose's features. “Not directly. Except, I suppose, myself. When Jonathan came of age, I settled upon him a sum of money, the income from which has always been sufficient for his needs. Since he had no brothers or sisters, and had, I believe, never made a will, that sum, I take it, will revert to me.”

Arnold glanced meaningly at Heythrop, who understood the hint. “We need detain you no longer. Sir Ambrose,” he said. “It will, I fear, be necessary for you to attend the inquest to-morrow. You will, I expect, decide to stay here to-night. If so, I shall be happy to drive you to Bromhoe to-morrow.”

“That is very kind of you,” Sir Ambrose replied gratefully. “I shall stay at the King's Head, where Jonathan stayed a short while ago. And in the morning I shall make arrangements for the funeral. I think that Jonathan would have wished to be buried in the parish to which he had been appointed. I hope that it will be possible for the ceremony to take place at Clynde.”

Heythrop conducted him from the room, then returned to Arnold. “Well, Inspector?” he said quietly.

“I hardly know, sir,” Arnold replied. “It all seems puzzling from the very start. Why should Mr. Denby have wished to keep his going to Clynde a secret till he got there?”

Heythrop shrugged his shoulders. “I have no idea. That he would go to Clynde eventually was common knowledge, at any rate. Lord Mundesley, the patron, told me some days ago that Denby had been appointed to the living. However, if the actual day of his departure from London was kept secret, it isn't likely that he was followed from there.”

“No, sir,” Arnold agreed. “Then there's that point about the money. Sir Ambrose didn't seem to care about answering my question. He said that nobody benefited directly except himself. Does any one benefit indirectly?”

“Of course,” said Heythrop. “I don't know anything about Sir Ambrose's circumstances. But he is a baronet, and he must be pretty well off to live in Guist Square. He is not a young man, and, though he is plucky enough, any one can see that his son's death has hit him very hard indeed. He told us that this son was an only child. But he has a nephew, who is now presumably the heir, not only to the baronetcy, but to the money as well. And that nephew is Henry Denby, the present Minister of Iron and Steel.”

Arnold smiled. “That answers the questions, sir. Mr. Denby wasn't killed for his money, then.”

“He may have brought a considerable sum to Clynde with him,” Heythrop replied. “However, it's a bit early yet to speculate upon motives for murder. Now, I'll do all I can to help you, but it's your show. What are your plans?”

“I shall put up at the King's Head to-night, sir,” said Arnold. “But I should like to start enquiries right away. If Mr. Denby hired a car to take him to Clynde on Monday, I should like to interview the driver.”

“I can't help you there myself,” Heythrop replied. “The city has its own police force, and they're apt to be jealous of any interference on the part of the county. But, if you like, I can give you an introduction to the City Chief Constable, Mr. Rownedge. You'll find him quite a decent chap.”

“I'd be glad if you would, sir,” said Arnold. “After that, I propose to get out to Clynde first thing in the morning.”

“There I can help you,” Heythrop replied. “You'd have the dickens of a job to get there by train, for the nearest station is five miles away. I can't let you have a car, for my petrol is cut down to the very last drop. But I can put a man with a motor bicycle and side-car at your disposal, if that will do.”

Arnold replied that it would suit him very well indeed. A few minutes later he set out with the introduction Heythrop had given him. The headquarters of the city police were at the City Hall, and he found Mr. Rownedge in his office. “Well, Inspector, so the Colonel has sent you along, has he?” said Rownedge when he had read the note. “Didn't care to trespass on my ground, I dare say. We've had differences of opinion about that before now. What do you want me to do for you?

Arnold told him, and Rownedge nodded. “That's an easy one. Find the driver of a car who took a parson to Clynde on Monday afternoon. All right. Where can we get in touch with you?”

“I shall be at the King's Head until to-morrow morning, sir,” Arnold replied.

“Right!”said Rownedge. “We'll find your man before then and send him along to you.”

He was as good as his word, for a couple of hours later, as Arnold was finishing a well-deserved meal, a boy entered the hotel dining-room, calling, “Mr. Arnold, please!”in a shrill treble. Arnold got up, and the boy told him there was a taxi-driver outside asking to speak to him. He went out and got into the car. “I am Inspector Arnold,” he said. “We can talk here for a couple of minutes. Did you drive a parson to Clynde on Monday?”

“That's right,” the man replied tersely.

“Did he take any baggage with him?”Arnold asked.

“He did that,” the man replied. “Just about as much as the old car would take. Picked it up at the railway station cloakroom.”

“Where did you leave him and his baggage?”Arnold asked.

“Clynde Rectory,” the man replied. “That's where he told me to drive him to. He and I carried the stuff from the car between us and dumped it in the veranda there.”

“There was as much baggage as the car would take. Could one man on foot have carried it any distance?”

“Not in one journey, he couldn't. Some of the pieces were heavy enough.”

“When did you see the last of your passenger and his luggage?”

“Why, after we'd put the stuff in the veranda. He paid me off then, and I came home here. I don't rightly know what time it was when I left Clynde. Between four and half-past, I reckon. I was back before half-past five, and it takes about an hour, driving steady.”

Arnold got out of the car and re-entered the hotel. Sir Ambrose was not to be seen, for which Arnold was rather thankful than otherwise. He did not like the idea of discussing the matter with him any further until he had been given time to recover from the blow. Arnold sat down, lighted a pipe, and tried to piece together what he had heard. He had at least traced Mr. Denby as far as Clynde Rectory.

Up to this point, and even a step further, events seemed to have followed a fairly normal course. Sir Ambrose had said that his son intended to camp out in the rectory. Apparently he had carried out this intention. Having, with the taxi-driver's help, dumped his belongings in the veranda, he had walked to Fisher's Row, procured the key from Mrs. Docking, and, one must suppose, brought it back with him. He had presumably unlocked the door and carried his baggage piece by piece into the house.

But what then? Several unanswered questions presented themselves. Where was the baggage now? It had not been found in the rectory on the following afternoon. Had Mr. Denby removed it himself, or had someone else done so? In either case, if it had been removed to any distance, some form of transport must have been employed. That was a point to be followed up. Had any vehicle been to the rectory between Monday evening and Tuesday afternoon? It should be possible to find the answer to that question at least.

Then, the return of the key. Nobody had been seen to return it, but it had been found on Mrs. Docking's front door early on Tuesday morning, and it had naturally been supposed that Mr. Denby had left it there. If he had, the inference was that he had abandoned the idea of staying at the rectory. He might have heard that a house was being got ready for him in the village, and had decided not to remain in Clynde until the house was ready for his occupation. He had somehow secured a vehicle, packed himself and his belongings into it, and gone off somewhere else.

The alternative was that some person other than Mr. Denby, and not acting upon his instructions, had returned the key. But the inferences from this were equally fantastic. This person must have called at the rectory. Presumably, since the body had been wearing pyjamas when found, Mr. Denby had gone to bed. Sir Ambrose had mentioned a camp-bed among the things he had taken with him. The intruder had murdered Mr. Denby, and spirited away not only his body but everything that had belonged to him.

It all came back to the question of a vehicle, since in either case one must have been employed. Trace that vehicle, and a long step would have been taken towards the solution of the problem of Mr. Denby's death. Swale, who seemed an intelligent chap, could be put on to that. Telling himself that it was no use guessing until he had further facts to work on, Arnold went to bed.

Next morning he breakfasted early, and immediately afterwards he was told that a policeman had called for him. He went out to find a uniformed constable with a motor cycle and side-car. Having introduced himself, and been told that the man's name was Corbridge, they set out for Bromhoe.

On arrival there, they called at Swale's house, and found him at home. Arnold explained his theories to him, with particular emphasis on the vehicle. “A car, or a cart, or something of the kind, must have called at the rectory on Monday evening, or during the night,” he said. “Have you any suggestions about that?”

“If it was after dark, it wouldn't have been any of the locals,” Swale replied. “They're all too scared to go near the place then. And you can't blame them, for it's a creepy place at night, as I know myself.”

“You might make enquiries, all the same,” said Arnold. “A man might conquer his fears, if he were offered sufficient inducement. I'm going to have a look at the place for myself, but I won't ask you to come with me, for you'll have plenty to do, getting ready for the inquest. I'll call on Mrs. Docking for the key on my way.”

When Swale had given him the necessary directions, Arnold set out in the side-car. He stopped at Fisher's Row, and found Mrs. Docking at home. But, though she was ready enough to talk, she had nothing fresh to say. It must have been getting on for five o'clock when she had given Mr. Denby the key. She didn't know when it had been brought back, for she hadn't been to the front door before her husband had found it the next morning. She had told nobody but her husband that evening of Mr. Denby's visit, for the excellent reason that she had spoken to nobody else. Her husband had gone out after she had told him, but he had said that he hadn't thought of mentioning it. It had never occurred to her for a moment that Mr. Denby had meant to stop at the rectory. She had supposed that he had only borrowed the key to look over the house and see what it was like.

Arnold got her to give him the key, and proceeded on his way. On his instructions, Corbridge pulled up at the side of the road outside the rectory gate. The two of them walked on to the sweep of the drive and examined it closely. At one time it had been gravelled, but it was now weed-grown, and the surface was now soft and broken. Footprints were visible in it, but leading only to and from the path running round the side of the house. Nowhere were there wheel-tracks of any kind. They made an experiment. Arnold sat in the side-car, and Corbridge pushed it a few yards on to the drive. The wheels sank in at least an inch, leaving a well-defined and unmistakable track.

They next examined the front door, and the ground floor windows on either side. It was immediately obvious that none of these had been opened for a very long time. The windows were boarded, and the door secured with screws so rusted with years of salt-laden air that it would have been impossible to loosen them. The coating of dirt and mould over all was an additional proof.

Walking completely round the house, they discovered for themselves that it had never had more than two other entrances: the back door, and the door opening upon the veranda. Arnold unlocked the latter, and they went in. But they found nothing more or less than Swale had discovered on Wednesday night. The house was empty and lifeless. The only sound to be heard, beyond the hollow echo of their footsteps, was the slow and steady dripping of the bathroom tap. Having examined the premises thoroughly, Arnold was satisfied that the only way to get into the disused wing would be to break down the front door.

He locked up the house, and started back with Corbridge. He returned the key to Mrs. Docking, then, remembering that Swale had told him of Mr. Wayburn's recognition of the body, he and Corbridge called at the Anchor. The taproom, as usual at that time in the morning, was empty, and Mr. Wayburn, as an ex-sergeant of police, welcomed the inspector from Scotland Yard with fitting deference. “Yes, sir,” he replied to Arnold's questions. “As soon as I set eyes on him I recognised him as the stranger who came in here some weeks back. But naturally I didn't know then who he was. He didn't tell me he was the new rector, or even that he was a parson. He wasn't dressed like one.”

“The body wasn't dressed as a parson when it was picked up,” Arnold remarked. “It seems that Mr. Denby didn't always wear his clerical outfit. What did he talk about when be was here?”

Mr. Wayburn stroked his chin reflectively. “I've been thinking about that, sir. It seems to me now that I must have done most of the talking. Mr. Denby asked a few questions about the village and the people who lived in it, and I told him what I could. He didn't say much about himself.”

“The sort of enquiries he might have been expected to make if he was coming here as rector,” said Arnold. “Now, Mr. Wayburn, you've been a policeman yourself, so you'll understand the question. Is Mrs. Docking a reliable person?”

“Why, yes, I think so, sir,” Mr. Wayburn replied cautiously. “She and her husband are both steady-going folk. Of course she lets her tongue wag, and I dare say she imagines half she says. But I don't think she'd tell a deliberate lie.”

“She says that on Monday evening she told nobody but her husband that Mr. Denby had been here,” said Arnold. “And she says too that her husband didn't repeat the news. Do you think that's a fact?”

“Well, sir, put it this way,” Mr. Wayburn replied. “If there's any gossip flying round the village, the pub is the first place to hear it in. And I never heard a word about Mr. Denby till next day. George Docking was in here on Monday evening, but he's the sort of chap who keeps his mouth shut tight. I'm pretty sure he didn't say anything.”

Arnold nodded. “Everybody is talking about the affair by now, of course. Have you heard anyone say that they saw Mr Denby?”

“Not to know who he was, sir,” Mr. Wayburn replied. One or two of them have said that they saw a stranger walking through the village that evening. But I haven't heard that he was seen up by the rectory.”

Arnold and Corbridge left the Anchor and went on to Bromhoe. Swale had promised that he would fix up a meal for them at the Cockleshell. They went there, and after a few words with Mr. Royston, the landlord, lunched adequately upon locally caught codling. When they had finished, they strolled round the village until it was time to repair to the parish hall, where the inquest was to be held.

The members of the jury were already there, under the watchful eye of Swale. Colonel Heythrop drove up in his car, with Sir Ambrose as his passenger. They were followed very shortly by the coroner, who wasted no time in opening the proceedings. Sir Ambrose was the first witness. He gave evidence of identification, and described his son's departure from London. He was followed by Dr. Puckpool, who, having described the injuries, was closely questioned by the coroner. Dr. Puckpool was not prepared to say how the fracture had been caused. It might have resulted from a headlong fall from a height, or from the impact of some blunt and heavy object. Such a blow would certainly have been fatal. Death would have occurred, if not immediately, within a very short interval.

Pressed on this point, Puckpool showed symptoms of irritation. He had already said that the blow in any case would have been fatal. It appeared to him that the immediate cause of death was immaterial. Deceased might have fallen into the sea, striking his head as he did so. If he had, the blow would have rendered him incapable of saving himself. The body had been in the water too long for any one to be able to say which had actually caused death, drowning or injury. Nor was it possible to say definitely how long the body had been in the water. In Dr. Puckpool's opinion, death had probably taken place during the course of the previous Monday night. When he examined the body on Thursday morning, he had formed the opinion that it had been in the water for forty-eight hours or longer.

With this the coroner had to be content. Mrs. Docking, on being called, volubly described Mr. Denby's visit, and the facts relating to the key. The two Norgarths gave evidence of the finding of the body. Finally, the coroner summed up very briefly. There was at present no evidence to show how the deceased had met his death. The jury would require information as to his actions after his call upon Mrs. Docking, who, so far as was at present known, had been the last person to see him alive. Enquiries in that direction were being made. He had no option but to adjourn the inquest in the hope that further evidence would be secured.

X

Leaving Swale to make inquiries locally, Arnold returned to Fencaster as Corbridge's passenger. He had already made up his mind that the solution of his problem would require the exercise of an imagination more fertile than his own. His friend, Desmond Merrion, who during two wars had served in Naval Intelligence, possessed just such an imagination. And Merrion lived at High Eldersham, no great distance from Fencaster.

Immediately on his return to the King's Head, Arnold put a call through, found Merrion at home, and told him where he was. “I've got a job on that might interest you,” he went on. “Care to come along and see me?”

“Job or no job, I'd be delighted to see you,” Merrion replied. “But the difficulty is petrol, these days.”

“I've thought of that,” said Arnold. “I've been bumping about in a side-car all day, and it hasn't agreed with me. If you care to put your car at my disposal, and act as my official driver, I'll find some petrol for you all right.”

“Well, I don't know,” said Merrion doubtfully. “You'll have to bribe me with something out of the ordinary. However, I'll run over and have a chat with you. You can expect me within the next two hours.”

Armed with a note from Colonel Heythrop, Arnold called on the Regional Petroleum Officer, who proved most accommodating. He returned to the hotel with a supply of essential coupons, and shortly afterwards Merrion arrived. “Well, friend, what's it all about this time?” he asked as they met in the hall.

Sir Ambrose was not in the lounge, but all the same Arnold did not care to discuss the matter in a public place. He took Merrion up to his room, and told the whole story, as far as he knew it, concluding with the inquest.

“You haven't much to go upon, certainly,” Merrion remarked, as he flicked the ash from his cigarette. “I have some local knowledge, as it happens. I've driven through Clynde more than once, and I've noticed that barrack of a rectory. I know Lord Mundesley, and once some years ago he invited me to a day's shooting at Bromhoe Castle. Colonel Heythrop I know well, and have always liked. Of the Denby family, even of its most prominent member, Henry, I know little or nothing. You've begun to form some sort of theory, I suppose?”

“What do you suppose I asked you to come over for?”Arnold countered. “I want to hear what you think about it.”

Merrion laughed. “I haven't had much time to think about it yet. To begin with, I'm sure that we can accept Sir Ambrose's statement that his son fully intended to spend Monday night at the rectory. The evidence of the driver of the car which took him there bears that out. Jonathan Denby wouldn't have dumped his kit in the veranda if he had meant to go on somewhere else. Further, if he had gone to Clynde merely to survey his parish, one would have expected him to ask for the key of the church rather than of the rectory. Especially as it seems he was not expected to live there, since a house in the village was being got ready for him.”

“That's what I can't make out,” said Arnold. “It was Lord Mundesley who gave orders about the house in the village.”

“Did he do so at Denby's request?”Merrion replied. “It would be worth while asking him that question. If he did, Denby's actions seem rather inexplicable. But we can let that pass for the moment. I think we can assume that Denby did in fact settle himself in at the rectory, and that nobody in Clynde guessed that he had done so.

“As to what happened next, the medical evidence is not very helpful. I don't blame the doctor for refusing to express a definite opinion. I much prefer a witness who keeps an open mind to one who sticks obstinately to an opinion which in the end turns out to be wrong. Taking the medical evidence alone, Denby's death might have been due to accident, suicide, or murder. But we have to consider that evidence in the light of the clothing found on the body. What's your preference?”

But Arnold shook his head. “I'm watching your imagination at work,” he said.

“Very well,” Merrion replied. “Let's consider the clothing. When Denby called on Mrs. Docking, he was dressed as a parson. But when he looked in at the Anchor, he was wearing the coat and trousers in which the body was found. The assumption is that when Denby was off duty, he felt more comfortable in lay rather than clerical garb. When he had dug himself in at the rectory, he can have expected no visitors that evening, so he changed his clothing. And when he once more changed into pyjamas on going to bed, his clothing lay ready to his hand.

“Now, you can take your choice. We can disregard any theory that Denby was walking in his sleep. Somnambulists don't put on extra clothes over their night attire. For some reason he got up during the night, and put on the coat and trousers over his pyjamas. Presumably a pair of slippers too, but they fell off before or after he got into the water. It may be that he found he couldn't sleep in strange surroundings.

“Accident first. The doctor says that the fracture of the skull might have been caused by a headlong fall from a height. Denby walked to the seashore, lost his balance, and fell in, striking his head as he did so. There are low cliffs here and there along that coast where such a thing might have happened. Alternatively, suicide. Denby threw himself over the edge of the cliff deliberately, though it is difficult to imagine why. Finally, murder. In the course of his perambulations, Denby met someone who pushed him over the cliff, or knocked him on the head and threw his body into the sea. Choose which you like.”

“If you're right, and Denby did in fact go to bed in the rectory, there's only one choice possible,” said Arnold. “And that is murder. If he had met with a fatal accident, or committed suicide, his belongings would have been found there next day. Mrs. Docking declared that when she went to the rectory on Tuesday afternoon she found no trace of him whatever. Let's hear your ideas about that.”

“It certainly gives one seriously to think,” Merrion replied. “Let's see if we can make any sense of it. First of all, why were all traces of Denby's occupation of the rectory so carefully removed? We can approach that question this way. It was only by accident that Denby's body was found. But for the sharp eyes of your young fisherman, it would have drifted out into the North Sea, to be ultimately consumed by the fishes. In that case there would have been no evidence either of his death or of his having started to spend the night at the rectory. He and his belongings would simply have vanished, and it would have been impossible to discover what had become of them.

“I agree with you that if we're on the right track so far, murder is the only possible choice. And if Denby was murdered, and his murderer subsequently removed his belongings, the crime cannot have been the sequel to a chance encounter on the seashore. The murderer must have been aware, if not who his victim was, at least where he had come from. Else how could he have known where the belongings were to be found? Again, if we accept the theory of a chance murderer, we are up against the strong probability that no one in Clynde knew that Denby was at the rectory. This suggests that the murder took place in circumstances which made it obvious where he had come from. In other words, in or very near the house.

“Now, can we build up a theory to fit in with that? I think we can. We'll try at any rate. Denby was roused from his sleep by someone who had got into the house, or was attempting to get in. He slipped on his coat and trousers, and went down to investigate. The two men met, and Denby got knocked on the head. His body was subsequently conveyed to the shore and dumped into the sea. In order to destroy all clues to the crime, the murderer then removed his victim's belongings, thus producing an appearance of the rectory never having been occupied at all. How's that for a rough outline?”

Arnold shook his head. “Not very hopeful. I hate knocking down your card-house, but look here. Who was the nocturnal visitor? Not a burglar, certainly. It was well known that the rectory had been empty for years. Even if some prowler had seen Denby take possession, the kit he had brought with him would hardly be a sufficient inducement for burglary, coupled with murder. Then there's that point I've tried to rub in. This latest flight of your imagination makes it all the more obvious. The murderer must have had some means of transport at his disposal. The body was conveyed to the shore, you say. From the rectory to the nearest point on the shore is at least a mile. And we have it on the best authority that the kit formed a considerable car-load.”

“Very well,” Merrion replied equably. “We shall have to adjust our outline a trifle. The murderer was not a burglar. In fairness to myself, I must point out that I never suggested he was. He was not even a native of Clynde, but arrived in a car from some distance. This car he left on the road outside the rectory, then went and hammered on the door. When Denby opened it, he spun him a yarn, something like this:

' I say, I've just had an accident. Run over a chap, and hurt him pretty badly, I'm afraid. Would you mind coming and lending a hand? '

“Denby could hardly refuse such a request. He went with the man to the car, and was knocked on the head when he got there. The murderer bundled the body into the car, drove it to some convenient point on the shore, and pitched it into the sea. Then he came back to the rectory, and loaded up his victim's belongings. Finally, he locked the door, took the key, and as he drove through the village, hung it on the knob of Mrs. Docking's front door.”

“Wonderful!”Arnold exclaimed sarcastically. “The crime was premeditated and carefully planned. Will you tell me two things. How did the murderer know that Denby would be sleeping at the rectory that night? And what possible motive could he have had for murdering an inoffensive parson?”

.Merrion laughed. “I can't answer either of your questions offhand. But you've got to start with some sort of theory, more or less on those lines. Unless you mean to rely on the popular belief that the rectory is haunted. Denby was murdered by a poltergeist, who subsequently spirited away his belongings. Is that your line?”

“Of course it isn't,” Arnold replied testily. “All the same, I can't believe the murder was premeditated.”

“We don't know for certain yet that it was murder,” said Merrion. “And you can't expect me to form any very definite opinion until I've seen the surroundings for myself. I'll put you up here to-night, and drive you over there in the morning. Suppose we go downstairs, and you can tell me what you've been doing since I saw you last.”

In the course of conversation that evening Arnold spoke of his recent activities. “Nothing very thrilling. Just the regular plodding that takes up the greater part of a detective's time. The black market, and the dodges that supply it mostly. Things disappear in the most unaccountable way, sometimes singly, and sometimes literally by the lorry-load. It's easy enough to guess what becomes of them. They find their way into the hands of people who don't care what they pay and are prepared to ask no questions. But it's usually impossible to lay one's hands on the folk who pinched them. We have cases of thefts on a large scale reported to us nearly every day.”

Merrion nodded. “I know. One reads of them in the paper. And I don't know that you people will ever contrive to stamp them out. As long as things that people badly want are in short supply, you'll always have a black market. I quite realise that these repeated cases must get on your nerves sometimes. This business of the slaughtered parson must have come as a pleasant relaxation. We'll get on with that to-morrow.”

Next morning they set out in Merrion's car. Their first call was upon Swale at Bromhoe. “Yes, sir, I've made inquiries pretty well everywhere,” he said in reply to Arnold's question. “I can't hear of any vehicle having been to Clynde Rectory on Monday night or Tuesday morning. The few cars there are round about don't go out any more than they can help, with petrol cut down like it is.”

“That's true enough, I dare say,” Arnold remarked. “But what about a vehicle of some kind from a distance?”

“I don't know about that, sir,” Swale replied doubtfully. “But I've been over to Clynde, and spoken to pretty well every one who lives in the village street. None of them heard a car go by on Monday night, or, for that matter, any night this week. And if one had gone by, somebody would be sure to have noticed it, for it isn't often there's any traffic through there at night.”

“I don't suppose there is,” Arnold agreed. “You haven't heard of any vehicle having been on the roads round about?”

“No, sir, I haven't, though I've asked,” Swale replied. “Last night I went to North Icenshire Transport. You've seen their place, I expect. Their lorries come in at all times. I spoke to Fred Tranmere, who's the night foreman, and asked him if any of his lorries had come in on Monday night. He looked it up for me, and found that there had. Two of them came from the Midlands, so they wouldn't have been on the road near Clynde.

“But the third got in from London, at two o'clock in the morning. Fred told me it would have come along the main road to Fencaster, then to Rendolvestone. Three miles beyond that the road forks, leading to Bromhoe on the left and Clynde on the right. Naturally the lorry would have taken the left fork, but when it turned off there it wouldn't be so far from Clynde Rectory, not more than a mile or so. The driver is away on another job, and won't be back till Monday. I thought I'd speak to him then, sir, and ask him if he'd seen anything on the road thereabouts.”

“It would be just as well,” said Arnold, not very hopefully. Even if the driver had seen another vehicle, it seemed most unlikely that he would remember it, a week after the event. And in any case he could hardly have recognised it. “By the way, Swale, were you out and about at all on Monday night?”

“I was that, sir,” Swale replied ruefully. He repeated what he had told Mr. Wayburn, but in more respectful terms. “I'm sure his Lordship must have been mistaken about those shots, sir,” he continued. “The gamekeeper and I spent all night in the woods up there, and we didn't see or hear anybody.”

“Not much fun, at this time of year,” Merrion remarked carelessly. “What sort of a night was it?”

“Not too bad,” Swale replied. “Very dark at first, but the moon got up later on, and we could see our way about.”

“Oh, 'tis my delight on a shiny night!”Merrion crooned. “Are you much troubled with poachers hereabouts?”

“Not that I know of,” Swale replied. “But his Lordship is terribly fussy about his pheasants. It's not the first time he's rung me up to say he thinks there's someone about. And it isn't only the pheasants. Often enough when he sees me he tells me to be sure and keep an eye on the castle at night. He says there are a lot of queer folk in the country just now, foreigners and that, and he's afraid one of them might try to break in.”

“I want to speak to Lord Mundesley,” said Arnold. “Is he likely to be at home at this time?”

“No, sir, he's away,” Swale replied. “He went up to London for a few days on Thursday morning, like he often does. I don't know what his business is there. Politics is what they say.”

After some further conversation, Arnold and Merrion drove to Clynde, stopping at Fisher's Row. They found Mrs. Docking all of a fluster, the cause of which she was ready enough to explain. “It's the funeral, you see Mr. Denby is to be buried at two o'clock and I've got to get along to the church and light the fire. Old Mr. Laverstock won't like it if it isn't warm for him. And the fire hasn't been lit this last fortnight. Mr. Laverstock holds a service at Bromhoe one week and Clynde the next, and it's the turn for him to come here to-morrow. I'll have to get along there now.”

“We'll give you a lift, Mrs. Docking,” Arnold replied. “And you might give us the rectory key. We want to look in there again.”

A few minutes later they set out, through the village and up the hill to the churchyard gate. “We may as well look into the church, now we're here,” said Merrion, as they pulled up. As they followed Mrs. Docking along the broad concrete path, Merrion noticed the stone vault, which abutted on to it. “Family tomb, eh?” he remarked. “It doesn't look as though any one took much care of it. Who does it belong to, Mrs. Docking?”

But Mrs. Docking was not interested in such things. “That I couldn't say,” she replied. “It's not used now; nobody has been buried in it all the time that I can remember.” She bustled on to the door of the church, unlocking it with a large and clumsy key. The interior struck cold and damp, and contained nothing of particular interest. Mrs. Docking busied herself in raking out the big stove, and after a while Arnold and Merrion strolled out. Leaving the car where it stood, they crossed the road to the rectory.

“I hope the architect was proud of his job,” Merrion remarked as he surveyed the dilapidated frontage. “It's more like a factory than a house for people to live in. This is the disused wing? I wonder what it's like inside.”

“You'll have to keep on wondering,” Arnold replied. “There's no way of getting into it. There's only one door, the one you see, and that's screwed up tight. Come round to the other side, and I'll show you the part that's open.”

But Merrion's curiosity was unsatisfied. He walked up to the front door and examined it closely. It was quite obvious that Arnold was right, and that it was many years since the door had been opened. He walked round both sides of the wing, and satisfied himself that there was no way of getting in. All the windows were boarded up with heavy timber, which could not be displaced. “You're quite right,” he said at last. “You'd want an axe and a crowbar to get in from outside. Are you quite sure that there's no communication between this wing and the rest of the house?”

“There used to be, but there isn't now,” Arnold replied. “Come and see for yourself.” They entered the house, and Arnold pointed out the door in the back passage. “That leads into the disused wing, no doubt. But I'll bet you can't open it.”

Merrion tried the door, to find that it was rigidly fixed from the other side. Moreover, there was ample evidence that it had remained so for a very considerable time. They went upstairs, where Arnold displayed the bricked-up archway. “Now are you satisfied that there's no way into the rest of the house?” be asked.

“It certainly looks like it,” Merrion replied. “If this house is haunted, the disused wing is where the ghost has his habitation, secure from interruption. What's that noise?”

“Only a tap in the bathroom dripping,” Arnold replied. “It was like that when I was here yesterday.”

Merrion went into the bathroom, turned on the tap, and the water gushed freely. But when he turned the tap off again, h e was unable to stop it dripping. “Washer's perished,” he remarked. “But it's rather interesting. Well, I think I've seen all I want to for the present. I don't think we're called upon to stay here and attend the funeral. I vote we go back to Fencaster for lunch. We'll lock up and give the key back to Mrs. Docking.”

When they reached the ground floor, he left Arnold standing in the hall. “Just want to look inside this room,” he muttered, as he passed swiftly through the dining-room doorway. He went straight to the french window, to find, as he had expected, that it was bolted top and bottom. He drew the bolts and rejoined Arnold. The whole operation had taken no more than a few seconds. “Nothing there,” he said casually. “Let's get along.”

As they walked up the pathway through the churchyard, they met Mrs. Docking coming out of the church, and Arnold gave her the rectory key. “This is a nice path you've got here, Mrs. Docking,” Merrion remarked conversationally.

“It's a bit better than it used to be,” she replied. “At one time it was all puddles in wet weather, and folk couldn't get to church dry shod. So Lordy had this one put down, two or three years back.”

“He had a good job made of it,” said Merrion approvingly. “By the way, have you a water supply in the village?”

“There's no water laid on,” she replied. “They've talked about it for a long time, but nothing's been done yet. As it is, what water you want you've got to pump for yourself.”

“And that's very like hard work,” Merrion remarked. “You have to pump every time you go to the rectory?”

“Not likely!”she exclaimed scornfully. “I don't scrub, I sweeps. I haven't touched the pump since I ran out all the water before the winter came on. Doesn't do to leave any in the pipes, for fear of frost.”

“Quite right,” said Merrion. “Now, we'll run you home, and then we must get back to Fencaster.”

XI

After lunch at the King's Head, Merrion announced his intention of driving home to High Eldersham that afternoon. “There are a few things I must see to,” he said. “You won't be wanting the car again to-day. In any case, I won't desert you for very long. I'll be back in time to dine with you here this evening.”

So Arnold was left to his own devices. He spent some time at police headquarters, discussing local conditions with the staff there. But he met with no very helpful suggestions. It was true that Lord Mundesley had, on several occasions, expressed concern for the safety not only of his pheasants, but of his property generally. But his fears were greatly exaggerated. Serious crime was very rare in the county. The general conclusion was that if Jonathan Denby had been murdered, his murderer could not be a native of Icenshire.

Late in the afternoon, Arnold was summoned to Colonel Heythrop's room. He found three men already there, the Colonel himself, Sir Ambrose, and a clergyman who, from the gaiters he was wearing, Arnold guessed to be a high dignitary of the Church. “Allow me to introduce you, my Lord,” said Heythrop. “This is Mr. Arnold, who has come from Scotland Yard to help us with the case.”

“I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Arnold,” said the Bishop. “I have a deep feeling of personal responsibility in this matter. It was I who first suggested to Mr. Denby that he should consider the living of Clynde. I had hoped that my next visit to that parish would have been for the purpose of inducting him. As Providence has ruled, it was for the melancholy office of attending his funeral.”

Bishops were entirely outside Arnold's experience. He couldn't remember meeting one since his confirmation. “Did Mr. Denby tell you, my Lord, that he meant to live at the rectory?”

“He did not tell me in so many words, but I gathered such was his intention,” the Bishop replied. “I warned him that, being a single man, he might find so large a house unsuitable as his residence. I am now given to understand that Lord Mundesley, the patron, held similar views.”

Sir Ambrose raised his head. His appearance had changed greatly in the last couple of days, and he now looked an old man, bent and haggard. “Jonathan had made up his mind that as rector of Clynde, he should live at the rectory,” he said in a low and broken voice. “Lord Mundesley had told him that he would arrange other accommodation for him. Rather than provoke argument, Jonathan decided to establish himself in the rectory before those arrangements could be made. That is why he went to Clynde without giving previous notice of his arrival.”

Colonel Heythrop nodded. “And we can assume that Mr. Denby carried out his intention. Is it too much to ask you, Mr. Arnold, whether you have formed any conclusions regarding his death? You may speak freely.”

“I think there can be very little doubt, sir, that Mr. Denby was murdered,” Arnold replied simply.

“I am sure of it!”Sir Ambrose exclaimed. His expression hardened, and as he went on, his voice grew bitter. “I look to you to bring his murderer to justice, Mr. Arnold. I am a comparatively wealthy man, and every penny I have shall be devoted to that end. My sole purpose in life now is to avenge Jonathan's death.”

“Vengeance lies in other hands than ours. Sir Ambrose,” said the Bishop quietly.

Colonel Heythrop interposed hastily. “Neither Mr. Arnold nor I will let the matter rest, you may be sure of that.”

“I rely upon it,” Sir Ambrose replied. “I am returning to London this evening, Mr. Arnold. My address is 12 Guist Square. You will find me there at any time you wish to communicate with me.”

At a nod from Colonel Heythrop, Arnold left the room. As he walked back to the King's Head, he reflected that the victim .had highly-placed connections. He might himself have been a humble parson. But his father was a man of title and means, who certainly would not rest until the mystery had been solved. His cousin was a Cabinet Minister, with a reputation for ruthless energy. And now here was the Bishop, expressing a keen personal interest in the case. Arnold began to wish fervently that some other officer might have been given the job. It was true that success would bring recommendation on the highest level. But it was equally true that failure would be disastrous.

He was sitting in the hotel lounge, in no very confident frame of mind, when Merrion returned. “I'm at your disposal again,” he said. “No fresh developments while I've been away, I suppose?”

Arnold told him of the conversation in Colonel Heythrop's room. “I'm getting cold feet over this job,” he said. “It seems to me I've got all the big-wigs in the country watching me. And if I don't bring it off, there'll be the devil to pay.”

“Cheer up!”Merrion replied heartily. “You'll feel more optimistic when you've had a drink. Then we'll go and have dinner.”

The drink and the meal seemed to put Arnold in a better frame of mind, and by the time they were drinking their coffee he had begun to discuss the case more hopefully. “The puzzle is the motive,” he said. “I can't believe that Denby was murdered for the sake of anything he had brought with him. In spite of what his father says, I'm inclined to believe that he had a feud with someone, which only the two of them knew about.”

“That may be,” Merrion replied. “There's this about it. A man sleeping alone in an isolated house is simply handing himself over to a vindictive enemy. But we shan't solve your problem sitting here. Before very long I'm going to take you for a drive. No, don't ask questions, but bring a torch with you.”

A little before nine they set out, Merrion taking the road towards Rendolvestone. The night was fine and cold, moonless but with bright stars. By the time they had reached the road fork, a mile or so short of Clynde Rectory, they ran into mist thick enough to make driving difficult. But Merrion was in no way perturbed. “All the better,” he remarked. “In any case, we haven't much further to go.”

He took the road on the left, leading towards Bromhoe. From the crest of the range of low hills it ran gently downwards through uncultivated country, with a low bank on either side. Merrion drove on very slowly, keeping a sharp look-out on either hand. After a couple of hundred yards or so a gap in the bank on the right appeared, and beyond it a group of stunted trees. To Arnold's astonishment he swung the wheel over. The car bumped and lurched over the verge, through the gap, and came to rest with the front bumper almost touching the trees. As it did so, Merrion switched off the lights. “Not so bad,” he said. “We haven't got a camouflage net, but I dare say we can manage without one. Out you get.”

Under Merrion's direction they broke off a number of branches, and arranged them so as to break up the outline of the car. “That'll do,” said Merrion after a while. “Nobody is likely to spot it from the road now. We'll lock it up and take the key with us. Come along, a walk will warm us up.”

Arnold knew it was useless to ask questions. He allowed Merrion to lead the way back to the fork, then down the road leading to Clynde. “If any one comes along, which isn't very likely, we've got to hide,” Merrion remarked. “That won't be difficult. All we shall have to do is to jump over the bank and lie down on the other side until the coast is clear. This mist couldn't be better.”

“I'm glad you're enjoying it,” Arnold replied acidly. “May I ask what the game is?”

“The amusing game of being on the spot without any one else being aware of our presence,” said Merrion cheerfully. “It's the sort of adventure that always thrills me, especially on a night like this.”

As they descended towards the lower ground, the mist grew thicker, obscuring everything ahead of them. Merrion halted occasionally to listen, but the night was almost uncannily silent. No sound came to them from near at hand. Once they caught the faint note of the Ainsley Sand Lightship, almost inaudible in the distance. They plodded on, until a darker patch in the mist ahead showed the trees surrounding the rectory. Merrion halted, listening intently. When he was satisfied that nothing was stirring, he went on through the gateway, and groped towards the path leading round the house.

“Where are we going?”Arnold demanded. “We can't get in, for we haven't the key.”

“Shut up!”Merrion replied in a fierce whisper. “Do you want the whole parish to hear you? It's just because we haven't got the key that no one will guess we're here. And don't show a light whatever you do.”

They went on cautiously, step by step, until they reached the veranda. There Merrion pushed the french window of the dining-room, and with a harsh creaking it swung open. They entered the house and Merrion closed the window behind them. “Quite easy, you see,” he whispered. “I unbolted it this morning. I didn't tell you at the time, for I was afraid your policeman's conscience might be shocked. Now the great thing to do is to explore the house to make quite sure that nobody has got in before us.”

They went into every room, upstairs and down, finding no trace of any one but themselves. “We'll settle ourselves in the back passage on the ground floor,” said Merrion. “The window there is too high for any one to look in from outside, and we can talk and smoke. Feel your way carefully, and don't make more noise than you can help.” He led the way, sat down on the floor of the passage, with his back against the wall, and lighted a cigarette.

Arnold lowered himself to the floor beside him. “May I ask what we're supposed to be doing?” he grumbled.

“We are engaged on supernormal research,” Merrion replied lightly. “Our business is to discover just how much this house is haunted. Don't you see? The conditions are now just as we believe them to have been on Monday night, when Denby was here. It's just possible that our experience will be similar to his, but we'll take jolly good care that they don't end fatally. It's about an hour before midnight now.”

Arnold merely grunted, and Merrion went on: “It's beyond any doubt now that Denby did settle himself in here that evening. You heard what Mrs. Docking said when I asked her about the water? She said she had run it out before the winter came on, and hadn't pumped any since. All the same, there's water in the cistern now. The tap is still dripping, and as you saw for yourself, the water ran when I turned it on. Someone has pumped, and it can only have been Denby. He wouldn't have gone to all that trouble if he had looked over the house out of curiosity. Whoever removed all trace of his presence overlooked that detail.”

“That's quite a good point,” Arnold conceded. “But why on earth do you suppose that our experience may be similar to his? Whoever murdered him has finished his job. The very last thing he is likely to do is to come back here. He'll keep as far away from the place as he can.”

“I'm not so sure about that,” Merrion replied. “It may be that Denby wasn't murdered merely because he happened to be Denby. Any one occupying this house may sign his own death warrant.”

“Thanks very much,” said Arnold. “We appear to be occupying it now, and I don't altogether fancy a grave in the local churchyard. Seriously, though, what are you talking about?”

“Spooks, perhaps,” Merrion replied. “If they have established a prescriptive right to the rectory, they probably resent the presence here of human beings. And, it seems, they have the active support of Lord Mundesley.”

The only gleam of light in the passage where they were sitting was the glowing end of Merrion's cigarette. Arnold struck a match, shielding the flame carefully in his hands, and glanced about him. He discovered, close to his right shoulder, a narrow ledge jutting from the wall. On this he laid the powerful torch he had brought with him. “If we're going to sit here all night waiting for spooks, it will be as well to have that handy,” he remarked as he filled his pipe. “Perhaps you would care to explain what Lord Mundesley has to do with them?”

“Quite a lot, to my way of thinking,” Merrion replied. “I'm only piecing together odd scraps of information we've picked up. This afternoon I called on our own parson at High Eldersham, a good friend of mine and thoroughly au fait with the affairs of the diocese. He told me that this living had been vacant for at least three years. More than once the Bishop has suggested candidates, but in every case Lord Mundesley, who is the patron, has rejected them. He has, in fact, displayed no keenness for the appointment of a new rector.

“Of course that situation could not continue indefinitely. The Bishop could have exercised his authority, and appointed a rector in the teeth of Lord Mundesley's opposition, but naturally he didn't care to do that. Then Jonathan Denby comes along. The Bishop told you that he had suggested Clynde to him. Sir Ambrose says that Lord Mundesley is a friend, or at least an acquaintance of his. We may suppose that Lord Mundesley, knowing that he would have to surrender sooner or later, acquiesced in the appointment of his friend's son, as the best terms he could secure.

“But his next step strikes me as peculiar. He tells Jonathan Denby that the rectory is no place for him to live in, and, without consulting him any further in the matter, arranges for a house in the village to be got ready for him. Now, as I've told you, I know Lord Mundesley slightly. Enough to be well aware that he is not only a man who expects his wishes to be obeyed, but assumes that he will be. His remark to Denby that the rectory wouldn't suit him was in effect an order that he was to live where he told him to.

“However, Jonathan Denby appears to have been a young man of spirit. You can quite understand his preference to occupying property owned by the Church rather than a house belonging to the patron. Anyhow, without making any fuss, or raising any objections, he decided to establish himself here. There can't be the slightest doubt that he actually did so last Monday. And then comes what seems to me the most sinister move in the game.”

“Oh, come now!”Arnold exclaimed. “You're letting your imagination get the bit between its teeth again. You're not going to tell me that Lord Mundesley murdered Denby because he didn't want a rector at Clynde?”

“No, I'm not going to tell you that,” Merrion replied soberly. “But what happened? On Monday evening, when Swale was having his supper, by which time Denby must have settled himself in here. Lord Mundesley rang him up with an alarm of poachers. Nobody else seems to have heard a shot, and neither Swale nor the gamekeeper found any signs of marauders. But the result of the alarm was that the only policeman for miles round spent the night on the Bromhoe Castle estate. Whereas, but for that, he might have been patrolling in this direction.”

“Well, I suppose that's true,” Arnold agreed reluctantly. “But it can only be coincidence.”

“Perhaps,” Merrion replied. “Or perhaps it was that Lord Mundesley didn't want to risk Swale seeing the spooks in operation. The point at issue seems to be this. When he rang up Swale, did he know that Denby was here? If he didn't, I'll accept the coincidence. Hush! What's that?”

It was a second or two before Arnold heard the faint sound that Merrion's sharp ears had caught. At first he could make nothing of it, beyond the impression that it came from outside the house. Then it resolved itself into a scarcely audible beat and an equally faint swish of tyres. A car on the road, which seemed to be slowly descending the hill through the mist towards the village. The sound grew even fainter, and died away.

“So, in spite of all we've been told, cars do pass this way at night,” Merrion remarked, after a long pause, during which complete silence reigned. “The strayed reveller returning, I suppose. After all, it's Saturday night, when one might expect such debauches. The car didn't stop outside the gates here, anyhow. What were we talking about? Oh, yes. Lord Mundesley's message to Swale. Well, what do you make of it?”

“It was a coincidence, I tell you,” Arnold replied. “Any other theory is ridiculous. You're hinting that Lord Mundesley wanted to keep Swale out of the way. That could only have been because he knew Denby was here, and would be murdered in the course of the night. And that's absurd. Even you can't imagine that he would have connived at the murder of the son of Sir Ambrose, who is a friend of his. Why should be?”

“He went up to London on the morning that the body was found,” said Merrion inconsequently. “Doesn't that rather suggest that he wanted to avoid awkward questions? However, we'll put that point aside, if it doesn't appeal to you. But you can't deny that Lord Mundesley's behaviour strongly suggests that he didn't want any one living in the rectory. Can you suggest why?”

“No, I can't,” Arnold replied. “I don't believe that he can care two hoots whether any one lives here or not. The house isn't his property, and he lives three miles and more away. I'm not very well up in these matters, but surely the stipend of a vacant living doesn't find its way into the pocket of the patron. The fact is, my friend, you're talking through—”

He stopped abruptly, leaving his stricture unfinished. There was no doubt about the sound they had both heard, this time seemingly near at hand. It was indefinable, merely a vague noise, which might have been due to anything. They listened intently, straining their ears. Somebody or something was moving about, apparently within the house, though it was impossible to tell where. Then a sound, possibly footsteps, seeming to grow nearer.

Arnold was no believer in ghosts. But, sitting there in the utter darkness, a most uncomfortable creepy feeling came over him. The sensation of the presence of something intangible. The unnerving part of it was that nothing happened beyond those mysterious noises, which could not be located. Feeling an urgent need to take some action, he stirred restlessly, only to be restrained by the fierce clutch of Merrion's hand upon his arm. The footsteps, if such they were, ceased, to be followed by what seemed an eternity of silence. Then, without warning, came a dull thud, only a few feet from Arnold's head.

At that he could restrain himself no longer. His hand shot out to the ledge on which he had laid the torch. But in his haste he misjudged the distance. His fingers failed to grasp the torch, which fell with a deafening clatter upon the stone floor.

“You clumsy idiot!”Merrion hissed in a savage whisper. “That's torn it, I expect. Wait!”

Arnold groped helplessly for the torch, which had rolled away beyond his reach. As he did so, the footsteps were heard again, this time retreating rapidly. A long silence ensued, until Merrion whispered again. “Get up, but don't make a noise about it, and follow me. The spooks will probably want to find out where that clatter came from.”

Feeling their way on tiptoe, they left the passage and passed through the doorway into the hall. Here it was not completely dark, and they could make out the faint outlines of the open doorways of the rooms on either side. “Stand against the wall,” Merrion whispered. “If any one comes along, we shall see them before they see us. And don't hesitate. If they turn out to be solid flesh, collar them.”

They waited, every muscle tense. And then again a sound reached them, but not what they had expected. It was on the road outside, unmistakably the passage of a car. This time it was climbing the hill leading out of the village. The sound grew fainter until it died away in the distance.

At last, after what seemed an interminable silence, Merrion laughed. “You frightened the spooks away, it seems,” he said, no longer whispering. “It's not likely there'll be any more manifestations to-night. We'll go and pick up that torch of yours.” He switched on his own torch, and they returned to the back passage. “Where did it seem to you that thud came from?”Merrion asked as Arnold recovered his torch, which fortunately turned out to be undamaged.

“Quite close,” Arnold replied. “I could have sworn that there was somebody in this passage.”

“Not actually in the passage,” said Merrion. “I'm pretty sure the noise came from the other side of that fastened-up door. Didn't I say that if the house was haunted, the spooks must live in the unoccupied wing? It seems I was right.”

“Pretty substantial spooks, to kick up all that racket,” 'Arnold remarked.

“Yes,” Merrion agreed. “But you must remember that on a quiet night sounds are apt to appear louder than they really are. I'm not yet prepared to swear that the noises we heard just now were due to human agency.”

“You can't seriously mean that ghosts made them, surely?”, Arnold asked incredulously.

“Not necessarily,” Merrion replied. “But it's pretty obvious that wing has been shut up for very many years. Some fair-sized animal may have got in and made its home there. But how it gets in and out beats me. Not through this part of the house, that's quite certain. We shan't find out to-night. Let's go home.”

They left the house by the way they had entered it, to find that the mist was clearing under the influence of a steady and persistent drizzle. By the light of their torches they searched the soft surface of the sweep between the gates. This bore no trace of wheels, or of footprints, human or otherwise. Even the tracks of the car, which had certainly passed along the road outside the gates, had been obliterated by the rain.

“It might be as well to find out about that car,” said Merrion, as they set out on their long trudge. “It's true that it didn't stop outside the rectory coming or going, but there's just a faint possibility that the driver may have seen something. Swale ought to be able to trace it easily enough, for it must have gone into the village. The most likely explanation is that a party from Clynde had been to a dance or something of the kind, at Bault, perhaps, and hired a car to bring them back again. It's a bit of a long shot, but I think it's worth following up.”

“All right,” Arnold agreed wearily. “But we haven't got much nearer to finding out what happened to Denby.”

“Well, perhaps not,” said Merrion. “If you hadn't flung that confounded torch on the floor we might have learnt something further. We have at least established the fact that nocturnal disturbances occur at the rectory. And that explains what Denby was wearing when he was found. He had gone to bed, and was awakened by the sort of noises we heard just now. He slipped on his coat and trousers and set out to investigate.”

“Obviously,” Arnold replied impatiently. “But what then? He can't have got into the unoccupied wing.”

“That's where the puzzle lies,” said Merrion. “If anything living uses that wing, there would be some way in and out of it. Denby may or may not have discovered the secret. In any case, it strikes me that it is up to us to do so. I feel very much inclined to knock a way through that door in the back passage, and find out what's on the other side of it. Given the proper tools, we could do that easily enough.”

“I dare say we could,” Arnold replied. “But we should have to get permission first. The ecclesiastical authorities would have something to say if we knocked their property about without their consent.”

Merrion laughed. “That's the worst of being a policeman. You're bound to consider everything from the strictly legal aspect. Well, it's your show, but, if I were you, I'd get permission to break open the mystery.”

They plodded on to where they had concealed the car, to find it just as they had left it. “We can't do anything tomorrow, or rather to-day, since it's well past midnight,” said Merrion as they started back to Fencaster. “There'll be too many people about on Sunday, especially as there's to be a service at Clynde church. I shall go home, and stay there until I hear from you. I dare say you'll let me know if there are any fresh developments.”

“All right,” Arnold replied. “In that case I shall go up to London. If we're to get permission to break in, I shall have to see the Queen Anne's Bounty people. I might do that on Monday.”

“I hope you will,” said Merrion. “And if you're going to do any housebreaking, give me a chance of being there.”

XII

Arnold returned to Scotland Yard early on Sunday morning, and set to work to pick up the threads that had been spun in his absence. Of these, the most important concerned a case upon which he had been engaged before his summons to Fencaster, and which during his absence had been delegated to Detective-Sergeant Wighton, one of Arnold's subordinates.

“You'll remember about that,” Wighton reported to him. “I'll just run through the points to bring them back to your memory. Last Monday afternoon a three-ton lorry, loaded with spirits, left the bonded stores at London Dock, bound for Leeds. About seven o'clock the driver pulled up at a roadside cafe, not far from Stamford, for a meal. He went inside, and when he came out the lorry had disappeared.”

Arnold nodded. “Yes, I remember. Anything fresh about that?”

“The lorry's been found,” Wighton replied. “And the joke is that it was found just where the driver says he left it. A local cop spotted it outside the cafe early on Friday morning. But it was empty, of course.”

“Naturally,” Arnold remarked. “And no clue left with it, I'll be bound.”

Wighton shook his head. “None whatever. The connection of the mileage recorder had been broken, so there's no telling how far away it had been driven. Apart from that, it hadn't been damaged in any way.”

“I'll bet the driver knows something about it,” said Arnold darkly. “Was it only by chance that crooks came along while he was in the cafe? If I were you I'd—”

But he was interrupted by the buzzing of the telephone on his desk. It was a summons from the Assistant Commissioner, and he hastened to obey it. On entering Sir Edric Conway's room he found him smoking a cigarette and frowning thoughtfully at the papers in front of him. “Sit down, Arnold,” he said. “No good offering you a cigarette, I know. Light your pipe instead, and tell me how you're getting on with that Denby case.”

Arnold described the events of the past few days. “I don't think there can be any doubt that Mr. Denby was murdered, sir,” he concluded. “And not very far from Clynde Rectory, either. But who murdered him and why is more than I can make out. There doesn't seem to have been any reason for it.”

“We've got to clear up the mystery,” Sir Edric replied. “There'll be no peace for any of us till we do. The Home Secretary himself was on the phone to me yesterday about it. He didn't tell me so, but I don't doubt the Minister of Iron and Steel has asked him to keep us up to the mark. The Minister is Denby's cousin, you know.”

This was no more than Arnold had anticipated. As he had told Merrion, all the big-wigs in the country were on his heels. “I'll do my best, sir,” he said, rather lamely.

“I know you will,” Sir Edric replied. “In the light of what the Home Secretary said, I felt I had better take some action on my own account. So this morning I rang up Sir Ambrose Denby's number, and found him at home. He told me he had come back yesterday afternoon, following his son's funeral at Clynde. So I asked him to come and have a chat with me here at eleven o'clock to-morrow morning. You had better be present. You've met him, you say?”

“I saw him yesterday afternoon, sir,” said Arnold. “And the Bishop of Fencaster was there too. He said he felt a personal responsibility in the matter, as he had appointed Mr. Denby to Clynde.”

“The Bishop, eh?”Sir Edric replied. “Well, we've already got members of the House of Commons interested in the affair, and now it seems a member of the House of Lords is to take a hand too. We'll have to watch our step, since all these Very Important People have their eyes on us. All right, turn up here at eleven to-morrow.”

Arnold went back to his own room, where he resumed his conversation with Wighton. But he found it difficult to concentrate his mind on his subordinate's reports. The details of comparatively petty crimes seemed trifling against the murder of Jonathan Denby. Even the Chief was obviously a bit shaken by the interest displayed in such high quarters. How could a man with such influential connections been so careless as to get himself murdered? Merely, it seemed to Arnold, to cause alarm and despondency to a humble policeman.

He arrived at Scotland Yard early next morning, in case he should receive a further summons from his Chief. But none came, and at eleven o'clock he presented himself in Sir Edric's room. “Sir Ambrose isn't here yet,” said the Chief. “Just run over the principal points again, while we're waiting.”

As Arnold did so, Sir Edric kept glancing at the clock. “Sir Ambrose is late,” he remarked at last. “I wonder if he can have mistaken the time I said. Perhaps I had better have a call put through.” He picked up the telephone and gave the necessary instructions. After a short delay the answering buzz came, and he listened. “Sir Ambrose's housekeeper?” he said. “He must be on his way, then. I'll speak to her. Put her through.”

A pause, then the connection was made. “Sir Ambrose's housekeeper? Good morning. I am expecting Sir Ambrose. Can you tell me if he has left home yet?”

Arnold, watching Sir Edric, saw his expression alter to one of profound astonishment. “I am indeed sorry to hear that,” he said. “Thank you.” He replaced the receiver and turned to Arnold with a terse word. “He's dead!”

“Sir Ambrose dead, sir 1” Arnold exclaimed. “I shouldn't have expected that. He seemed fairly well on Saturday.”

“Well, he's dead now,” Sir Edric replied. “Or so at least that woman I was speaking to told me. I couldn't ask her for any details, for as she said that she burst out crying. It may be no business of ours, but, under the circumstances, I should like to know rather more. You'd better go to Guist Square right away and find out.”

When Arnold reached Number Twelve Guist Square, the door was opened by an elderly woman, holding a handkerchief with which she dabbed at her eyes. “Are you the housekeeper here?” he asked gently.

“Yes, and have been these many years,” she replied. “To think that I should have lived to see them all go! First her Ladyship, then Mr. Jonathan, and now the master. It's cruel, that's what it is; cruel.”

“May I come in and talk to you?”Arnold asked. “I have been sent by Sir Edric Conway, who spoke to you on the telephone just now.”

“You may come in and welcome,” she replied. “I'm all alone, and I hardly know what I'm doing.” She led the way into the lounge, and went on: “May I ask what your name is? Mine is Renfrew, Edith Renfrew.”

Arnold caught sight of the wedding ring on her finger. His reply was framed in such a way as to lay no emphasis on the fact that he was a policeman. “My name is Arnold. Sir Edric Conway was expecting to see Sir Ambrose this morning, and was very much distressed to hear of his death. He asked me to find out how it happened.”

“It happened here, in this very room,” Mrs. Renfrew replied gloomily. “The master wasn't any too well yesterday, and I persuaded him to send for Dr. Malton. But I never thought he was so bad as all that, for he seemed rather more himself yesterday evening. He died of a broken heart, that's what it was, Mr. Arnold.”

“Will you tell me all about it, Mrs. Renfrew?”Arnold asked encouragingly.

She seemed glad of someone to confide in. “The master came home late on Saturday evening, properly broken down. I was glad enough to see him, for I'd had my work cut out all day. As soon as it came out in the papers that morning about Mr. Jonathan, I hadn't a moment's peace. People kept coming here all day, or else ringing up, just to say how sorry they were. I had to tell them all that the master was still away.”

“You must have had a very trying time,” said Arnold. “Dr. Malton saw Sir Ambrose yesterday?”

“That's right,” she replied. “I rang him up in the morning, and he came round almost at once. I had a word with him when I showed him out again, and he told me to keep the master as quiet as I could. I was to try to get him to go to bed and stay there, but I knew very well he wouldn't do that. He would keep telephoning. He tried to get Mr. Henry, but he was out of town. He couldn't get Mr. Jonathan's death out of his mind.”

“Naturally enough,” said Arnold. “And what then?”

“He didn't go out all day, and he scarcely ate anything,” she replied. “But as I say, he seemed rather more himself after dinner. He was almost cheerful when I came in here a little before ten to ask him if there was anything more he wanted. I asked him if he didn't think he'd better go to bed, but he said he didn't feel sleepy yet and would stop up a little longer. So I locked up as I always do, and went to bed myself.

“I didn't hear him come up before I went to sleep, but I didn't think anything of that, for he often used to sit up late. I was down again this morning by eight, and when I'd put a kettle on I came in here to light the fire. And the first thing I saw was the master sitting in his chair. I thought at first be must have gone off to sleep there, for the lamp on his table was still switched on. But when I called to him he did not wake up. So I put my hand on him, only to find that he was dead and cold.”

The recollection of that shocking discovery brought a fresh flood of tears to her eyes. Arnold waited until she had composed herself before he spoke. “What did you do then?” he asked.

“I went straight to the telephone and rang up Dr. Malton,” she replied. “He said he'd come at once, and while I was waiting I left things as they were for him to see. It wasn't long before he came, and when he'd made sure that the master was dead, he rang up for his partner and a nurse. When they came, they got the master up to his room between them. The doctor said he'd come again later on. I'm expecting him any time now.”

“You've let Sir Ambrose's relations know, I expect?”Arnold suggested.

“He's only got one relation left that I know of,” Mrs. Renfrew replied. “And that's Mr. Henry. After the doctor had gone away I rang up the Ministry, but they told me that Mr. Henry was away attending a meeting somewhere in the north of England. Mr. Henry was one of the ones who called here on Saturday morning. When I told him that master wasn't back yet, he asked if he might come in here and write a note for him. He did, and I gave the note to the master when he came home in the evening. And Mr. Henry had hardly gone when another gentleman called. He told me that he was Lord Mundesley, and he seemed terribly upset about Mr. Jonathan. He asked me if I could tell him anything, but all I could tell him was that the master had been sent for on Thursday. Beyond that, I didn't know any more than what was in the newspaper.”

Before Arnold could ask any more questions the door bell rang. Mrs. Renfrew went to answer it, and returned with a middle-aged man whom she addressed as Dr. Malton. He glanced inquiringly at Arnold, who hastened to introduce himself. “May I have a word with you, Doctor?” he asked.

Mrs. Renfrew tactfully left them alone, and Arnold went on: “You're wondering what I'm doing here, I expect. I am from Scotland Yard, and am investigating the death of Sir Ambrose's son, Mr. Jonathan Denby. My Chief is naturally concerned at the death of Sir Ambrose, and sent me here to learn the circumstances.”

“You can tell your Chief that Sir Ambrose's death was due to natural causes,” Malton replied. “It will not be necessary to hold an inquest, as I attended him myself as recently as yesterday. In fact, I have come here this moment to give Mrs. Renfrew the death certificate.”

“Mrs. Renfrew tells me that Sir Ambrose died of a broken heart,” Arnold remarked.

“And that's not so very far wrong,” Malton replied. “Without going into technicalities, he died of heart failure. His heart has been dicky for a long time, though he didn't like people to know that. I doubt whether he had even told his son. And I don't doubt that the shock of Jonathan's death precipitated matters.”

“You were not greatly surprised when you heard this morning that he was dead?”Arnold asked.

“Not very greatly,” Malton replied. “I didn't like the look of him at all when I saw him yesterday. I talked to him pretty straight then. Told him that if he didn't take great care he might pass out suddenly. His answer to that was that he had no intention of dying until he had seen his son's murderer brought to justice.”

“I saw Sir Ambrose on Saturday,” Arnold remarked. “He said then that was all he had to live for.”

“He didn't live quite long enough, it seems,” said Malton. “I've been attending him for some years, and I knew how it would be. Diseased hearts are queer things. Sometimes they struggle on for years, and at other times they just cease to function, as his did. It was the experience he had just been through that killed him. He told me all about it, and a pretty mysterious affair it seems to have been. If I may say so, he seemed very disappointed that the police hadn't already laid hands on the murderer.”

“Yes,” Arnold replied uncomfortably. “We're doing our best.”

“Of course you are,” said Malton. “But Sir Ambrose wasn't altogether satisfied about that and it added to his worries. He seemed to think that his nephew's influence as a Cabinet Minister might have some effect. He told me that he had had a very sympathetic note from him, and meant to ask him to do all he could. However, now that he's dead, that's beside the point. When I saw him yesterday I told him to keep absolutely quiet, and I sent him round some tablets to take. He did take two of them, but it was no good, poor chap.”

“You found Sir Ambrose dead when Mrs. Renfrew called you this morning?”Arnold suggested.

“There was no doubt about that,” Malton replied. “He had been dead for some hours. He was sitting in that chair there, as I've so often seen him. On the table beside it was the box of tablets I'd sent him. I counted them, and two of them were gone. And there was a tumbler, with a few drops of whisky left in it, also my prescription. Ever since Lady Denby died, he had complained of difficulty, in getting to sleep at night. So I recommended a tot of whisky last thing before going to bed. He didn't take very kindly to the idea at first, for he was always most abstemious. But for the last couple of years or so he had made it a regular habit.”

“Mrs. Renfrew told me that you called in your partner,” Arnold persisted. “Had you any particular reason for that?”

“Yes, I had,” Malton replied. “It wasn't that I had any doubt of the cause of death, for that was obvious enough. But more than once he had told me that he wished to be cremated. As you are aware, a second opinion is necessary before a cremation certificate can be granted. So I thought it just as well to get the necessary formalities complied with straight away.”

While he was talking, they heard the door bell ring again, and Mrs. Renfrew going to answer it. A conversation in the hall followed, then the door of the lounge opened, and an elderly man came in. “Good morning, gentlemen,” he said gravely. “I am happy to find you here. Mrs. Renfrew rang up my office this morning with the news of this sad event. I am Mr. Cudworth, the late Sir Ambrose Denby's solicitor.”

Malton and Arnold introduced themselves, and at Mr. Cudworth's request the former repeated the circumstances. “It would have happened sooner or later in any case,” he concluded. “That it happened sooner is, in my opinion, due entirely to the shock of his son's death.”

Mr. Cudworth nodded. “Sir Ambrose has hinted to me more than once that he did not expect to live very long. But as he did not tell me that his heart was affected, I naturally pooh-poohed the idea.”

“He was right, as it turned out,” said Malton. “And now, if you will excuse me, I must get on.”

Left alone together, Mr. Cudworth eyed Arnold speculatively. “May I take it that your presence here is in connection with the death of Mr. Jonathan Denby, rather than that of his father?” he asked.

“That is so,” Arnold replied. “You will understand that, with the second death following so closely on the first, we were bound to make inquiries.”

“Of course, of course,” Mr. Cudworth agreed. “It is no matter of surprise to me that the shock of Jonathan's death, especially under such extraordinary circumstances, should have proved fatal to Sir Ambrose, for he was devoted to his son. I was out of town on Saturday when I read the report of the inquest in the paper. But I immediately rang up here, to be told by Mrs. Renfrew that Sir Ambrose had not yet returned. I had intended to call here to-day to offer my sympathy in person. But when I reached my office just now I was told of Mrs. Renfrew's message and I came here at once. I am Sir Ambrose's sole executor.”

“Then you are no doubt aware of the contents of Sir Ambrose's will?”Arnold suggested.

“Naturally,” Mr. Cudworth replied dryly. “But I fear that document will throw little light upon the subject of your investigations. The will is a perfectly simple one, and I can express it in non-legal terms. An annuity is to be purchased for Mrs. Renfrew, and I, as an old friend, am to receive a generous legacy. With those deductions, the remainder of the estate is bequeathed to Jonathan, or, failing him, to the testator's nephew, Henry Denby. There is in addition a clause providing that all debts owing to the testator at the time of his death shall be cancelled, and another expressing a wish for cremation.”

“Thank you, Mr. Cudworth,” said Arnold. “Now perhaps you can tell me this. I am told that Mr. Jonathan Denby had money of his own, settled on him by his father when he came of age. Is that so?”

“It is,” Mr. Cudworth agreed. “Sir Ambrose transferred to his son securities to the value of thirty thousand pounds, as an absolute and free gift.”

“What will become of that money now?”Arnold asked.

“I am not aware that Jonathan ever made a will,” Mr. Cudworth replied. “If he did not, all he possessed at the time of his death reverted to his father, as his next of kin. It therefore follows that Jonathan's estate becomes part of his father's, and falls to his cousin Henry-Sir Henry Denby, as he will now become.”

After some further conversation with the lawyer, Arnold returned to Scotland Yard with his report, to which Sir Edric listened with interest. “Natural causes, then,” he commented. “Not to be wondered at, after all he's been through, if his heart was dicky. Well, his death won't affect us. We've still got to find out who murdered his son. What steps do you propose to take? You've got some plan, I expect.”

Arnold described his and Merrion's adventures in the rectory, and mentioned the suggestion that he should obtain permission to break into the unoccupied wing. Sir Edric listened, a trifle sceptically. “Well, have it your own way,” he said. “But I'm inclined to think that you and your friend Merrion are barking up the wrong tree. If you find any sort of clue in that wing I shall be very much surprised. In any case, it doesn't seem very likely that an empty rectory has become a haunt of murderers.”

“Something was happening in that wing, sir,” Arnold protested. “We both heard it.”

Sir Edric smiled. “At the same time you are both satisfied that there is no way into it. So, wherever Jonathan Denby was murdered, it can't have been in there. And I confess that I've always been more than sceptical about haunted houses. Never mind, go ahead on your own lines. But for mercy's sake do your best to get to the bottom of the affair. We shan't be allowed any peace till you do.”

XIII

That afternoon Arnold walked to the offices of Queen Anne's Bounty, in Deans Yard, Westminster. He was received courteously enough, but the official who interviewed him displayed no great enthusiasm. “This is a most unusual request, Mr. Arnold,” he said. “May I ask your reasons for making it?”

Arnold told him as much as he thought it good for him to know. “It is an unusual request to make, I know,” he went on. “But as it seems probable that Mr. Denby was killed at the rectory, we feel it our duty to explore the premises as thoroughly as possible. Including, that is, the wing which has been closed.”

“I see,” said the other doubtfully. “I have no personal knowledge of the premises. But I will look up our records and see if there is any mention of the disused wing.” He did so, and after a search was able to give Arnold further information. “The wing was sealed off thirty years ago, in 1917. The then rector represented that the rectory was far too big for any likely incumbent, and our architectural department, after inspection, agreed with him. It was intended that this wing should ultimately be demolished, but so far funds have not been available for carrying out the work. The wing has never been reopened and has remained unoccupied until now. I shall have to consult our architectural staff before giving you the permission you desire.”

Arnold found himself enmeshed in the web of red tape. The department concerned would not consent to any tampering with the property, except under their supervision. It was finally arranged that an architect should go to Fencaster on Thursday. If Arnold would supply transport and the necessary labour, the disused wing of Clynde Rectory could then be opened under his instructions.

With this Arnold had to be content. It had been his intention to return to Fencaster that afternoon, but a report of another major theft delayed him. This time it was the disappearance of a quantity of furs from a London warehouse. It was not until Tuesday that he was able to transfer the burden of this on to Wighton's shoulders, and felt free to leave. He put a call through to Merrion, who agreed to meet him in his car at Fencaster.

Merrion was waiting for him at Fencaster station in the early afternoon. “So here you are,” was his greeting. “Things are moving pretty fast, aren't they? I saw the notice of Sir Ambrose's death in The Times this morning. Within a week of the death of his son. What's behind it?”

“Nothing,” Arnold replied. “Let's get on to Bromhoe and see Swale. I'll give you my news as we go.”

Merrion listened to his account of the conversations he had had at Guist Square. “Well, it all seems straightforward enough,” he commented. “But I can't help looking at it this way. Sir Ambrose wouldn't have died just yet if his son hadn't been killed. Every one seems to be agreed that it was Jonathan's death that bowled him over. In that sense, whoever murdered the son murdered the father too.”

“That may be true,” Arnold replied. “But, even so, it doesn't help us to find the murderer.”

Merrion made no remark upon that, and drove on in silence for a mile or so. “Henry Denby scoops the pool,” he said suddenly. “Not only does he inherit all the money, but he becomes a baronet into the bargain. Sir Henry Denby, a man of wealth, already Minister of Iron and Steel, with a very fair prospect of becoming Prime Minister some day. Not bad for a careerist. I should like to hear Lord Mundesley's views upon that subject. Have you done anything about getting permission to break into the rectory?”

Arnold's reply to that question hardly met with Merrion's approval. “You'd have done far better to let me go ahead on my own,” he grumbled. “As it is, we've got to wait till Thursday, and then we shall have an architect hanging round our necks, telling us what we may do and what we mayn't. It can't be helped, I suppose. As there's going to be such a party, we might as well invite an exorcist to join us. Well, here we are.”

They had reached Bromhoe, and drew up at Swale's house. “Well, Swale, we're back again,” said Arnold as the policeman ushered them indoors. “Have you anything fresh to report?”

Swale took out his notebook, licked his thumb, and flicked over the pages. “Yesterday evening I spoke to the lorry-driver Fred Tranmere had told me about, sir. His name is Endling, and he remembered Monday of last week. He left London with a lorry that afternoon, and stopped in Fencaster to get something to eat. It was getting along for eleven at night when he started again. He doesn't remember passing anything after that till he got near what he calls Hilltop Corner. That's where the road forks this side of Rendolvestone.”

“I know it,” said Arnold feelingly. “One road leads to Clynde, and the other to here.”

“That's right, sir,” Swale replied. “Endling told me that as he was approaching the corner from Rendolvestone, he saw the lights of a vehicle coming towards him, on the Bromhoe road. This vehicle got to the corner before Endling did, and turned sharp round left into the Clynde road. As it did so, he saw by his headlights that it was a lorry, a three-tonner he thinks. He is quite sure that it wasn't one belonging to his own firm. North Icenshire Transport. He didn't follow it, of course, but came along here to the depot. And it wasn't one of the firm's lorries. Tranmere says it can't have been, as they are all accounted for.”

“By jove, that's a clue!”Arnold exclaimed. “Where did this lorry go to? You're quite sure that it didn't pass through Clynde village?”

“I'm certain it can't have, sir,” Swale replied. “I've been asking there again this morning. I came across a woman who lives in the street. She was sitting up all that night with her child, who had whooping-cough. Anything passing through would have been only a yard or two from her window. If a three-tonner had come through, she'd have been bound to notice it.”

“Then it must have stopped at the rectory!”Arnold exclaimed excitedly. “There's nothing else on that road between Hilltop Comer and Clynde village. Is this man Endling at the depot now?”

“I don't think so, sir,” Swale replied. “He was to start out again with his lorry this morning, and I expect he'll be away for a day or two. He's one of those who do the long distance jobs.”

“Well, watch for him to come back,” said Arnold. “And when you see him, find out all he can tell you about that lorry he saw. He won't have noticed the number, but he may have seen something which will help us to trace it. It's worth asking him, anyhow. Anything else?”

“You were asking about Lordy-his Lordship, I should say-last time you were here, sir,” Swale replied. “He came home to the castle on Saturday evening. Rather unexpectedly, so I'm told. Got through his business in London sooner than he thought he would. He went to church at Clynde on Sunday. The Bishop came over there and preached. A beautiful sermon it was, they say, all about the sad death of Mr. Denby, who it seems the Bishop had known when he was a boy. Oh, yes, and one more thing, sir. There's been an earthquake.”

“What!”Arnold exclaimed. “An earthquake? Did it do any damage?”

“Nothing to speak of, sir.” Swale replied. “I didn't feel it myself. It wasn't till I went to Clynde to make inquiries about that lorry that I heard about it. Several people said they felt a slight tremor just before it was getting light this morning. Nothing much, just enough to rattle the crockery. And the only damage I've heard of is from a man who came in from one of the farms over the hill. He says that as he came past the churchyard, he noticed a crack in the wall of that old vault that stands there.”

“Nothing very serious, then,” said Arnold. “Now, look here, Swale. On Saturday night Mr. Merrion and I spent a very uncomfortable couple of hours in Clynde Rectory. While we were there, a car, it didn't sound heavy enough to be a lorry, passed down the hill towards the village, and came back again a little later. The time was about midnight. You might find out who the driver and passengers were, and ask them if they saw anybody about as they passed the rectory.”

Swale looked considerably astonished. “Very good, sir. I'll make inquiries at once. But, excuse me, sir. I spoke to Mrs. Docking this morning, and she told me that she hadn't let any one have the rectory key since you gave it back to her on Saturday morning.”

Arnold laughed. “Never mind. Swale. You might arrest us both for trespass if I told you the secret. We were in the rectory, and while we were there we heard some pretty queer sounds coming from the disused wing. I've arranged that it's to be opened on Thursday, and we shall want a carpenter to do the job. You know of a reliable man?”

“Why, yes, sir,” Swale replied. “You couldn't do better than employ the chap at Clynde. Ted, they call him.”

“Very well. then,” said Arnold. “You might see Ted, and tell him to stand by on Thursday afternoon. We'll pick him up when we want him. And perhaps you'd better come along yourself.”

“The more the merrier,” Merrion remarked lightly. “Tell me. Swale. What are folk in Clynde saying about Mr. Denby's death?”

“Well, I hardly know, sir. They don't say any more to me than they can help. But from what I can make out from Mr. Wayburn, they're saying that it was a judgment on Mr. Denby for flying in the face of Providence. He shouldn't have tried to spend a night all by himself in a house that every one knows is haunted.”

“You'd have thought that a parson would have been armed against supernatural enemies,” said Merrion. “The house is haunted all right, I promise you that. But how does it come about that every one in Clynde knows that it's haunted? Have any of them any direct evidence of the fact?”

Swale shook his head. “I really couldn't say, sir. I never heard anything of the house being haunted when the late rector was living there. It's only since it's been empty that queer sounds have got about. Folk passing by after dark said they heard queer noises. And I remember some time last winter hearing another yarn. A young chap coming back on his bicycle late one night from Bault swore that he'd seen white-robed figures in the churchyard. It frightened him nearly out of his wits, so they say.”

“He took them for the ghosts of the departed, no doubt,” Merrion remarked. “What do you suppose he really did see?”

Swale grinned. “I think I know, sir. When I went by the other night I could have sworn there were figures in the churchyard. But I very soon saw that it was only a trick of the mist.”

“I can't believe that what we heard was a trick of the mist,” said Merrion. “Why did the late rector leave the parish? He wasn't driven out of the rectory by the spooks, I take it?”

“Oh, no, sir,” Swale replied. “As I say, I never heard any talk of haunting in his time. He left because his Lordship offered him another living of which he's the patron, Melby, a dozen miles from here. It's a bigger place, and more money goes with the living, so I've heard.”

Arnold, who had been listening impatiently, put in a word. “That'll do for the present. We'll see you again, Swale, when you've made those inquiries.” He beckoned to Merrion, and they went out. “You're like an old woman for gossip,” he growled. “Now, since Lord Mundesley is home, we'd better go and see him.'

“To-morrow is also a day,” Merrion replied. “Lord Mundesley can wait till then. I want to explore the effects of that earthquake in the little daylight there's left to us. It may be that the rectory has been damaged. This time we'll get the key from Mrs. Docking and go and see.”

Arnold shrugged his shoulders, and they set out, stopping at Fisher's Row, where Mrs. Docking welcomed them volubly. The earthquake had relegated even the mystery of Mr. Denby to the background of her mind. She hadn't felt anything of it herself. It was only the top end of the village that had caught it, and there the houses must have rocked proper. The grocer had felt it in bed, and when he came down he found a pot of jam shaken off one of his shelves and lying all broken on the floor. And when the postwoman came round, she said—”

Arnold interrupted her flow of eloquence with a request for the key. She produced it, and the object changed the current of her thoughts. The appearance of the Bishop in church on Sunday had provided yet another local sensation. “Fancy him coming all this way to preach! And so natural he was, not a bit like what you might have thought. Not a bit stuck-up, just as if he'd been a friend of poor Mr. Denby's. My husband said—”

But Arnold was not interested in George Docking's appreciation of the Bishop's sermon. He took the key, and they drove towards the rectory. Merrion pulled up outside the gate of the churchyard and pointed. “Swale was quite right about the effects of the earthquake,” he said. “Look at that!”

From the road a wide crack could be seen in one wall of the vault, running from top to bottom. They got out of the car and entered the churchyard to investigate more closely. Besides the crack in the masonry of the vault one of the stone slabs with which it was roofed had been displaced. Close by, a crack had appeared in the surface of the wide concrete path leading to the church door. A couple of tiles had been shaken from the porch, and lay shattered on the ground. Otherwise the church appeared to be undamaged.

They left the churchyard and walked across to the rectory. The first thing they saw was a tile lying on the grass-grown sweep before the front door. “That wasn't here when we were here last,” Merrion remarked. “If the earthquake had been really obliging, it would have burst the door open, but it hasn't done that. Let's go round and see if anything has been shaken up inside.”

They entered the house, where Merrion's first business was to bolt the french window. “We shan't want that again,” he said. “And I don't see any sign of any one else having got in that way since our midnight adventure.” Looking about him, he went on till he reached the back passage where they had kept their vigil. Here a piece of plaster had been shaken from the ceiling, and lay in white fragments on the floor.

“It can't have been very much of an earthquake, after all,” said Merrion, when they had surveyed the rest of the house and found everything in order. “Just a faint tremor. In fact, I don't believe it can have been an earthquake at all. I've seen much the same effects when a small bomb has exploded after penetrating the ground. This may have been one lying buried since the war. But it's odd we haven't found a crater of any kind.”

“Whatever it was, it didn't kill Denby,” Arnold replied. “If you've done speculating, we'll get on.”

Having locked up the house and returned the key to Mrs. Docking, they drove back to Fencaster. Arnold called on Colonel Heythrop, to whom he reported his proceedings. The Colonel was interested in the particulars of Sir Ambrose's death, but did not appear very surprised at the event. “I thought on Saturday that he looked a pretty sick man,” he said. “It's easy to understand that a shock like that should have been fatal. How have you got on with the case?”

Arnold repeated what Swale had told him of Endling's statement. “That seems to carry us a step forward, sir,” he went on. “It's certain that lorry didn't go through Clynde village, so it must have stopped outside the rectory. The driver, or perhaps a passenger he was carrying, called Mr. Denby out. Or Mr. Denby, hearing it, went out. He was murdered, and his body and everything he had brought with him was loaded on to the lorry. The body was thrown into the sea. What became of the other things I don't know.”

Heythrop nodded. “That must be about it. But it's hard to explain exactly why Denby was murdered.”

“It is, sir,” Arnold replied cautiously. “But though we've been told that nobody but his father and Mr. Denby himself knew that he was going to sleep in the rectory that night, it isn't really so. He gave the Bishop's chaplain to understand that he was going to Clynde at once. The driver of the taxi which took him there helped him to carry his kit to the veranda, and must have guessed what he meant to do.”

“Meaning that it was not impossible that someone who wanted to murder Denby seized this opportunity?”Heythrop suggested. “But that doesn't seem to me to make motive any plainer.”

Arnold avoided that. “There's another possibility, sir. There's something pretty queer about the rectory, as I found out for myself on Saturday night. It may be that Mr. Denby wasn't murdered for any personal reason. He was killed owing to the accident of his being there that night.”

“Oh, come now!”Heythrop exclaimed. “If you don't mind my saying so, I think your experiences on Saturday night have made you superstitious. You say there's something queer about the rectory, just because you fancied you heard noises in the empty wing.”

“Both Mr. Merrion and I definitely heard them, sir,” Arnold replied stoutly.

“All right,” said Heythrop. “I'll accept it that you did. But you say yourself that there's no way into that wing, at all events no way that a man could get in by. It doesn't follow that an animal, possibly a large one, such as a fox, couldn't have burrowed a way in. Or do you prefer the theory that the noises you heard were made by ghosts?”

“I don't know about ghosts, sir,” Arnold replied. “But the house is supposed to be haunted.”

“I know it is,” said Heythrop. “But I shouldn't pay much attention to that if I were you. Houses which have stood empty for any length of time often get the reputation of being haunted. I know the man who used to be rector of Clynde. He's rector of Melby now, and I saw him not so long ago. I asked him then if he had heard that people were saying that Clynde Rectory was haunted, and he was very much amused. He'd heard about it, of course, but he said it was absolute nonsense. All the time he and his family had lived there, none of them had seen or heard anything in the least unusual. And the empty wing had been sealed off before he went to Clynde. So I'm not inclined to put much faith in the haunting.”

“If it was an animal we heard, sir, we shall find out on Thursday,” Arnold replied.

“Yes, I dare say,” said Heythrop, with some asperity. “But Denby wasn't killed by an animal. If I were you, Inspector, I should devote my time to looking for a human murderer, rather than to exploring haunted houses.”

XIV

Arnold rejoined Merrion at the King's Head in no way equable temper. They had dinner together, then retired to a quiet corner where they could talk without being overheard by inquisitive ears. “The Colonel's getting a bit impatient,” said Arnold despondently. “Can't blame him, I suppose. If only we could find out where that lorry went to!”

“The lorry Endling saw?”Merrion replied. “Yes, I've been thinking about that. But it seems to me more important to find out where it came from, and why it took the route it did.”

“It's no easier to find out where it came from than where it went to,” said Arnold impatiently.

“I'm not so sure,” Merrion replied. “You ought to know Hilltop Comer and the roads leading to it well enough by this time. Now, consider Endling's statement again. As he was approaching the corner from the Rendolvestone direction, he saw the lights of this lorry coming towards him along the road leading from Bromhoe. There are no side turnings, and no houses, on that road between Bromhoe village and the rectory. It is safe to assume then that if the lorry didn't start from Bromhoe, it must have passed through there.”

“That may be so,” Arnold agreed. “But I don't see that it helps us much.”

“It leads us to ask a question,” Merrion replied. “The lorry did not reach Clynde village, so we assume that its destination was the rectory. But look here. The obvious way from Bromhoe to the rectory is along the coast road, past the Anchor, then to the right and through the village street. The inland route by Hilltop Corner must be at least a couple of miles longer. What induced the driver to go that way?”

Arnold shook his head. “I don't know. He preferred it, I suppose.”

“Of course he preferred it!”Merrion exclaimed. “And why? Because by the route he took he would pass no houses all the way from Bromhoe to the rectory. Whereas, if he had taken the direct road, he would have been bound to pass through the whole length of Clynde village, where someone would have been sure to see, or at least to hear, him. And it's not unlikely that he returned by the way he came.”

Arnold, made no comment, and after a pause to light a cigarette Merrion went on. “Of course he did! It's all coming clear now. Where was Denby's body thrown into the sea? As I think you remarked yesterday, the rectory is a mile or more from the sea, and there's no road over the marshes to it that a lorry could take. But, as we know, at Bromhoe the creek comes right up to the quay. And that night Swale was on a wild-goose chase up at the castle. Do you follow me?”

“Not quite, at that speed,” Arnold replied. “As I understand you, the lorry drove back to Bromhoe by Hilltop Corner, and the body was pitched into the sea from the quay there. Is that it?”

Merrion nodded. “That's it exactly. And of course nobody hearing a lorry pass through Bromhoe at night would take any notice. They're used to North Icenshire Transport lorries at all hours, and would take it for one of them, though according to all we're told it wasn't.”

“That's all very well,” said Arnold. “I dare say you're right. But what was the game? What business had the lorry at the rectory? The driver didn't take it there for the purpose of murdering Denby and carrying off his body, surely?”

“I don't know,” Merrion replied thoughtfully. “Although it's possible that he did, it doesn't seem very likely. What would you say if you found out that the car we heard on Saturday night never got as far as Clynde village?”

“I shouldn't say that the driver brought it along for the purpose of murdering us,” said Arnold.

“No, I shouldn't say that either,” Merrion agreed. “And Denby's body, even with all his kit, could have been removed in something less cumbrous than a three-ton lorry. Never mind, we may get an idea about that before very long. I'm rather interested in something else we heard to-day. It was owing to Lord Mundesley that the former rector of Clynde left the parish. He was lured away by the offer of a better living.”

“He didn't leave because of disturbances at the rectory anyhow,” Arnold remarked.

“That's just it,” Merrion replied. “We're told that there was no rumour of the rectory being haunted until after he had left. And then the haunting proceeded on thoroughly orthodox lines. Mysterious noises within the house, and white-robed figures in the churchyard opposite. Exactly what one would expect if the intention had been to inspire a legend that the house was haunted. A pure hoax, in fact.”

“Whatever for?”Arnold demanded. “An elaborate practical joke, do you mean?”

Merrion shook his head. “Hardly that. Rather to frighten folk away from the locality. It has had that effect apparently, for Swale says that the locals don't use that road at night if they can help it. And it isn't sheer accident that the rectory has been empty for so long. Having got the former rector out, Lordy, as they call him, displayed no anxiety to find a successor. When at last one was practically forced on him, he arranged for the new rector to live, not at the rectory, but at a house in the village. Finally, when Denby ignored this arrangement and set himself up in the rectory, he was murdered for his temerity.”

“You'll say next that Lord Mundesley murdered him,” Arnold remarked scornfully.

“Not in so many words,” Merrion replied. “But don't forget he took care to keep Swale out of the way on the night of the murder. And I would like to know why he was so anxious that the rectory should remain vacant. We'll pay a call at the castle to-morrow, and perhaps he'll tell us.”

On Wednesday morning, after breakfast, they set out. As they drove past Hilltop Corner, Merrion demonstrated what he had said the previous evening, that there were no houses or side turnings until they reached Bromhoe village. The gates of the transport depot stood open, and there were signs of considerable activity in the yard beyond. They drove up the hill, through the gateway, and so to the main entrance of Bromhoe Castle.

The butler opened the door, and informed them that his Lordship was at home. Having given their names, they were ushered into the study, where Lord Mundesley rose to greet them. “Good morning,” he said, a trifle coldly. “I remember you very well, Mr. Merrion, but I am at a loss to understand why you are in the company of the police.”

“Inspector Arnold is a very old friend of mine,” Merrion replied. “We met in Fencaster, and I've run him over in my car. I hope you have had a good season with the pheasants.

“It has been fairly satisfactory,” said Lord Mundesley. “But I have been seriously troubled with poachers. My gamekeeper is getting too old for his work, and Swale, the village policeman, seems to be inefficient.”

“You heard poachers about as recently as Monday of last week, I believe?”Arnold remarked.

“I certainly heard shots in the Hanging Coppice that evening,” Lord Mundesley replied. “I informed Swale of the fact. But I can hardly suppose that you have come here to discuss that incident, Inspector.”

“No, I haven't, sir,” said Arnold, rather awed by his Lordship's manner. “I am investigating the death of Mr. Denby, and I wondered whether you could give me any information concerning him.”

“I only met young Denby once in my life,” Lord Mundesley replied loftily. “He lunched with me at my club in London, and I consented then to acquiesce in his appointment as rector of Clynde. I may say that I was influenced by my regard for his father. I was deeply grieved to hear of Sir Ambrose's sudden death.”

“It was due to the shock he had received,” said Arnold, “You did not see Mr. Jonathan Denby again after your interview with him at your club? He did not call upon you on the day he came to Clynde?”

Lord Mundesley frowned. “I have already told you that we met on one occasion only. I knew nothing whatever of Denby's visit to Clynde until two days later. Then his father came here and asked me if I had seen him. I replied that I had neither seen him nor had any communication from him. That was the last occasion upon which I saw Sir Ambrose. On the following day I went up to London, and therefore did not hear then of the finding of the body. It was not until Saturday morning that I read the report of the inquest in the newspaper. I went personally to Guist Square to express my condolence, but was informed that Sir Ambrose was not at home. And that, Inspector, is all that I can tell you of the matter.”

Arnold, ill at ease, might have left it at that, but Merrion stepped into the breach. “You speak of Denby's visit to Clynde. But it was more than a mere visit, for he had come to live there permanently. There is every evidence that he took possession of the rectory that day, and moved his belongings into it.”

Lord Mundesley eyed him angrily. “The rectory?” he exclaimed. “That is quite impossible, Mr. Merrion. There was never any question of his occupying the rectory. I told him, on the occasion we met, that I would arrange accommodation for him in the village, and I had already taken measures to do so.”

“Did Denby definitely agree to this suggestion of yours?”Merrion asked.

The question seemed to Lord Mundesley utterly irrelevant. “It was more than a suggestion,” he replied. “It was ridiculous to suppose that a single man would want to be saddled with so large a house as the rectory. I told Denby what I intended to do, and naturally he made no comment. He would hardly have objected to an arrangement made entirely in his own interests by the patron of the living. He cannot have contemplated living at the rectory when by inquiring he could have learnt that the house I had promised him would be ready in a few days.”

“Well, perhaps not,” said Merrion. “Especially, as no doubt you are aware, the rectory is said to be haunted?”

Lord Mundesley smiled bleakly. “Yes, I am aware of it. But you can hardly expect me to share the superstitions of the ignorant. This vulgar belief did not influence me in any way, I can assure you. It did not even recur to my memory during my conversation with young Denby.” He turned to Arnold, with the air of one giving instructions to an inferior.

“Any speculation based upon Mr. Denby's intention of occupying the rectory is sheer waste of time. It seems to me that the direction of your inquiries should take is plain enough. You are aware that I distinctly heard poachers that evening. Desperate men, no doubt, who would brook no interference with their illegal acts. Need I point out that it can hardly be a coincidence that Mr. Denby was killed that night? And you will pardon me if I mention that I have important matters to attend to this morning.” He rang the bell, and the butler appeared, to usher the visitors to the front door.

“Lordy didn't seem very pleased to see us,” Merrion remarked as they drove away from the castle. “You'd think from his manner that he considered himself far too highly placed to concern himself with the death of a mere parson. Yet, as all the world knows, his father sold patent medicines.'

“He thinks a lot of himself, for all that,” Arnold growled. “But he's a pompous idiot, with his talk of desperate characters. Does he think that Mr. Denby was interfering with poachers in his pyjamas?”

“I fancy that Lordy wasn't so very wide of the mark there,” Merrion replied. “I have an idea that Denby interfered with somebody, though probably not a poacher, and got knocked on the head for his pains. But what interested me most was Lordy's insistence that Denby can't have gone to the rectory. He had as good as told him he wasn't to, and it wouldn't occur to him that any one would venture to disobey his orders. And it's perfectly obvious that he doesn't want you or any one else messing about there.”

“Whether he likes it or not, we're going to mess about there to-morrow,” Arnold remarked spitefully.

“When we may discover why Lordy wants to keep people away from the place,” Merrion replied. “And yet I don't know. I'm half afraid that curious earthquake yesterday morning may have frightened the spooks away. We shall see. Now I'm going to find my way to Spithead Cottage. I want a word with Eli Norgarth.”

The way was not difficult to find, for all that was necessary was to follow the sandy track which ran seawards from the quay. The tide was out, and only a thin stream of muddy water trickled along the bed of the creek. They discovered Eli sitting on the lee side of the cottage, smoking a pipe and mending his whelk-pots.

“Good morning,” said Merrion, as he got out of the car. “We've come along to ask your advice. It's about Mr. Denby. If he had fallen into the creek from the quay, would his body have been carried to the spot where you found it?”

Eli considered this, chewing the stem of his pipe. “Well, I don't know that it would,” he replied after an interval. “Mostly when things that'll float drop off the quay, they don't get carried beyond the bar. They just drift up and down the creek with the tide.”

“Even if they drop in at the top of high water?”Merrion suggested.

Eli nodded. “Yes, even then,” he replied firmly. “Doesn't seem as there's enough current to draw them outside the creek. I mind once a sack of oil-cake falling overboard as it was being unloaded. The ebb was just beginning to make, and it bobbed away down the creek. But sure enough next flood, back it came. Me and my boy Ben picked it up yonder, where you see our boat moored.”

It seemed to Merrion that a body might be expected to behave much as a sack of oil-cake. And that rather dashed his theory that Denby had been pitched into the water from the quay. “As you heard at the inquest. Dr. Puckpool thinks that Mr. Denby must have been killed during the previous Monday night,' he said. “Were you out in your boat then?”

“Not at night, we weren't,” Eli replied. “We'd been out in the daytime, and done pretty well. But the weather turned wrong for our work after that. Wind shifted out of the proper quarter. I don't know that any of the boats went out that Monday night or next day. Not the whelk-boats, that is. The tug took a lighter out from the depot on Tuesday morning's tide, before daylight. I heard her go past.”

“From the depot?”Merrion asked. “Do you mean the North Icenshire Transport place? Do they use lighters?”

“Aye, they own two or three,” Eli replied. “And a tug too. Diesel-engined craft that you can hear chugging a mile away. And they do a fair trade with them, for what you can tell. Bring in coal and lime and that from the ports on the coast. Cheaper than hauling bulky stuff by road, I don't doubt.”

“And a considerable saving of petrol, these days,” Merrion remarked. He thanked Eli for his information, and he and Arnold drove off. “Swale next,” he said. “You'll want to hear if he's got anything to tell you.”

Swale had something to say. “I've made inquiries at the depot, sir, and they told me there that Endling should be in with his lorry soon after midday. And I've been over to Clynde, about that car you spoke of. I can't hear of any car being to the village as late as midnight on Saturday. There was the car that belongs here and took a team over to play darts at the Anchor, but it was back here well before eleven.”

“Which way did it go to Clynde and back?”Merrion asked.

This apparently foolish question seemed to surprise Swale. “Why, it went there and back direct, sir,” he replied. “Straight along the coast road as far as the Anchor, and back the same way.”

“Do people always go that way?”Merrion asked. “Instead of round by Hilltop Corner?”

“There wouldn't be any point in going all that way round, sir,” Swale replied. “It's a lot farther.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” said Merrion absently. “It's getting on for twelve o'clock. We may as well wander across to the depot.”

They walked the short distance, and were told that Endling had not yet come in. While they waited, they strolled round the premises, which were fairly extensive. Opening on to the central yard were a number of sheds and a well-equipped repair shop. Half a dozen lorries were being serviced, but, as the manager told them, it being the middle of the week the greater part of the fleet was out on various journeys.

Merrion displayed great interest in everything he saw. “You seem to have a pretty busy place here,” he said to the manager. “That repair shop, for instance. Besides maintaining your own lorries, you take in outside work?”

“Now and again,” the manager replied. “We work in with several other haulage firms. If any of their lorries are this way and want anything done, they usually come to us.”

“Have you had one in here recently?”Merrion asked.

The manager glanced at him sharply, obviously thinking that the details of the business were no affair of his. “We had one in last week. Back axle trouble. We put that right, and it's gone now.”

Merrion did not pursue the subject. “You do water transport as well as road haulage, don't you?” he asked.

“Quite a bit,” the manager replied. “If we've a big load from one of the ports round about, it pays best to bring it by water. Such as a hundred tons of lime for the farms in the district. We unload it here and then distribute it by road. We've got some lighters and a tug. You can see them if you like.”

He led them round the back of the sheds, where the premises stretched to the head of the creek. Here a miniature dock had been excavated, beside which was a warehouse and a crane. The dock was now dry, and in it lay a couple of lighters and a sturdy-looking little tug. In one of the lighters was a dwindling heap of coal, and a couple of men were engaged in unloading what remained of it.

As they returned to the yard, a lorry drove in. “That's the man you want to see,” said the manager. “Give him a chance to book in, and then you can talk to him. You won't want me any longer.”

Endling got out of the lorry and entered the office. As he came out a couple of minutes later they approached him.

“We'd like a word with you,” said Swale. “These gentlemen want to hear about what you saw when you were coming back from London last week.”

Endling, who seemed intelligent enough, repeated his story. “It was a three-ton lorry you saw,” said Arnold. “Can you tell us any more about it? Anything by which we could identify it?”

“I don't know that I can,” Endling replied. “I only saw it for a moment by my headlights as it turned the corner. I couldn't see the number as it was coming towards me for the glare of its lights. And when it turned I didn't notice what make it was. It seemed to have a big sheet tied over it, a tarpaulin or something, and, if there was a name painted on the side of it, the sheet hid it.”

“You didn't see it again after it turned the corner?”Merrion asked.

“Why, no,” Endling replied. “I came straight on here, and when I'd booked in to Mr. Tranmere I went home. I wasn't on the road again till next afternoon.”

Endling had nothing more to tell them, and they left the depot. “You couldn't expect him to have noticed any more than he did,” Merrion remarked. “In fact, I'm surprised that he noticed as much as he did. That seems a pretty flourishing concern, from what we saw of it. Who does it belong to, Swale?”

“Why, it's a company, sir,” Swale replied. “It was started in a small way by a chap who lived here, but he sold out, years ago. The shares are owned by a London syndicate, or so they say.”

“Nobody living here now has any interest in the business?”Merrion suggested.

“Not that I know of, sir,” Swale replied. “The property used to belong to his Lordship, like the rest of the village does. But the company bought it from him, or so I understand.”

Arnold parted from Swale when they regained the car, and drove away. “Time we were getting back to the King's Head for lunch,” Merrion remarked. “Well, everything's pretty clear now. Up to a certain point, that is. And the point is, what business had that lorry at the rectory? Well, perhaps we shall be able to answer that question to-morrow.”

XV

In the course of the afternoon Arnold received a message that Mr. Purbeck, a surveyor employed by Queen Anne's Bounty, would arrive in Fencaster at ten o'clock next morning. He rang up Swale, telling him to be at the rectory at eleven, bringing with him Ted and the key.

Mr. Purbeck, when Arnold and Merrion met him on Thursday morning, turned out to be young and energetic. As the three of them drove to Clynde, Purbeck explained that he had never been there. His instructions were to supervise the entry into the sealed-off wing of the rectory. Beyond that he knew nothing.

Arnold told him what he wanted, and they reached their destination to find Swale and Ted waiting for them. Purbeck inspected the building critically. “It hasn't been occupied for a very long time, by the look of it,” he said. “But before we begin to knock things about, I shall have to satisfy myself that there's no way we can get in without doing damage.” He made a thorough examination, then shook his head. “Nothing doing. The best plan will be to force open that door in the downstairs passage. Let's get to work.”

Under his direction Ted started on the door. It was stoutly fastened, and for some time resisted his efforts. In the end he was obliged to cut out a panel, and then to saw away the woodwork until he had made an opening wide enough for them to crawl through.

On the farther side of the door they found themselves in complete darkness, since all the windows in this wing had been boarded up. But Arnold and Merrion had brought torches with them, and by the light of these they examined their surroundings. They found themselves in a spacious hall, which stretched the whole depth of the wing, as far as the blocked-up front door. From the hall a stairway led to the floor above, but many of the treads were missing, and the banisters had fallen down. The impression of the interior was one of utter emptiness and desolation. Most of the plaster had fallen from the ceiling, and the paper was hanging from the walls in mournful festoons. The tiling of the floor was cracked and broken.

Purbeck laughed. “Well, there's not much to be seen, now we have got in. I hope you're not disappointed, Mr. Arnold.” He walked across the hall, and selecting at random one of the doors opening upon it, pushed it open. “Hallo!”he exclaimed. “There's something in here. Bring your torches along, and let's have a look.”

The torches revealed a sight so unexpected that Arnold gasped. They entered a small room, which might originally have been a lobby, and this room was furnished as a campaigning hut would be. Against one wall was a camp-bed, with bedding lying in disorder upon it. On the opposite side was a folding table, with a camp-stool before it. Lying in between were two or three suitcases, with their lids open, a Primus stove and a few simple cooking utensils.

Merrion advanced into the room, throwing the light of his torch on the various objects in turn. On the top of the clothes in one of the open suitcases lay half a dozen clerical collars. A number of objects lay on the table. A pipe, tobacco pouch, and a box of matches. A portable electric lamp, a fountain pen, a leather wallet, and a pile of loose change. Finally, a London newspaper bearing the date Monday, January 31st, and a letter, stuck up and addressed to Sir Ambrose Denby, Bart., 12 Guist Square, London, W.5.

Arnold joined Merrion, and together they examined the contents of the room. But from the first there could be no shadow of doubt to whom they had belonged. The suitcases bore labels with the inscription, “The Rev. J. Denby.” In the wallet, together with a thick wad of notes, was an identity card issued to Jonathan Denby. And on opening the letter, they found it dated January 31st, and signed “Your affec. son, Jo.”

Arnold felt the puzzle to be utterly beyond him. “What on earth possessed him to settle in this wing?” he demanded in a bewildered tone. “And how the devil did he get here, anyhow?”

Merrion made no attempt to answer either question. “He wasn't murdered for the sake of his money, anyhow,” he remarked. “Or for anything he brought with him, for that matter. I wonder if this lamp is still working?”

He touched the switch, and the room was immediately illuminated. “You'd better take that, Mr. Purbeck,” he went on. “We've got to examine the premises thoroughly, that's a sure thing.”

They set out to examine the ground floor. Besides the hall, and the lobby containing Denby's belongings, there were half a dozen other rooms. All these were empty, and in varying stages of disrepair. Examining the two doors from inside, both Purbeck and Ted reported with certainty that they had not been opened for years. Greatly daring, Purbeck, professionally thrilled by the mystery, clambered up the rickety staircase. He returned to say that the rooms upstairs were empty, but for the plaster which had fallen from the ceilings. There was no means of access to the roof, and no possibility of the bricked-up archway having been disturbed. “I can't make it out,” he said. “There's no way by which anybody could have got in here.”

“And there's no trace of animals, either,” Arnold remarked. “The Colonel can put that idea out of his head.”

“Then we must suppose that Denby and his belongings were transported here by supernatural agency,” said Merrion. “But I'm only inclined to accept that theory in the last resort.” Once more he went doggedly round the house, testing the boarded windows, even looking up the chimneys of the dilapidated fireplaces. At last he came back to the hall and walked slowly round it, tapping the walls as he went, until he came to the staircase. The space beneath it had been filled in with panelling, and this, as he tapped it, sounded hollow. “I wonder what's behind there?” he muttered. “Your move, I think, Mr. Purbeck.”

Purbeck approached the panelling and ran his fingers over it. Then he began trying the uprights of the framework, till he uttered a sudden exclamation. He applied both hands to one of the uprights and pushed. A wide section of the panelling slid back, smoothly and noiselessly, revealing a yawning gap. Purbeck held his lamp over this, to find a flight of well-worn stone steps leading downwards. “That's the way into the cellar!”he exclaimed excitedly. “And the sliding door must have been used quite recently, or it wouldn't have moved so smoothly.”

In single file the remaining four followed him down the steps. But their expectations of finding anything sensational were disappointing. The steps led downward to a wide passage, off which opened four cellars, with low vaulted ceilings. Each of these was packed high with empty wine bottles, pile upon pile, covered with the dust and debris of ages. They had evidently lain undisturbed for years.

“The melancholy relics of long-forgotten conviviality,” Merrion remarked. “One of the previous rectors of Clynde seems to have done himself pretty well. A bottle of claret with his dinner, and at least one bottle of port afterwards. And kindred spirits to keep him company, no doubt. Very interesting, as an illustration of the domestic life of a nineteenth-century parson. But it doesn't help us very much.”

Meanwhile Purbeck was exploring energetically. “There often used to be a way into cellars of this kind from outside,” he said. “But I don't see one here. Hallo, what's this?”

At the far end of the passage was a massive oak door, with an iron handle and a keyhole. Purbeck tugged at the handle, but the door resisted his efforts, merely vibrating slightly. “It's locked,” he said. “Bring your bar along, Ted. Put it in by the keyhole there. That's right. Now then, try.”

Ted made several attempts before he got the correct purchase, then threw his whole weight upon the bar. Slowly the housing of the lock yielded, and at last the door flew open. Purbeck examined it. “A stout lock, and a fairly modern one,” he remarked. “More recent than the door, anyhow. Now, what lies beyond?”

He held up his lamp, and Arnold and Merrion beside him added the light of their torches. Before them was the entrance of a low wide tunnel, the roof and sides damp and covered with strange growths. The subsoil through which the tunnel had been driven was sufficiently rock-like for no lining to be needed. But here and there fragments of rock had become dislodged and lay on the floor. “This wasn't dug yesterday,” said Purbeck with conviction. “Where the dickens can it lead to?”

Ted, who had hitherto ventured no opinion, now put in a word. “Beg pardon, sir. When I was a lad I used to hear the old folks say that there was an underground passage leading from somewhere in the village up to the rectory. But where it started from nobody seemed to know.”

“That's it!”Purbeck exclaimed. “A smuggler's passage! Dating from the eighteenth century, probably. They aren't uncommon near the coast, and it's remarkable how often they lead to the rectory, or the crypt of the church, if it's got one. But I rather fancy this passage has been used since the days of smuggling. There are marks on the walls as though things had been rubbed against them quite recently.”

To, Merrion, Ted's suggestion seemed likely to be correct. So far as he could judge, the entrance to the passage lay beneath the north wall of the wing, at right angles to the frontage facing the road. If that were so, the general direction in which the passage ran would bring it eventually to the village. “Shall we try it?” he asked.

“We'd better,” Purbeck replied. “But mind how you go, all of you. The roof doesn't look too safe in places.”

With Purbeck leading they started off. The floor of the passage was firm enough to record no trace of footsteps. It was damp, with water lying here and there. There was plenty of head-room, even Swale, the tallest of the party, finding it necessary to stoop only very slightly; and the breadth averaged about six feet. The passage ran fairly straight, and Merrion counted his paces as they followed it. Thirty yards from the entrance Purbeck came to a halt. “Hallo!”he exclaimed. “There's a side-turning here to the right. Which way do we take?”

“Straight on,” Merrion replied. “We can come back and explore the turning afterwards.”

Purbeck went on. But after a few yards the going became more difficult. In several places lumps of rock had fallen from the roof and walls, obstructing the way. They struggled on as best they could, but very soon came to a point beyond which they could proceed no further. The passage ended in a pile of debris, with only a vestige of its former course remaining. And the appearance of the block showed clearly enough that it was of long standing. Nobody could have passed that way for a very long time indeed.

There was nothing for it but to retrace their steps to the point where the side-turning branched off. “So far as I can make out, that must lead towards the church,” Merrion remarked. “You said that these smugglers' passages sometimes led to a crypt, Mr. Purbeck. Let's see if this one does.”

They followed the side-turning, as roomy as the main passage, for twenty yards or so. And then again they were brought to a sudden halt. The roof and walls had collapsed, forming an impenetrable barrier. But in this case the fallen rock and soil looked quite fresh, indicating that the collapse had occurred quite recently. But the fact remained that they had not found any means of access to the sealed-up wing.

“Well, this beats me!”Purbeck exclaimed. “Apart from the parson himself, how did all that stuff get into the lobby?”

Merrion laughed shortly. “There was an earthquake on Tuesday morning,” he replied. He bent down over the fallen debris and, sniffing inquisitively, detected a faint acrid smell. “And, as I suspected from the first, it wasn't an earthquake at all. It was a demolition with explosives; gun-cotton, I think. We're a couple of days too late. Never mind, let's try the other end. I can guess now where that is.”

He took the lead, and they went back by the way they had come, eventually reaching the open air by the veranda door. Merrion went on swiftly, past the side of the house to the road. He crossed this, entered the churchyard, and stopped just short of the vault. “That's the distance, as nearly as I can judge it,” he said. “I fancy we're standing just above where we were brought up short just now. What do you make of that vault, Mr. Purbeck?”

Purbeck regarded it critically. “It's a family tomb dating from the Tudor period, I should say.”

“That's my own amateur opinion,” Merrion agreed. “It's got a door, as you see. Have a closer look at that.”

The door, of oak studded with nails, was as ancient as the masonry of the vault. A pivoted iron slide covered the keyhole, and at Purbeck's touch this moved easily, disclosing a large keyhole. Peering into this, Purbeck discovered within it the side of a brass lock, in which was a smaller key-hole. He pointed this out excitedly. “Someone has taken off the original lock and put a modern one inside!”

“Exactly,” Merrion replied. “But we don't know yet where to apply for the key. It's up to you, Ted.”

So keen was their interest that none of the others raised any objection to this highly irregular proceeding. Ted inserted his bar, and after a vigorous wrench or two the door swung open. They entered the vault to find it not quite dark, for a certain amount of daylight filtered through the crack in the wall and the displacement of the roof. One side was occupied by lead coffins, piled up anyhow. On the other side was a wooden trap-door, torn off its hinges and lying crookedly over a square aperture in the floor. Merrion pointed to this. “That is, or rather was, the way into the disused wing of the rectory!” he exclaimed.

The trap-door was heavy, but Purbeck and Ted lifted it between them. From the aperture, a flight of concrete steps led downwards. But the foot of the flight was invisible, being buried under a heap of soil and fragments of rock.

“Well, there you are,” said Merrion quietly. “We've seen both sides of it now. That most convenient earthquake has blocked up the only means of access to the disused wing. And the earthquake didn't happen till Tuesday, remember. But at least we've established one fact. The rectory wasn't haunted by supernatural entities.”

“Oh, talk sense!”Arnold exclaimed. “Who used that underground passage, and why?”

Merrion shrugged his shoulders. “Somebody did, and that fairly frequently. Let's leave it at that for the moment. There's one thing I'd like to point out while we're here. The door of this vault opens directly on to the unusually wide concrete path leading from the churchyard gate to the church. Both the path and the gateway are amply wide enough for a lorry to drive right up to the vault. But we're wasting Mr. Purbeck's time.”

“Not at all,” Purbeck replied. “I hope Mr. Arnold is satisfied. The whole affair is a complete puzzle to me. However, it's no business of mine. You'd rather that door between the two wings wasn't repaired just yet, I expect?”

“Better leave it so that we can get through for the present,” said Arnold. “We'll be responsible for the property.”

It was arranged that Ted should screw up the door of the vault against meddlers. Then they locked up the rectory, Arnold instructing Swale to tell Mrs. Docking that he would keep the key for a while. Merrion drove Arnold and Purbeck back to Fencaster. That afternoon he and Arnold called at police headquarters, and reported their adventures to Colonel Heythrop.

The Colonel listened to their account in growing amazement. “But all this sounds like a fairy tale!”he exclaimed. “What does it all mean? You say that wing was empty but for things Denby had taken in there?”

“Absolutely, sir,” Arnold replied. “The only other things were a lot of old empty bottles in the cellars.”

“Then you don't seem to have got a lot further,” said Heythrop impatiently. “If Denby went to bed in the empty wing that Monday night, how did his body come to be found out at sea three days later? Tell me that, Inspector.”

“May I put in a word. Colonel?”Merrion interposed. “It seems to me that we've got most of the pieces of the jig-saw puzzle, and that it only remains to fit them together.”

“Perhaps you're good at that sort of thing,” Heythrop replied, rather more affably. “Have a shot at it, anyhow.”

“I'll do my best,” said Merrion. “To begin with, that so-called earthquake on Tuesday morning. The tremor wasn't due to an earthquake, but to a charge of gun-cotton detonated near the vault, in the passage leading from it. There is no doubt that passage led into the old smugglers' passage. So that, before Tuesday morning, it was possible to reach the unoccupied wing of the rectory from the vault in the churchyard. That, I think, is the central piece round which we have to group the rest.

“We'll go on with what we know at first hand, and consider the adventures Arnold and I had on Saturday night. It must be borne in mind that we took every precaution to ensure secrecy. Up to a certain moment, nobody but ourselves could have known that we were in the habitable part of the rectory. About midnight we heard a vehicle of some kind descending the hill. This vehicle did not stop outside the rectory gate. Swale is perfectly satisfied that it did not proceed as far as Clynde village.

“Shortly after we heard the car for the first time, we became aware of sounds coming from the disused wing. At this juncture, owing to an unfortunate accident, we made a considerable clatter, which must have been audible in that wing. The sounds from there ceased, and after a short interval we heard the vehicle for a second time, and on this occasion it was ascending the hill. Going back by the way it had come, in fact.

“In the light of what we now know, the explanation of these phenomena seems fairly simple. The car was driven through the gateway into the churchyard, and along the concrete path to the door of the vault. Incidentally, once it was there, it would be difficult to discern it from the road. The driver, who may or may not have been alone, unlocked the door of the vault, made his way along the passage to the door in the rectory cellar, unlocked this, and so reached the disused wing. There he made the noises we heard. He cannot have been aware of our presence in the other part of the house, and the clatter we made must have startled him pretty badly. He cleared out as fast as he could, locking both doors behind him, and drove away.

“Now there are one or two points worth considering. We found, in the course of our exploration this morning, a significant contrast between the ancient and the modern. In this we had the advantage of the opinion of Mr. Purbeck, a qualified surveyor. To deal first with the ancient. This includes the vault and the smugglers' passage. The present rectory is not as old as either of these, but it is probable that a more ancient building occupied the site on which it stands. We know, from Arnold's inquiries at Dean's Yard, that the wing was sealed off thirty years ago. It is highly unlikely that the barriers then set up had been disturbed from then until this morning.

“Now we come to the modern, by which I mean the evidence we found of more recent activities. The sliding panel concealing the descent to the cellar is doubtful. It may have formed part of the original structure, or it may have been contrived later. In either event, the smoothness with which it moved showed that it had been in use quite recently. The smugglers' passage, as far as the junction, was in good order and showed signs of recent use. Beyond that point it became ruinous, and finally petered out. I got the impression that the branch passage had been excavated at a very much later date.

“Of the antiquity of the vault and the coffins it contains there can be no doubt. But a modern lock has been fitted to the door of the vault. The coffins are certainly not now as they were originally deposited. There is nothing old about the trap-door and its fittings. And the steps leading down from it are most obviously of modern concrete. We are told that the wide concrete path through the churchyard was laid down after the late rector's departure, about three years ago. .1 will hazard a guess that it was about the same time that a tunnel was dug from the vault to its junction with the ancient smugglers' passage.”

“Yes, that's all very interesting,” said Heythrop as Merrion paused. “But you'll forgive me if I remark that it seems beside the point. You're trying to account for your experiences on Saturday. But you haven't attempted to suggest what happened to Denby on the previous Monday.”

XVI

Merrion smiled. “You invited me to fit the pieces of the puzzle together. The best way was to start with the easier ones, about which there is some certainty. From now on it's more a matter of guesswork.

“Look at that part of the picture we have already formed. We see an extensive building, part of which has been unoccupied and barricaded off for thirty years. Three years ago the remainder of the building also became unoccupied. Soon after this, a secret means of access to the sealed-off wing was contrived. There was no other way of getting into this part of the house. Arnold and I have the evidence of our ears that entry was made by someone who, believing the rest of the house to be empty, didn't care how much noise he made.

“The conditions on the previous Monday were exactly similar to those existing on Saturday. Denby did not actually make a secret of taking possession of the rectory, for he openly obtained the key from Mrs. Docking. But for reasons which I find it easy to appreciate, he did not advertise the fact. It is more than doubtful whether, on Monday night, anybody in the neighbourhood, even Mrs. Docking herself, suspected that Denby was in the rectory.

“And when I say in the rectory, I mean in what we may call the open part of the house. It is quite inconceivable that he should have established himself in the lobby where we found his kit. In the first place, there is no earthly reason why he should have done so. In the second, the only way he could have got there was by way of the secret passage. It is incredible that, he should have discovered this. It is still more incredible that even had he done so,' he should have come into possession of the keys necessary to unlock the two doors guarding it.

“Now we'll try to fit in the next piece. Denby unpacked his belongings and put up his bed in one of the rooms in the open part of the house. He wrote a letter to his father, and glanced at a newspaper he had bought before leaving London that morning. What else he may have done we don't know, nor does it greatly matter. Eventually he went to bed, and, as we may suppose, to sleep.

“Once again we come to a striking similarity of circumstance. I have no doubt whatever that the destination of the lorry seen by Endling was not the rectory itself, but the vault in the churchyard. As was the case on Saturday, the driver of this lorry, and any companions he may have had, believed the rectory to be unoccupied, as it had been for the past three years. They entered the disused wing by the secret passage, and set about their business in complete confidence.

“And now I think we arrive at the explanation of Denby's death. The noise made by the intruders woke him up. No doubt it became apparent that the noise came from the disused wing. This must have mystified him, for he had probably already discovered that there was no visible means of getting into that part of the house. He may have heard that the rectory was haunted, but from what we have heard about him it seems unlikely that he would have considered that an adequate explanation. Reasoning that the noise must be due to human agency, he decided to investigate.

“He got out of bed, and put on a coat and trousers over his pyjamas. Probably slippers too, though these would certainly have fallen off in the course of the subsequent proceedings. He knew that whoever was in that wing could not have got there through the open part of the house. They must somehow have entered from outside. So Denby left the house by the veranda door and walked round to the front.

“We've got to try to picture the scene as it was when he reached the corner. We have trustworthy evidence as to meteorological conditions, for Swale spent that night lurking about the grounds of Bromhoe Castle. He describes it as clear, with frequent intervals of moonlight. Denby should have been able to discern objects near at hand plainly enough. But what was there for him to discern? From where he then stood, absolutely nothing. No sign of life in the front of the house, and the front door still securely screwed up. The intruders, if indeed they existed, and he must have begun to have his doubts, could not have got in that way.

“He probably stood there for a while, listening. And then a sound came to him from an entirely unexpected direction. From the churchyard, of all places. Intent upon solving this fresh mystery, he walked into the road and down it to the churchyard gate. And when he reached it he saw a lorry drawn up on the path outside the vault.”

Merrion paused, but neither Heythrop nor Arnold made any comment, and after a few moments he went on, rather less confidently, “Up to that point we're on fairly safe ground, I think. For what happened next, we must rely rather more freely upon imagination. I'm supposing that the sounds Denby heard were made by somebody, possibly more than one person, going backwards and forwards between the lorry and the interior of the house. If that was the case, it is pretty safe to assume that whatever business they were engaged upon was outside the law. It is difficult to conceive any honest reason for people to use a secret passage at dead of night. Perhaps it will help us to consider the situation as it presented itself to the intruders, or one of them.

“This man, whom for simplicity's sake we'll call the lorry driver, was inside the lorry. Perhaps preparing to remove something from it and carry it along the passage to the interior of the rectory. Suddenly a strange voice hailed him. He turned, to see an unknown figure standing at the open tailboard. He could not tell who he was or where he had come from. But it flashed through his guilty conscience that he must be a member of the police. Nobody else in Clynde would have ventured on to this ghost-ridden ground. In a sudden unreasoning panic he picked up the first thing that came to his hand and hit Denby over the head with it.”

Again Merrion paused, and this time Heythrop spoke. “That's a most realistic picture you've drawn, Mr. Merrion. Of course it leaves a dozen questions unanswered, but we can come to them later. For the moment I'd like to hear your reconstruction of the rest. What happened next?”

Merrion smiled. “If I'm right so far, the rest isn't very difficult to imagine. The driver jumped out of the lorry to find his victim lying motionless on the path. A very brief inspection showed him that if the man wasn't dead, he very soon would be. The puzzle was, who could he be? Policemen don't as a rule carry out their duties in pyjamas. This unexpected garb suggested that the wearer had not come from very far afield. Was it possible that he had inexplicably come from the rectory itself? That question must be answered.

“I am speaking, again for the sake of simplicity, as though only one person was involved. Actually I think the driver must have had at least one companion who could be trusted. He, or they, went round to the veranda door and found it open. Entering the house, they found Denby's belongings, and among them clerical clothing, indicating that the owner was a parson.

“Now we've got to make certain assumptions. It seems to me quite likely that the driver knew that a rector had been appointed to Clynde, and that it had been arranged that he should occupy a house in the village. That being so, it wasn't easy to understand what he had been doing in the rectory. It was just possible that nobody but himself knew that he had been there. Anyhow, it was a chance worth gambling upon.

“Naturally, the driver's first instinct was one of self-preservation. He had, though possibly unintentionally, committed murder, and he must, to the best of his ability, destroy all evidence of the crime. It occurred to him that the best way to do this was to destroy all trace of his victim's occupation of the rectory. He made up his mind how he could dispose of the body. But there was all the stuff the parson had brought with him. What was to be done with that? The solution of that problem was obvious. Carry it all out to the vault, and through the passage into the disused wing. I don't suppose all the gear was arranged as we found it this morning. It seems more probable that this was an afterthought. All that remained was to clear up every vestige of Denby's occupation. This was done very thoroughly, and only one detail was overlooked. The emptying of the cistern which Denby had filled.

“The veranda door was locked, and the key carried on foot to Fisher's Row, where it was hung on Mrs. Docking's front door. Any evidence which remained on the churchyard path was removed, the mark of tyres and perhaps a small quantity of blood. The lorry into which the body had been loaded then drove away. Up to Hilltop Corner, then sharp round and down the hill to Bromhoe. To the depot of North Icenshire Transport, where, I fancy, it was expected.”

This was too much for Heythrop. “What!”he exclaimed. “Expected? With the body in it?”

“The body wasn't expected,” Merrion replied. “But I'm pretty sure that the lorry was, though it wasn't the property of North Icenshire Transport. It was the one that, as we were told yesterday, came in for repair. Who was let into the secret of the body we don't yet know. What we do know is that one of the lighters was towed out to sea from the depot in the early hours of Tuesday morning. Surely it's a pretty safe guess that part of the cargo was the body, and that this was jettisoned outside the bar.”

“You mean that manager chap we spoke to knows all about it?”Arnold asked incredulously.

“Not necessarily,” Merrion replied. “He may know little or nothing about the killing of Denby. The one you've got to tackle we haven't met yet; Tranmere, the night foreman. But we'll come to that in a few minutes. Let's see if we can figure out what has been happening at the rectory since then. For a while it must have seemed to the criminal that his dodge had worked out better than he could have dared to hope. Even the finding of Denby's body did not endanger him in any way, since it furnished no clue to the identity of the murderer. The rectory was searched, more than once, but the secret passage remained undiscovered. Further, to all appearances the house was not visited at night, except on one occasion. Swale spent a short time there on Wednesday night. But I expect that Swale's movements were pretty closely watched, and during his visit the criminal would have been careful to keep out of the way.

“It was not until Saturday night that the criminals became alarmed. I say criminals in the plural, because it seems fairly certain that a gang must have been involved. I don't mean a gang of homicides, for my opinion is that Denby's murder was more or less accidental. But a gang which had a keen interest in the rectory.

“On Saturday night, then, one or more members of this gang entered by the secret passage, believing the coast to be clear. Owing to our unfortunate misadventure they were disabused of this idea. They cleared off at once, taking with them the uncomfortable knowledge that someone was keeping watch in the open part of the house, and that the watcher or watchers must have heard the disturbance in the sealed-off wing.

“No doubt a conference was hastily called, to discuss the steps which must be taken. To the gang the situation must have appeared grave but not desperate. They could feel assured that the secret passage had not yet been discovered. But it was quite obvious that, if the Saturday watchers had been persons in authority, the cause of the mysterious noises in the wing would sooner or later be investigated. It was decided that, before this investigation took place, the secret of the rectory must at all costs be obliterated.

“This was done on the following Monday night, and a pretty nervous business it must have been. No doubt the gang sent a scout to see whether any watcher was in the house. He must have been most unpleasantly surprised when he found the dining-room window unbolted. This suggested that the watchers had left it like this to enable them to get in at any time. Though there was nobody in the house at the time the scout explored it, he could not be sure that someone would not turn up at any time. Still, that risk had to be taken.

“The gang set to work to remove everything incriminating. And it occurred to them that the mystery might be deepened. Instead of removing Denby's belongings, they arranged them in such a way as to suggest that he had occupied the lobby. Perhaps they were following up the popular superstition that the house was haunted. The credulous might suppose that Denby's ghost had been responsible for Saturday night's disturbances. Or that Denby, having penetrated the forbidden wing, had been murdered by supernatural forces. However that may be, the gang completed its task in the early hours of Tuesday morning.

“It only remained, as a further precaution, to destroy the secret passage. They made a clumsy job of that, for they left both ends of the passage visible, and it was obvious that the attempted demolition had been carried out quite recently. But we must remember that they were working against time. That unbolted window was very much in their minds. In any case, they must be as far as possible from the neighbourhood of the rectory before daylight. And I don't suppose that any one of them was an expert in demolition.”

“That's a perfectly plausible theory,” said Heythrop, as Merrion came to an end. “It seems to account for the facts, as we know them. But it leaves the central plot unexplained. I'll repeat a phrase you used a moment ago. The gang decided that the secret of the rectory must be obliterated. What was that secret?”

Merrion smiled. “I dare say that Arnold could find the answer to that question,” he replied.

“I?”Arnold exclaimed. “I know no more than you do. And I'm not half as good at guessing.”

“You ought to be able to guess this one,” said Merrion. “You might start by repeating, for Colonel Heythrop's benefit, the yam you told me the other evening. About the case you were working on before you came here for the first time.”

Arnold shrugged his shoulders, but complied. And as he described the theft of the lorry and its contents, the light suddenly dawned upon him. “Why, you don't mean!”he exclaimed.

“I do mean,” Merrion replied placidly. “I mean that the lorry driven away from the roadside cafe near Stamford, and the lorry seen by Endling at Hilltop Corner some hours later, were one and the same. The times fit in perfectly. Stamford is rather more than sixty miles from Bromhoe by road, say three hours' run for a laden lorry.”

“I'm beginning to get the hang of things,” said Heythrop. “But I'd like to hear your explanation, Mr. Merrion.”

“Of the adventures of the lorry?”Merrion replied. “I'll have a shot at it. Arnold tells us that it left London on Monday afternoon with a full load of spirits. At about seven o'clock the driver left it outside a cafe near Stamford, and when he came to look for it, it had vanished. Quite obviously it had been driven away by some unauthorised person who had been on the look-out for it. This person was a member of the gang to which I have referred.

“From Stamford the lorry was driven to the depot of North Icenshire Transport, where the driver stopped to make enquiries. I would remark that even had a strange lorry been seen in Bromhoe, it would have attracted no attention, since strange lorries often frequent the depot. The driver was told that all was clear, for Swale would be spending the night round about the castle. He left the depot and proceeded to his ultimate destination, being seen by Endling at Hilltop Corner.

“Doesn't it seem now that the disused wing of the rectory was an ideal warehouse for stolen goods? Nobody would suspect that it was used for such an unlawful purpose. Or for any purpose, for that matter, since apparently there was no way into it. It could be approached by night without risk of observation. Local curiosity was effectually held in check by the legend of haunting. By the way, that young fellow who was scared out of his wits by the white-robed figures he saw in the churchyard was nearer stumbling upon the secret than he knew.

“I think we can take it that for some considerable time, ever since the departure of the former rector, in fact, the rectory has been used as a place of storage. Once the stolen goods were safely inside, it was highly unlikely that they would be found. I won't pretend that all the lorry-loads which have so mysteriously disappeared during that period found their way to the rectory, but I'm willing to bet that quite a fair proportion of them did.”

“And what about that car we heard on Saturday night?”Arnold asked.

Merrion shrugged his shoulders. “You're asking me to guess. By the sound of it, it wasn't a lorry, but something much lighter. And that suggests to me that it wasn't bringing goods, but had come to take some away. The gang appears to operate by acquiring goods by the lorry-load, but I doubt if they dispose of them in equal bulk. It is far more likely that they unload comparatively small consignments here and there. On the black market, of course. Cash down and no questions asked. The car, or whatever it was we heard, came to collect one or more such consignments.”

“And where was it bound for when it left, do you suppose?”Arnold asked.

“Not very far,” Merrion replied. “The Bromhoe depot, I imagine, for that seems the perfect distributing centre. Lorries leave there daily for all parts of the country. The drivers wouldn't be in the secret, of course. I'll give you a wholly imaginary illustration of what I mean. Our car came to pick up two of the cases of spirits deposited at the rectory from the Stamford lorry. These two cases were taken to the depot. On Monday morning two lorries left the depot in the ordinary course of perfectly legitimate business, one for Leicester, the other for Lincoln. Each driver was given a case and told to leave it at an address in the town of his destination. I imagine that was the way the goods were distributed. And, of course, besides the lorries, there are the lighters.”

“You've set us yet another problem, Mr. Merrion,” said Heythrop. “You suggest that the approach to a long series of thefts is through North Icenshire Transport. In other words, that the company exists for purely illegal purposes.”

“Hardly that,” Merrion replied. “In fact, I have no doubt that by far the greater part of the company's business is perfectly legitimate. It is highly probable that the majority of the people at the depot have no suspicion of any illegality. The secret is known only to an inner ring, that I have called the gang. And they operate only at night.”

“Well, we'll round them up and question them,” said Heythrop. “There'll be no difficulty about that. Eh, Inspector?”

But Merrion gave Arnold no time to reply. “May a humble amateur, whose only claim is some experience in intelligence work, put in a word? More than once I have failed to get the man I wanted by being too precipitate. And it seems to me that this case in particular is one that needs tackling with extreme caution. We may easily bag only the lesser fry, thereby giving the principals warning in time for them to make their escape. And we want to lay hand not only on Denby's murderer, but on the leader of the inner ring of crooks.”

“Well, there's something in that,” Heythrop agreed. “What line do you suggest we take, then?”

“I suggest as a start that we begin at the top,” Merrion replied. “We are told that North Icenshire Transport is owned by a London syndicate. Arnold might ring up the Yard, and ask them to find out from the Registrar of Companies who these people are. Then another point occurs to me. As I have already explained, there is very little doubt that, on Monday night, the rectory was emptied of everything it contained. Some of this may have been disposed of since then, but hardly all. Where is the remainder at this moment? The most likely place seems to be the Bromhoe depot. I noticed when we were there yesterday that the doors of several of the sheds were shut, and possibly locked. A little spy-work in that direction might not come amiss. I've got an idea about that, if you care to hear it”

XVII

That same evening, shortly before ten o'clock, a car approached Hilltop Corner from the direction of Rendolvestone. It was driven by Merrion, with Arnold as his only passenger. As it reached the road junction, a man stepped out of the shadows into the roadway. Merrion pulled up, switching off his lights. “Jump in. Swale,” he said.

Swale climbed into the car, feeling his way in the darkness. “That's right,” said Arnold. “I wasn't risking saying much on the phone this afternoon, but we want some information. What time does Tranmere, the night foreman, come on duty?”

“Eight o'clock, sir,” Swale replied. “He's at the depot now, for I saw him come out of the Cockleshell just before eight and walk across.”

“Are the gates of the depot shut at night?”Arnold asked.

“As a rule they are, sir,” Swale replied. “But there's a bell that rings in the office. If you ring that, they'll let you in.”

“I dare say they would,” said Arnold. “But we'd rather not trouble them to-night. Is there any other way of getting in?”

“Well, I don't know that there is, sir,” Swale replied doubtfully. “Not without climbing over the wall, and you'd want a ladder for that. Wait a minute, though. You might be able to get in from the quayside. There's only a corrugated iron fence between that and the dock belonging to the depot. I dare say you could manage to get over it.”

“We'll see what can be done,” said Arnold. “Now we're going to leave the car here, with you in charge of it. Colonel Heythrop will be coming along later in another car. Report to him, and he'll tell you what to do next.”

Arnold and Merrion got out of the car and walked down to the village. By the time they got there it was past ten o'clock. The Cockleshell was closed, and there was nobody about. The only sign of life came from the transport depot, where lights shone from the yard. They avoided the gates, and went on to the quayside, which was quiet and deserted.

The night was fine and cold, with only the faintest of breezes from the northward. There was no moon, but the bright starlight enabled them to see their way about without using their torches. Looking over the edge of the quay, they saw that the level of the water was still very low, but that the tide was rising.

The first thing to do was to see how far Swale's suggestion was practicable. They walked along the quay until they were brought up short by a corrugated iron fence, above which they could see the light from the depot yard. This was the obstacle to be negotiated, and at first sight it seemed formidable. It was at least six feet high, and there was no way of getting round the end of it, for it jutted out well over the water. Merrion, dropping on one knee, began to test with his fingers the fastenings of the sheets of which the fence was built. After a while he found what he wanted. “There's a loose one here,” he whispered. “I can bend it back. Creep through, and when you're the other side hold it open for me.”

With stifled grunts Arnold wormed his way through the narrow opening, not without tearing his clothes on the jagged edge of the iron sheet. Merrion, more agile, followed him without misadventure. Crouching down on the farther side of the fence, they found themselves on a narrow strip of ground between the fence and the edge of the little dock. This side of the dock was evidently unused, for the strip was weed-grown and strewn with litter. In contrast to this, the farther side showed a scene of almost feverish activity.

Merrion felt distinctly uncomfortable. Barely fifty yards away across the dock, a lamp fixed to the wall of the warehouse standing a little way back from the edge, was switched on, and he felt that this must surely reveal their crouching figures. He comforted himself with the reflection that if they remained completely motionless they would not be seen against the background of the fence. And after a minute or two he was reassured by the fact that the workers were too intent upon what they were doing to pay attention to anything else.

The dock, as Merrion judged, held no more than a couple of feet of water as yet. Lying on the mud against the farther wall was a lighter, and ahead of this the tug. Silhouetted against the light, three large lorries stood drawn up between the warehouse and the edge of the dock. A small group of men, three of them as far as Merrion could make out, were removing the contents from the first of these, and loading them into the lighter. At this distance it was impossible to tell exactly what these contents were, but they seemed to consist mainly of wooden cases and canvas-wrapped bales. Either the men were inexpert stevedores or there was no need for proper stowage. Each article in turn was lowered into the lighter, without any attempt at orderly arrangement.

Merrion felt a glow of satisfaction, for his reasoning had been correct. What was going on over yonder was perfectly plain to him. On Monday night the lorries had been loaded up with the stolen goods from the rectory. Now these goods were being transferred to the lighter. They were to be removed by water, not by road, a possibility he had overlooked. But his quick wits soon formed an alternative plan. The lighter could not put to sea until the tide had risen sufficiently to float both it and the tug.

He put his mouth close to Arnold's ear. “I'm going out,” he whispered. “You stay where you are till I come back, and don't move a muscle. Push back that sheet for me. Quietly, now!”

He crawled out and on the other side straightened himself and stretched. Then he set off at a rapid pace, down the quay and along the sandy road leading from the farther end of it. He was not long in reaching Spithead, where he found a light in the window. Here he rapped sharply on the door.

A deep voice from within answered gruffly, “Who's there?”

“The police!”Merrion replied in a tone of authority.

“Well, come in,” said the voice, which Merrion recognised well enough. “The door's not locked.”

Merrion lifted the latch and entered, to find Eli Norgarth sitting alone at the kitchen table, his Bible open before him. “You remember me,” said Merrion briskly. “I came here to see you with Inspector Arnold yesterday morning.”

“Aye, I remember you all right,” Eli replied. “You've caught me reading of my chapter before I go to bed, like I always do. The Christian hath a compass and a chart, we're told, and this is it. What do you want of me?”

“I'm acting under Inspector Arnold's instructions,” said Merrion, not quite truthfully. “He sent me to ask you to help us. Any service you may be good enough to render will be paid for, of course. We have reason to believe that the tug and a lighter will be leaving the depot on to-night's tide. What's the earliest they can start?”

“High water's about three in the morning,” Eli replied. “They won't get away before one, or maybe later. The old tug draws a tidy bit. Say one to half-past, that's the earliest.”

“You wouldn't mind taking your boat out to-night, on condition of being paid?”Merrion asked.

Eli considered this thoughtfully. “Ben'll have to come too, and he's abed, But I dare say he wouldn't mind.”

“Good!”Merrion exclaimed. He took a couple of notes from his wallet and laid them on the table. “There's a deposit on account. Now, to begin with, have you any idea where that lighter's bound for?”

“I couldn't say,” Eli replied. “I hadn't heard one was going out on this tide. No farther than Ousemouth, I reckon. Those lighters never go very far afield; they aren't seaworthy enough, even in calm weather.”

“It's calm enough to-night,” Merrion remarked. “Your boat could go anywhere the lighter went, I suppose?”

“I reckon she could,” Eli replied with a confident smile. “She'll go pretty well anywhere. Aye, and in bad weather too, if she's properly handled. We've been out when the rest of them didn't care to, often enough.”

“That's because you know how to handle her,” said Merrion. “Now this is what we want you to do. Keep a watch for the tug and lighter, you and Ben between you. When they've gone by here, jump into your boat, cast off and follow them. No need for anybody on board of them to know you're doing that. Keep well astern, so that you can only just see them, and don't show any lights. They won't hear your engine above the noise of their own. And follow them wherever they go. Can you read Morse, by the way?”

“I'm a lifeboatman,” Eli replied. “I can read it all right, if it isn't sent too fast.”

“Capital!”Merrion exclaimed. “When you've found out where the lighter has put in, slip ashore there or thereabouts and ring up Swale here. Will that be all right?”

“That'll be all right,” Eli replied, with a side-glance at the notes on the table. “The money we'll want will depend on the time we spend. We've enough fuel to take us to Ousemouth and back and to spare. Ben filled up the tank only this afternoon. And we'll take care those chaps don't see us, never you fear.”

As Merrion left the cottage he glanced at his watch. Ten minutes past eleven. He had at least a couple of hours at his disposal. He wondered whether it would be as well to get into touch with the rest of the party, but very soon rejected the idea. There was no guarantee that all the stolen goods would be removed by water. Some might still be sent off by road. He walked back along the quay, observing that the water was rising steadily, and tapped softly on the iron fence.

The loose sheet bent back with a faint creak, and he crawled through the opening to Arnold's side. They exchanged no words and Merrion crouched down to watch the proceedings on the farther side of the dock. The first lorry had apparently been emptied, for the second was now being unloaded. Its contents seemed to be much the same as the first, and the same carelessness of stowage was apparent. The cases and bales were being almost thrown into the lighter with no regard for orderly disposal. It struck Merrion that if there were the slightest swell outside the bar, the cargo would shift awkwardly.

They waited for what seemed an age, cramped and with teeth chattering from the cold. The unloading of the second lorry was completed, and work started on the third. At last, some time after midnight, this too was empty. The men lowered themselves into the lighter, and apparently drew a tarpaulin roughly over the heap of cargo lying in the hold, judging from the fact that they took the covering down below, and were gone for a very short time. Then they clambered out again, started up the empty lorries, and drove them round the corner of the warehouse into the yard. A few minutes later the light was switched off and the dock was left in darkness.

“Now's our chance!”Merrion whispered. “Sharp now! There's no telling when that confounded light may be switched on again. If it is, drop like a stone, wherever you are. Now follow me.” He rose stiffly to his feet and Arnold followed his example. They set off at a lumbering trot, round the head of the dock, and so to the farther side, where the lorries had stood. Merrion, leading, stumbled against something and bent down. It was a wooden scotch, with a short handle. “That may come in useful,” he muttered as he picked it up. “You've got your truncheon, I hope. Now then, down into the lighter. There's a ladder here somewhere.”

He found the iron rungs fixed into the wall of the dock and descended them rapidly, Arnold following with greater deliberation. In the eyes of the lighter was a sort of primitive chain-locker, with a short span of deck above it, but open to the hold. Merrion led the way into this. “Get down behind those hawsers,” he whispered. “They won't want to come in here, for the tow-rope is already coiled down on deck.”

Behind the warps stowed in the locker they were comparatively comfortable, and certainly warmer than they had been against the fence. They had not been there very long before they heard voices and footsteps on the dock-side above. Two men, and they could catch scraps of their conversation. Something about what Fred Tranmere had said. Dumpling Deep. Larry coming with us again. Dowse all lights. Merrion could make nothing of it.

But. greatly to his relief, the two men did not come aboard the lighter. Instead, they clambered on to the tug which lay ahead of it. They could hear the clank of their boots on the iron deck, and now their voices came to them more distinctly. “She'll be afloat in half an hour,” said one. “Best be seeing to your ironmongery.”

The two men were obviously the skipper and engineer of the tug. Larry, who was to be their passenger, had apparently not yet arrived. A further period of waiting, during which the sounds of preparation for sea came from the tug. Then, after half an hour or so, the light on the wall of the warehouse was suddenly switched on. A faint reflection of it penetrated the locker, and Merrion fondled his scotch expectantly. Then, a couple of minutes later, a hail. “Hallo, skipper! You all ready? How's the tide?”

“She's afloat now, Fred,” the skipper replied. “Cast off any time now. Where's Larry?”

“Just coming along,” said Fred. “Here he is. Got everything fixed up, Larry?”

“Yes, that's okay,” a harsh voice replied. “Fixed it this evening before we loaded up. So long. See you later.”

Larry, disdaining the ladder, leapt into the lighter, landing with a heavy thump on the deck above the heads of the two crouching in the locker. Almost as he did so there came a loud report, like the discharge of a piece of artillery. Merrion started, but as the reports continued at regular intervals, he realised that they were due to the diesel engine of the tug. Eli had remarked that you could hear the tug chugging a mile away. He was certainly right.

Larry stumped about overhead as the tow-rope was passed and made fast. Merrion expected that he would then jump aboard the tug, but he did nothing of the kind. He stayed where he was while the lighter was being manoeuvred out of the dock. Then, when it reached the waters of the creek, he clambered over the tarpaulin towards the stem. For a moment they caught a glimpse of a burly figure outlined against the sky.

Merrion had not anticipated this fellow-passenger aboard the lighter. When they reached their destination, Larry might turn out to be an ugly customer to tackle. But for the present he could be ignored, unless he took it into his head to investigate the chain-locker, which seemed unlikely. He seemed quite unsuspicious of their presence. Even above the beat of the tug's engine they could hear him whistling light-heartedly to himself.

From their position in the locker they could see nothing of the banks of the creek, only a patch of star-lit sky beyond the edge of the deck above them. They could hear a slight plashing as the bows of the lighter forged through the water. But after a while the clumsy craft seemed to come to life, rolling and pitching gently, with creaking timbers. They were across the bar and in the open sea. Now they would know the course to be taken.

Merrion watched the narrow strip of sky which alone was visible to him. The stars swept majestically across it as the lighter swung round. Then they became steady as a straight course was followed. And a very strange course it was. Northeast. A course which could not lead to Ousemouth, or to any part of the British Isles for that matter. In that direction there was no land nearer than the coast of Denmark. The lighter could not possibly undertake a voyage of that length. But it was possible that the course had been set to avoid the risk of observation from the Ainsley Sand Lightship. When that danger was past it would be altered.

But for an hour or more, as Merrion judged, the course remained steady. And then a curious thing happened. The rhythm of the tug's engine slowed down, and the plashing of the lighter's bows grew fainter till it died away. As the lighter fell into the trough of the swell it rolled with a heavy stagger. One of the carelessly stowed cases became dislodged, and fell with a crash. They had stopped apparently in mid-ocean. Why?

Merrion strained his ears for some sound which would answer this question. There was a heavy bump as the tug came alongside the lighter. Then the skipper's voice, urgently:

“Get a move on, Larry!”They heard Larry moving about the lighter. By the sound of it he seemed to be diving about among the cargo beneath the tarpaulin. Merrion, gripping his scotch tensely, wondered if he were making his way towards the locker. But after a while he clambered out, across the tarpaulin and on to the deck above their heads again. Another bump, as once more the tug and the lighter came together. The skipper's voice: “Jump now, Larry! I'll catch you.”

There followed a noise of clamping feet. Then the slow beat of the tug's engine grew faster until it regained its former tempo. But the lighter remained wallowing sluggishly in the swell, and no sound of plashing came from the bows. The chugging of the engine grew ever less loud, until comparative silence ensued, strange and uncanny.

Very cautiously Merrion extricated himself from the locker, and raised his head above the level of the lighter's side. The chugging of the engine still came faintly to his ears. But the tug was far away, an almost indistinguishable blot upon the starlit sea. One end of the tow-rope was still made fast to the bitts in the bows of the lighter, but the other hung listlessly over the side. Far away, low down to the westward, the light of 'the Ainsley Sand Lightship came and went with monotonous regularity.

“It's all right,” said Merrion. “You can come up. Larry has deserted us. We're alone aboard the lugger, cast away upon the high seas. Now you know how the Ancient Mariner felt.”

Arnold emerged. He was not enjoying the wallowing motion of the lighter, and looked about him with a disconsolate air. “Where do we go from here?” he asked bleakly.

“I'm not sure yet,” Merrion replied. “But there's a smell of burning somewhere. Hold on!”

As he spoke, a muffled roar came from somewhere beneath their feet. The lighter shook violently, dislodging several of the ill-stacked cases, which fell together with a deafening clatter. A wave rose and broke on board, tumbling into the hold. The lighter became inert, rising and falling heavily, like a log in the water.

“So that was the game!”Merrion exclaimed. “I might have guessed it. Lucky for both of us I took the precaution I did. Now let's hope Eli can read Morse as well as he professes to.”

In the darkness there was as yet no sign of Eli's boat. But Merrion held up his torch, pointing it south-westwards. “Come alongside,” he flashed slowly. “Come alongside, quick—”

For many long minutes they stood there, Merrion flashing his message at intervals. The lighter sank lower in the water, and the water pouring into the hold rose until it washed about their feet. They climbed on to the narrow deck in the bows. “It's a toss-up which happens first,” Merrion remarked calmly: “the arrival of Eli's boat, or the foundering of the lighter. If we're left in the drink, you'll probably find something to hang on to.”

“If I don't, I shall hang on to you,” Arnold replied. “It's up to you to get us out of the mess you've got us into.”

“Eli will do that,” said Merrion confidently. “Listen!”A few seconds later there was no doubt about it. A new sound of chugging came across the water, more rapid and less intense than that of the tug's engine. And soon a dark smudge appeared on the surface of the sea, growing larger and more distinct. Merrion ceased flashing, and showed a steady light towards the approaching boat. “We follow Larry's example, and jump when she comes alongside,” said Merrion.

The boat, skilfully handled by Eli, came alongside the bows where they were standing with scarcely a shock. They leapt into her, to be received by the sturdy arms of Ben. Eli kicked the lever astern, and the boat backed slowly away. The lighter gave one last lurch, lifted her bows for a moment, then slid below the surface in a swirl of water.

XVIII

“That was a good job of work on your part, Eli,” said Merrion, kicking off his sodden shoes. “Quite in your best form as a lifeboatman. A minute later and you'd have had to fish us out of the sea. Where are we?”

“Dumpling Deep,” Eli replied. “I wondered wherever you could be bound, heading the course you were. There's forty fathom and more where that lighter went down.”

“I don't suppose any one will try to get her up again,” said Merrion. “But there may be some flotsam around. Let's see if we can find any. I'd like to salvage something, if only as a souvenir of our adventures.”

Eli went slowly ahead till he reached the discoloured patch of water where the lighter had sunk. In the dark, even with the aid of the powerful torches Arnold and Merrion carried, it was difficult to discern any floating object. But, persevering, they spotted the wooden scotch Merrion had picked up from the dock. Then three or four shapeless objects, almost wholly submerged, which with considerable difficulty they hauled on board. These proved to be canvas-wrapped bales. Merrion appeared to be content with these. “That'll do,” he said; “You might set a course for home, Eli.”

It amused him that during the voyage back no questions were asked. Arnold displayed a shocking lack of interest, sitting dejectedly in the cockpit with his head between his hands. The boat was certainly lively, and even in the slight swell pitched and rolled merrily. Eli and Ben seemed strangely incurious, and Merrion could guess the reason for this. The tarpaulin had been securely lashed down, and so most of the cargo beneath it had gone down in the lighter. But sooner or later it would be released, and such of it as would float would rise to the surface. The fishermen knew that, as well as Merrion himself. No doubt on the next tide they would set out, intent on salvage for themselves. Well, all the better. Eli and Ben would keep the secret between them.

They entered the creek and at last, before dawn broke, came alongside Bromhoe quay. Leaving the rescued bales in Eli's charge, Arnold and Merrion went ashore and walked to Swale's house, where they found Colonel Heythrop, smoking a pipe. “Hallo!”he exclaimed as they entered. “I've been expecting you for the last hour or two. We've drawn a blank, I'm afraid. Where have you been? You look a bit wet, both of you.”

“We've been for a pleasure cruise,” Merrion replied. “I'll tell you all about it in a minute. How have you got on?”

Heythrop shrugged his shoulders. “As I tell you, we've drawn a blank. Three lorries have left the depot at intervals during the night. My men stopped and searched them, but they were empty. Nothing in them at all. The drivers all told the same story. They were going to various destinations to pick up a load.”

“I don't doubt that they were telling the truth,” Merrion replied. “And the loads they are going to pick up are perfectly honest and above-board, I'll be bound. The stolen goods that were stored at the rectory didn't go by road, but by water. At this moment most of them are at the bottom of Dumpling Deep. I'll tell you about it.”

He gave a graphic description of the adventure, and then went on: “I might have guessed what was in the wind while I was watching that lighter being loaded. They just tumbled the stuff in anyhow, since it was meant never to be unloaded again. The gang was thoroughly scared, and came to the conclusion that the safest thing for them was to destroy the evidence of their crimes. What Larry fixed up before the lighter was loaded is clear enough now. He set a charge of guncotton in the hold, with a short length of slow-match. He set light to this before he jumped on board the tug. Judging by the rate at which the lighter sank, the charge must have pretty well blown the bottom out. However, we managed to rescue some traveller's samples. Enough to be used as evidence, I expect.”

“You don't appear to have had a very comfortable time,” said Heythrop. “But you've been luckier than we were. The fact that those goods were sunk shows that they had been stolen. Well, Inspector, what's the next move?”

Arnold, finding himself safely on dry land, was recovering his grasp. “This is what I suggest, sir,” he replied. “Call in your men, and surround the depot. From what Merrion and I heard, Fred Tranmere, the night foreman, seems to be the chief of the gang. Detain him and take him to Fencaster for examination. Then there are those bales we picked up. They had better be opened, to find out what's in them, and if possible where they came from.”

Heythrop nodded. “Do you agree with that, Mr. Merrion?” he asked.

“Absolutely,” Merrion replied. “I'm not quite sure Tranmere is the supreme chief, but it's pretty certain that he knows all about the activities of the gang. Meanwhile we mustn't lose sight of our original problem, the murder of Jonathan Denby. I've a pretty shrewd idea who was responsible for that.”

“The devil you have!”Heythrop exclaimed. “Fred Tranmere?”

Merrion shook his head. “I don't think he was directly responsible, though he probably has a suspicion amounting to certainty as to the murderer. My clue consists of a single word, overheard while Arnold and I were snuggling in that chain-locker. That word was ' again.' Now there's something else. Arnold says surround the depot and detain Tranmere. I would suggest detaining everybody found on the premises, and questioning them. If any of them are in the know about the doings of the gang, they may be ready to talk, to save their own skins. Even so, one man is certainly in the know, and he's still at large. Our fellow-passenger on the lighter.”

“The chap they called Larry?”Arnold remarked. “He jumped on board the tug. Where's he gone now?”

“He's still on the tug, I suppose,” Merrion replied. “The question is, what is the skipper of that noisy craft likely to do? He can't get back here on this tide, for there won't be enough water for him. I noticed when we came ashore just now that it was falling fast. He may hang about in the offing, and come in on this afternoon's tide. Or he may put in somewhere else along the coast. I suggest that a call be sent to all likely ports to keep a look-out for the tug. And when it puts in, here or elsewhere, all three should be detained-skipper, engineer and passenger.”

“I think you're right, Mr. Merrion,” said Heythrop. “I'll see to all that. Are you going to stay here and watch the fun?”

“Not I!”Merrion replied. “Arnold and I have earned a rest after our night's work. We'll get back to Fencaster.”

“We brought your car down,” said Heythrop. “You'll find it parked outside the Cockleshell. But I shall ask you both to be on hand later on this morning. Shall we meet at eleven o'clock at police headquarters?”

Arnold and Merrion drove back to Fencaster, arriving at the King's Head in the first light of morning. There, a bath, a change, and, most important of all, breakfast. At eleven o'clock they presented themselves at police headquarters. Colonel Heythrop had not yet arrived, but Swale was there to meet them. “We surrounded the depot and searched it, sir,” he reported. “There was nobody in the place but Fred Tranmere, and we brought him along here with us. And there's a message just come in for you, sir. It's been taken down.”

Arnold read the message, which was from Wighton, to whom he had telephoned instructions on the previous afternoon. The office of the Registrar of Companies had been consulted. Practically all of the shares in North Icenshire Transport Ltd. were held by William Overton, whose address was in Islington. Overton had been interviewed, and had readily admitted the fact. He described himself as a retired tobacconist. Some years ago he had won a prize in the Irish Sweep, and had invested the proceeds in the company. The message concluded with the remark that the police knew nothing to Overton's discredit.

Arnold read the message aloud for Merrion's benefit. “Well, there's your question answered,” he said scornfully.

“Excuse me, sir,” Swale intervened diffidently. “Did I understand you to say William Overton? Charles Overton is the name of the butler at the castle. He has a brother William, who lives in London and comes to see him now and again. His Lordship lets him stay at the castle with his brother.”

“I bet he does!”Merrion exclaimed. “You're right, Arnold, my question is answered, and the answer is exactly what I expected. You've hooked a big fish, and now it's up to you to land him.”

Before Arnold could reply, they were told that Colonel Heythrop had arrived, and would like to see them. They went to his room, where he greeted them cheerfully. “I hope you're both recovered from your exertions. As I expect you've already been told, we rounded up Tranmere and brought him back with us. All ports have been warned to look out for the tug. We opened those bales, and found they were rolls of cloth. One of them had a printed label in it, bearing the name and address of a firm in Leeds. You'll be able to make enquiries. Inspector, and get definite evidence that the bale was stolen. Now the three of us will form an Inquisition, and see what we can make of Tranmere. He hasn't been charged, and at present is merely detained. We'll call him in here, and you can act as Chief Inquisitor, Inspector.”

Tranmere was brought in, and told to sit down. He was a man of forty or thereabouts, with a sly and furtive expression, and was obviously very far from feeling at ease. But he answered Arnold's opening questions with little hesitation. He gave his name and address. He had been employed at the depot as night foreman for the last ten years. His duties were to check the lorries in and out, and to give the necessary instructions to their drivers.

“Did any lorries leave the depot last night?”Arnold asked.

This question seemed to restore Tranmere's confidence. “None came in,” he replied. “But three went out empty. They were to pick up loads at three different towns in the Midlands.”

“I see,” said Arnold. “Your people transport by water as well as by road. Did the tug go out last night?”

A look of alarm flashed through Tranmere's eyes, and he hesitated. Perhaps it occurred to him that an untruth would be futile, since the tug's departure must have been audible all over Bromhoe. “Yes, the tug went out,” he replied with obvious reluctance. “Bound for Ousemouth, to pick up a lighter loaded with salt for the sugar-beet.”

“You mean the tug went out by itself?”Arnold asked. “It wasn't towing a lighter behind it?”

Tranmere looked increasingly uncomfortable. “Oh, no,” he replied stammeringly. “By itself. To fetch a loaded lighter, you know.”

“I don't know,” said Arnold sternly. “Don't you realise that by telling lies you're only getting yourself deeper into the mud? Come on now, let's have the truth. The tug took out a lighter. What was it loaded with?”

But Tranmere maintained a stubborn silence, and after a minute or two Arnold went on: “Very well, I'll answer my own question. It was loaded with things you and your friends had stolen. Now, what about it?”

“I don't know what you mean,” Tranmere replied weakly. “I haven't stolen anything. There was a lighter in the dock yesterday. The manager may have told the tug skipper to take it somewhere. It wouldn't have been any business of mine. Anyhow, I don't know, I didn't see the tug go out. I was in my office.”

Arnold shook his head. “You'll never make your fortune ,as a liar. You weren't in your office when the tug went out. You were on the dockside. Shall I tell you something? My friend here and I were on board the lighter for some time before it left. And we were still on board when it was sunk.”

Tranmere gasped. “You were on board the lighter?” he repeated incredulously. “Then how—?”

Arnold concluded the sentence for him. “How did we survive to tell the tale? Because we had the sense to take precautions beforehand. And I'll tell you something else. We salvaged part of the lighter's cargo. Bales of cloth, which we can trace easily enough. How do you account for them?”

“I don't know anything about it!”Tranmere exclaimed wildly. “I was told to see that the lighter was loaded up from three of our lorries that had been in the depot since Monday night. I don't know where the stuff had come from or where it was going to. It wasn't any business of mine.”

“You knew perfectly well that it was going to the bottom of the sea,” said Arnold sternly. “And you knew that it had come from Clynde Rectory. Now let's go back to Monday of last week. You'll remember that night, for Swale has already asked you about it. You told him part of the truth, that three lorries came in, one from London and two from the Midlands. But what about the lorry that didn't belong to the firm, and came from Stamford?”

Tranmere's face became convulsed with terror. “What do you mean?” he wailed. “I had nothing to do with that.”

“I'm not so sure,” said Arnold darkly. “Now listen to me, Tranmere. You must have realised by now that we know what's been going on. I'll make that quite clear to you. On the Monday night I'm speaking about, a lorry was stolen from outside a cafe near Stamford. It was driven by way of your depot to Clynde churchyard. There the cases of spirits it was carrying were unloaded, and carried by the secret passage into the rectory. The empty lorry was driven to the depot, where it was left, ostensibly for repair. On the following Thursday night it was driven back and left in the spot from which it had been taken. Are you, the night foreman at the depot, going to pretend that all these things happened without your knowledge?”

Tranmere made no reply, but the terror slowly faded from his face. The subject he had dreaded had not been touched upon. And after an interval of silence, to let his words sink in, Arnold went on: “And that's not all you know about it. Last Monday night you sent three lorries to the rectory to take away what was stored there. Among these things were the cases of spirits brought by the Stamford lorry. The whole lot was loaded on to the lighter last night, you know why. So, you see, we have ample evidence to justify your arrest, on a charge of being a receiver of stolen goods. If you wish to make a statement, I must caution you—”

Tranmere interrupted him. “I didn't know the stuff was stolen,” he said sullenly. “I only carried out my orders.”

At this moment the telephone at Colonel Heythrop's elbow buzzed. He picked it up and listened to the message. “Thank you, sergeant,” he replied. “I will give you my instructions later.” And he put the instrument down.

During this interruption Arnold and Merrion exchanged whispers, and when it came to an end the latter spoke. “You heard what the Inspector told you, Tranmere. You must see that you haven't an earthly chance of getting away with it. Your only chance of being dealt with leniently is to stop lying and tell the truth for a change. I'm not asking you to give evidence against yourself; it isn't necessary. Now tell me this. Was the man who brought the lorry from Stamford alone, or had he a mate with him?”

Tranmere clutched at Merrion's words like a drowning man at a rope. “He was alone,” he replied, almost eagerly. “He called at the depot before he went on to Clynde to pick up the keys. And he asked me if there was anybody on the place who could go with him and lend him a hand with the unloading. I told him there was no one I could let in on the job.”

“You didn't by any chance go with him yourself?”Merrion suggested.

“No, that I didn't!”Tranmere exclaimed fervently. “He said he supposed he'd have to manage alone.”

“You told him, I dare say, that Swale was out of the way, and the coast was clear,” Merrion asked.

“Yes, I told him that,” Tranmere replied.

Merrion smiled. “You knew, then, that Swale had been given other fish to fry. Now, if I understand you properly, you've been trying to make out that you were only a pawn in the game. You have said that you were told to see that the lighter was loaded. And a few minutes ago you declared that you were only carrying out your orders. That may be. But if you expect us to believe you, you must tell us who gave you those orders.”

Tranmere frowned. His expression showed clearly enough that he found himself on the horns of a hideous dilemma. If he withheld information, he must abandon all hope of being dealt with leniently. If he gave it, he must expose himself to the ultimate vengeance of a power he dreaded. He scanned in desperation the three stern faces confronting him, but found no comfort there. At last, scarcely above a whisper, he muttered: “His Lordship!”

Heythrop, to whom Merrion's suspicions had not been confided, found this preposterous. “His Lordship!”he exclaimed, “Do you mean Lord Mundesley? Why, man, you must be crazy!”

“I don't think he is,” Merrion remarked mildly. “Perhaps we needn't ask him any more just now.”

“Very well,” Heythrop replied. He rang his bell and Swale appeared. “Take him away and detain him till further notice,” Heythrop said curtly. Then, when Swale had marched off his unresisting prisoner, “Lord Mundesley! It's ridiculous.”

“I'm not so sure, sir,” Arnold ventured. “I've had an answer to my enquiry from the Yard. It seems that practically all the shares in North Icenshire Transport are owned by Lord Mundesley's butler's brother.”

“What!”Heythrop exclaimed. “It sounds like a lesson in elementary French. It's my belief that you're all crazy. However, we can discuss that later. You noticed that call that came through to me just now. The tug has put in to Ousemouth, and the three men on board have been detained. They're being sent here under escort.”

“That's good,” said Merrion. “It will be interesting to hear their version of the story.”

“Well, they won't be here just yet,” Heythrop replied. “We may as well adjourn for lunch, and resume our session at half-past two. I'll give instructions that when our friends arrive they are to be detained separately.”

“And, I may suggest, not be allowed to learn that Tranmere is in the bag,” Merrion remarked.

“Certainly,” Heythrop replied. “Now, what's all this nonsense about Lord Mundesley?”

Merrion smiled. “I think you'll find it isn't altogether nonsense. I'm not accusing him of complicity in Denby's murder. But there are literally dozens of hints pointing to his knowledge of the stolen goods racket, even if you prefer to disregard Tranmere's direct statement.”

“A chap like that will say anything when he's driven into a corner,” said Heythrop scornfully. “Let's hear your hints.”

“You've just heard the most recent of them,” Merrion replied. “Tranmere knew that Swale was out of the way on the fatal night. How did he know? It was Lord Mundesley who rang up Swale with his yarn about poachers. Swale most certainly didn't tell anybody that he would be spending the night poking round Bromhoe Castle. Therefore, Tranmere must have learnt the fact from Lord Mundesley himself. And now Arnold and I had better get our lunch. We'll be back here at half-past two.”

XIX

They returned punctually to police headquarters, to find Colonel Heythrop already there. “I've just rung up Bromhoe Castle,” he said. “I spoke to the butler, who told me that Lord Mundesley has gone up to London, and expects to be away for some days. So that if he's to be questioned as to his knowledge of this business, it will be up to you. Inspector.”

His relief at being thus able to wash his hands of the affair was obvious. Merrion at least sympathised with him. It would have been most awkward for Heythrop to bring a charge against a man who was not only a personal friend, but one of the leading lights of the county. “Have the seafarers arrived?” he asked, by way of changing the subject.

“Yes, they're here, the three of them,” Heythrop replied. “We'll see them separately, of course. It strikes me that you'd better lead off this time, Mr. Merrion, as you're the nautical expert. Which would you like to have in first?”

“The skipper, I think,” said Merrion. “He may not be in the inner ring. If he isn't, he may give away a point or two without being aware of it. Especially since he doesn't know that we've got Tranmere.”

Heythrop gave his instructions, and the skipper was brought in. He was an elderly man, short and tubby, with a pointed beard, and was clearly seething with righteous indignation. “Now perhaps I'll hear what this means!”he exclaimed defiantly, without waiting to be spoken to. “I hadn't hardly got alongside my berth at Ousemouth when the cops came along and said I'd got to go with them. And before I'd had my dinner, too. And all they'd tell me was I'd find out when I got here. I'll have-his-corpse them, that I will.”

The skipper was evidently something of a sea-lawyer. “Sit down. Captain,” said Merrion smoothly. “I'm sorry you've been put to this inconvenience, but we want to talk to you about this trip of yours to Ousemouth. You sailed from Bromhoe on last night's tide, didn't you?”

The skipper sat down and planted his elbows firmly on the table. “That's right,” he replied. “My orders was to pick up a lighter at Ousemouth laden with salt, and bring it back to Bromhoe on to-night's tide or the next.”

“I see,” said Merrion. “When you left Bromhoe last night you were bound for Ousemouth. You set rather an unusual course when you were outside the bar, didn't you? Northeast. Isn't the proper course for Ousemouth west by north?”

The skipper stared at him, wondering how this smooth-spoken landsman could know what course he'd set. But a little nautical bluff would surely serve him. “Aye, that may be the straight course,” he admitted grudgingly. “But there's the run of the tide inshore, which maybe you wouldn't understand. I set a north-easterly course to get outside the sands out of the run. Cheating the tide, we call it.”

“Oh, that explains it,” said Merrion innocently. “What became of the lighter you towed out of the dock at Bromhoe?”

This unexpected question took the skipper completely aback. “The lighter?” he repeated, searching frantically for some plausible story. “What lighter? Oh, yes, I recall it now. It had slipped my memory for a moment. There was an empty lighter lying in the dock, and I took it out of the way, so the berth would be free when I came back with the lighter from Ousemouth. We moored the empty one in the creek. It'll be there now, I reckon, if it hasn't been moved on this afternoon's tide.”

Merrion shook his head. “It won't do. Skipper,” he said sternly. “You know very well where the lighter is now, and it wasn't empty when you towed it out. You deliberately cast it adrift in Dumpling Deep. I expect you know something about maritime law. Do you know what barratry is?”

The skipper flushed guiltily. Evidently the fate of the lighter had become known, though by what means he could not imagine. The only thing left to be done was to put the best face upon it he could. “Barratry?” he replied sulkily. “There was nothing like that about it, for I was obeying orders. Mr. Tranmere told me that he'd loaded up that leaky old lighter that was no more good with a lot of scrap from the yard he wanted to get rid of. I was to tow it out somewhere well off-shore. One of his chaps would come out with it and see about sinking it. And I wasn't to talk about it, for he didn't want questions asked.”

“And you believed that yarn?”Merrion remarked. “Well, if you weren't guilty of barratry, you were certainly guilty of endangering human life. What have you got to say about that?”

“Just that I wasn't,” the skipper replied indignantly. “There wasn't no danger to nobody, for no one was aboard the lighter when it sank. I'd taken the chap off before then.”

“You're wrong again, Skipper,” said Merrion severely. “Two lives were endangered. Inspector Arnold and I were on board the lighter when your friend Larry blew the bottom out of her. So, you see, we know every detail of the affair. Just think that over quietly for a minute or two.”

The skipper seemed completely overwhelmed. For a few moments he gaped at Merrion open-mouthed, struggling for words. “How was I to know that?” he pleaded at last. “If I'd had any thought there was any one on board, I'd have stood by to take them off. And that's as true as I'm sitting here now.”

“Perhaps it is,” said Merrion. “As it was, we didn't require your services. Now, about that chap you took off the lighter; Larry, you called him. He'd been for a trip with you before, hadn't he?”

This question at least did not embarrass the skipper. “That's right,” he replied. “But only once, so far as I mind. Tuesday of last week it was, when I had an empty lighter to take round to Dells. Only a short trip that is, matter of a couple of hours' run. It was high water about half-past seven that morning, and I got away just before six. A few minutes before I cast off Larry came along. He said he'd come with us, as he wanted to get to Dells. I told him he was welcome, and he said he'd go in the lighter, in case I wanted a hand to fend it out of the dock.”

“Very obliging of him,” Merrion remarked. “You're quite sure that the lighter was empty?”

“Why, naturally!”the skipper replied. “It was to be loaded up at Dells with cement from the works there. And so it was, too, for I brought it back on the tide that same evening.”

“And Larry wasn't up to any monkey tricks on that occasion?”Merrion asked casually. “He didn't try to sink the lighter, or anything like that?”

“Not so far as I know,” the skipper replied. “But, you understand, he being in the lighter at the end of the tow line, I couldn't see him after we were out of the dock till we were getting into Dells harbour.”

Merrion glanced at Colonel Heythrop, who nodded. “Well, Skipper!”he said severely. “This matter of the scuttling of the lighter will have to be looked into. I must have evidence that you were acting under orders, and not on your own responsibility. Until I get that, you will be detained here.” He rang his bell and Swale appeared. The skipper left the room under his escort, crestfallen and unprotesting.

“I think he's told us all he knows,” Merrion remarked. “It doesn't seem likely that he shared the secrets of the gang. No doubt he had a pretty shrewd idea that there was more in last night's adventure than the mere disposal of a lot of scrap and a worn-out lighter. But he was content to ask no questions. The less he knew the better for him, and a display of inquisitiveness might have cost him his job.”

“You're probably right,” Heythrop agreed. “What had we better do with him?”

“I suggest you detain him for the present, then release him with a caution. He's not likely to run away, and he'll be on hand if you want his evidence later. I don't suppose the engineer can tell us as much as he did, so he can wait. We'd better tackle Larry next. I shouldn't be surprised if he turned out truculent. Perhaps Swale had better stop here with him.”

Heythrop gave his instructions over the telephone, and Swale appeared, escorting Larry. Merrion looked at the man with considerable interest. He stood well over six feet, with thick-set, almost herculean limbs. His expression was forbidding, and there was a dangerous glint in his deep-set eyes. Altogether a pretty desperate character, Merrion concluded. Ho stood there scowling at the inquisitors, in no way intimidated.

He answered Arnold's opening question in a deep growling voice. “My name is Larry Garth, and my age is thirty-three.”

“Last night you scuttled a lighter, the property of North Icenshire Transport,” Arnold continued evenly. “What have you to say about that?”

Merrion, watching intently, could read Larry's thoughts. That accusation he had not expected. That fool of a skipper must have given the game away. And after a second or two he replied in a tone of insolent contempt: “So that's it, is it? Whatever I did was by the orders of the company's night foreman. It's him you want to see, not me.”

Merrion interposed quietly. “But we do want to see you, Larry. In broad daylight, for we've seen you once before, in the dark. You're fond of sea-trips, it appears. What took you to Dells in the early morning of Tuesday last week?”

The dangerous look in Larry's eyes deepened. “You want to know too much, mister,” he growled. “That's my business.”

“It was certainly your business,” said Merrion. “And a pretty grim business, too. You say that in scuttling the lighter you were only obeying orders. That may be. Were you obeying orders when you drove away the lorry that was standing outside the cafe near Stamford on the evening of Monday, January 31st?”

Larry blinked, but his defences were unshaken. “I don't know what you're talking about, mister,” he replied fiercely.

“Oh, yes, you do,” said Merrion. “You may as well face up to it, Larry. We know all about your adventures that night. Would you care to make a statement, giving your own version of what happened?”

But Larry was not to be drawn so easily. He stood, scowling defiantly, and after a pause Merrion went on: “Then I'll make the statement for you. About seven o'clock that evening you took possession of the lorry I've mentioned. You drove it to the depot at Bromhoe, where you saw the night foreman, who gave you a couple of keys. From there you drove the lorry by way of Hilltop Corner to Clynde churchyard. With the keys you had been given you unlocked first the door of the vault, then the door between the secret passage and the rectory cellar.”

Larry seemed to be in the grip of a fascination from which he could not escape. He made no attempt at denial, but stared fixedly at Merrion as he continued: “You then proceeded to unload the lorry, which was standing on the churchyard path outside the vault. You carried the cases of spirits along the passage, and stacked them in the disused wing of the rectory, beside the bales of cloth and other things already there.

“It was while you were doing this that you were interrupted. You were unloading one of the cases from the lorry when you were accosted. You didn't waste any time answering questions, but, like the callous brute you are, you picked up the first weapon that came to your hand and struck the man down Is that not the truth?”

Larry's eyes looked murder. “You can say what you like,” he muttered doggedly. “You weren't there to see.”

“No, but I've been there since,” said Merrion. “And, what's more, I was in the depot last night. The lighter was scuttled because the stolen goods from the rectory had been loaded into it. But, for the moment, that's beside the point. We'll get back to your proceedings after you had struck the fatal blow.

“You didn't know who your victim might be, and I don't suppose you much cared. Dead men tell no tales, and that was all that mattered to you. But when you found he was wearing pyjamas, you began to wonder. And this led you to the discovery that he had been sleeping in the rectory. This might be awkward, for the rectory was the last place to which you wished attention drawn. But Tranmere had told you that the coast was clear. He wouldn't have done that if he had known that any one was in the rectory. And if he didn't know, it was just possible that no one else did.

“So you cleared away all evidence that any one had been there. You overlooked one detail, but I needn't go into that. You locked up the house, and took the key to Fisher's Row. Meanwhile you were faced with the problem of what to do with the body. It would never do to leave it where it was, so you loaded it into the lorry and took it to the depot. There you learnt that the tug was to tow an empty lighter to Dells on the next tide, and you saw the solution of your problem. You shifted the body from the lorry to the lighter. Then, when the skipper came along, you asked him to take you as a passenger. You boarded the lighter, and when the tow was outside the bar, you threw the body overboard.”

Merrion came to an end, and Heythrop spoke sharply. “Have you anything to say, Garth?”

“Nothing!”Larry exclaimed defiantly. “All that's a lot of poppycock. You can't prove a word of it.”

“That we shall see,” said Heythrop. “For the present, you will be charged with the theft of the contents of the lorry. A far graver charge may be made later. All right, take him away. Swale.”

Larry glowered, but allowed Swale to lead him from the room without offering resistance. “He'll be a pretty hard nut to crack,” Merrion remarked. “There's no chance of stampeding him into a confession, and he'll probably brazen it out to the end. If so, the evidence against him will be purely circumstantial. Putting two and two together, Tranmere must have formed a pretty good idea of what happened. But I don't suppose for a minute that Larry confided in him, or in any one else, for that matter. There was no reason why he should.”

“You mean that he had no accomplices, before or after the event?”Heythrop suggested.

“I think it most unlikely that he had,” Merrion replied. “According to Tranmere, he was alone when he drove the lorry to the rectory, and unloaded it by himself. There was no witness of the actual crime. He's a powerful chap, and would have little difficulty in slinging a body about single-handed. As I see it, this is very much what happened when he got back to the depot. He had a word with Tranmere, telling him no more than that he had got the stuff stowed away safely. Tranmere in turn told him that they'd better get the lorry out of sight, for the skipper and engineer of the tug would be along shortly, to take the empty lighter that was lying in the dock to Dells.

“Larry said he'd see to that. While Tranmere was getting one of the sheds unlocked, Larry drove the lorry to the dock-side and pitched the body into the lighter, after which he took the lorry to the shed. Then he covered up the body with a tarpaulin. The skipper's version of his conversation with Larry is quite correct. There were only two men on the tug, The engineer was down below, and the skipper was too busy with his navigation to pay much attention to what Larry might be doing in the lighter. In any case, it must still have been pretty dark when they crossed the bar. Larry could have dropped the body overboard without any one on the tug seeing him do it.”

“We've got him for the theft of the spirits, anyhow,” said Arnold. “That'll give us time to piece together the evidence of murder. There's one thing pretty clear. He can't have come upon that lorry just by chance. He must have known beforehand that he would find it outside the cafe, and what was in it. The driver must have given him the tip.”

“Not necessarily,” Merrion replied. “I expect you'll find that Larry, posing as a regular transport driver, was in the habit of frequenting cafes of that type. He'd get into conversation with the other drivers he met there, and find out what loads they carried and what their habits were. The driver of this particular lorry will probably recognise him as a man he'd been talking to a day or two before the event.”

“That's your affair. Inspector,” said Heythrop. “Shall we see if the engineer can add anything to what the skipper told us?”

The engineer was brought in. He was a youngish man, evidently completely bewildered by what had happened to him. He was ready enough to talk, but professed complete ignorance of the events of the previous night. The tale that the skipper had told him was that they were bound for Ouse-mouth, and were to dump some old junk at sea on their way. His job was down below, not on deck. He remembered towing a lighter to Dells on the morning of February 1st, but didn't know there was any one on board it. He had only been engineer of the tug for a few months.

“What was your occupation before that?”Arnold asked him.

“I was employed at the castle, looking after the pumping plant there,” the man replied eagerly. “If you were to ask his Lordship, he'd give me a good character, I'm sure. It was through him I got my present job.”

“How was that?”Merrion asked conversationally.

“It was this way,” the engineer replied. “His Lordship spoke to me one day. He said that the engineer of the tug belonging to North Icenshire Transport had been taken ill and died, and that he'd heard they wanted a reliable man to take his place. He said that if I'd like to go after the job, he'd give me a letter of recommendation to the manager, and so he did. I saw the manager that very day, and he took me on.”

Heythrop glanced at Merrion, who shook his head. The engineer was dismissed, and as he left the room Merrion laughed. “He's not in the plot, that's quite certain,” he said. “He wouldn't have told us so readily how he got his job if he had been. But isn't it curious how Lordy keeps coming into the picture?”

“That, as I have already remarked, is a matter entirely for the Inspector,” Heythrop replied.

“Of course,” said Merrion. “May we take it that the Inquisition is now dissolved? If so, we needn't burden you with our presence any longer. It seems that most of your problems are solved now.”

He and Arnold left police headquarters. “I've done my bit, for what it was worth,” said Merrion as they walked back to the King's Head. “I repeat, your main problem is solved, for there can no longer be any reasonable doubt who killed Jonathan Denby, and why. But you've still got another job to tackle, for I don't suppose you mean to let the principal crook get away with it?”

“Lord Mundesley, you mean?”Arnold replied uncomfortably. “I shall have to talk to the Chief about that.”

“Of course,” Merrion agreed. “And you had better have a clear idea of what you are going to tell Sir Edric. There can hardly be the slightest doubt that Lordy owns North Icenshire Transport, through his nominee, William Overton. But I don't suppose his original intention was to organise the concern as a medium for dealing in stolen goods. That side of the business developed later, as a profitable side-line. But it didn't develop without Lordy's knowledge and encouragement. His anxiety that the rectory should remain untenanted alone proves that.”

“We can get at him more directly than that,” Arnold replied. “We've got Tranmere and his statement.”

Merrion shook his head. “Not good enough. If you rely on Tranmere, you'll find that he'll turn out to be a broken reed. I sized him up pretty well this morning, and I can predict the line he'll take when he's had time to think things over. What charge can you bring against him? Merely that of being a receiver of stolen goods.

“Now, put yourself in Tranmere's place. He knows that there is no chance of getting off scot-free. His only defence, which at the best could merely procure him some mitigation of sentence, could be that he was acting under the orders of his employer. And from his point of view there are two objections to offering that plea. Lordy might very well maintain that he had never given him orders to perform any illegal act. In that case it would be Tranmere's word against Lordy's. Tranmere can guess pretty shrewdly which of them would be believed.

“The second consideration which would weigh with him is this. If he attempts to make Lordy the pillar of his defence, he will earn his undying hostility. Would it not profit him far better to lay Lordy under a debt of gratitude to him? To take the whole responsibility upon his own shoulders, even to plead guilty, and to serve his sentence? Then, when he came—out, he could count upon powerful support and assistance.”

Arnold considered this. “Yes, he might take that line,” he said thoughtfully. “If he does, it's going to be very awkward. Without his evidence, I don't see how we could proceed against Lord Mundesley.”

“It would be practically impossible,” Merrion agreed. “He would be driven to admit his ownership of the concern. But he could prove that the business of the company itself was perfectly legitimate. If certain of those employed had been guilty of unlawful practices, it was entirely without his knowledge or consent. You, and everybody else, might be sure enough that he was the directing spirit. But if Tranmere kept silent, you couldn't prove it.”

“Then what's to be done?”Arnold asked.

“That is for you and Sir Edric to decide,” Merrion replied. “I'll give you a hint, if you like. There is one circumstance under which Tranmere might be induced to speak, fully and in complete detail. That is, that Lordy's reputation had collapsed, and his power permanently broken. In other words, if he were already in custody.”

“You're talking in circles!”Arnold exclaimed. “How could he be taken into custody? Only this moment you agreed that he couldn't be proceeded against without Tranmere's evidence.”

“On that particular charge,” Merrion replied quietly. “Listen, and I'll tell you.”

XX

Merrion's forecast turned out to be correct. Tranmere, having been charged, volunteered to make a statement. In this he retracted his words, and at considerable length. In saying that he took orders from his Lordship, he had meant only regarding legitimate business. He knew that his Lordship owned the company, but had appointed a nominee as he did not wish it known that he was engaged in business. He asserted positively that his Lordship had known nothing whatever about the traffic in stolen goods.

Arnold did not seem so put out by this as might have been expected. He returned to London that evening, and on Saturday morning made his appearance at Scotland Yard. There he sent for Wighton, to whom he recounted how the mystery of the stolen lorry had been unexpectedly solved. “And not only that,” he concluded. “We've pretty well bust up the gang that was responsible for a lot of these robberies.”

“That's good, sir!”Wighton exclaimed admiringly. “By the way, a woman came here yesterday afternoon and asked for you. I saw her, but she wouldn't tell me anything except that she had been the late Sir Ambrose Denby's housekeeper, and that her name was Mrs. Renfrew. What she had to say was for your ear alone.”

“Women like to be mysterious,” Arnold remarked. “Oddly enough, I've been thinking of Mrs. Renfrew, for she can tell me something I want to know. Lord Mundesley and Sir Ambrose belong to the same club, and I want to find out which it is. Mrs. Renfrew can tell us. Ring up the house, tell her I'm back, and ask if she'd care to come along.”

Not very long afterwards Mrs. Renfrew was brought to Arnold's room by Wighton. She was in a state of considerable perturbation, nervous and flustered, fidgeting awkwardly with her gloves and handbag. “Good morning, Mrs. Renfrew,” said Arnold cheerfully, trying to put her at her ease. “It's very nice of you to come and see me. As it happens, there's something I want to ask you. Can you tell me the name of the club to which Sir Ambrose belonged?”

It took Mrs. Renfrew a few seconds to switch her train of thought from whatever it was that occupied her mind. But she gave the name of the club, and added the information that the master used often to lunch there. “Thank you, Mrs. Renfrew,” said Arnold. “I'm told you have something to say to me. Will you tell me what it is?”

Mrs. Renfrew made no reply, but merely glanced significantly at Wighton, who was standing beside Arnold's chair. “Oh, by the way. Sergeant,” said Arnold, interpreting this glance, “we know the name of the club now. Will you go there and make enquiries?”

Wighton left the room, and Arnold went on quietly: “Now, Mrs. Renfrew. We're alone, and you can tell me anything you care to. And let me assure you that I shall not repeat anything you may say to me without your consent.”

Now that it had come to it, Mrs. Renfrew hardly knew how to begin. She sat primly in the chair, twisting her gloves between her fingers. Arnold made no attempt to prompt her, but picked up a pencil and began scribbling notes on a pad. At last his patience was rewarded, and she burst out suddenly: “I don't know what you'll think, sir. It's worried me so that I felt I couldn't rest till I'd seen you. It's about Mr. Henry. Sir Henry, I should say now.”

Arnold wondered where this was going to lead to. “Tell me about Sir Henry,” he said conversationally.

“It was on Thursday, the day before yesterday,” she replied. “Mr. Cudworth had been to the house every day since Monday. You see, he's the master's executor, and had to make arrangements about the cremation and that. The master was cremated at Woking yesterday. Mr. Cudworth drove me down, and Sir Henry was there. It was a lovely end, and a beautiful garden to bury the poor master's ashes in. And Mr. Cudworth was so kind and nice.”

Arnold, anxious to make his report to the Chief, hoped that she would soon come to the point. She opened her bag, took out a handkerchief and mopped her eyes. “It was on Thursday afternoon. Mr. Cudworth came as usual, but this time he brought Sir Henry with him. They called me into the lounge, and asked me a lot of questions. About where the master kept his things, and that. And after a bit Mr. Cudworth went away, and Sir Henry stayed behind. It was the first time he had been to the house since he called that Saturday when the master was away.”

She bent forward towards Arnold's desk, and her voice sank to an excited whisper. “I'll tell you what happened then, sir. I left Sir Henry in the lounge. He said he was going to look through some of the master's papers. And a few minutes later I heard him come out and go to the lavatory, the downstairs one. Then I heard him pulling at the plug, and I remembered that it had gone wrong while the master was away and wouldn't work. What with all the worry I've had, I hadn't given it another thought till then.”

Mrs. Renfrew paused, leaving Arnold to wonder how this defective plumbing might concern him. And then she went on, more mysteriously than ever. '“I went to the lavatory door, sir. I was going to knock on it and tell Sir Henry that it was out of order, and that I'd flush it out with a bucket. But before I could do that, he opened the door and came out. And he was carrying something in his hand. It was the master's whisky decanter, and it was empty.”

Something of what was in her mind flashed into Arnold's comprehension. “Tell me what happened next!” he exclaimed, with suddenly awakened interest.

“He looked at me as if he'd met a ghost,” she replied dramatically. “He was that struck all of a heap that he dropped the decanter and it broke to pieces on the floor. And he barked out at me and asked me what the devil I was doing there. I told him that I'd come to tell him the plug didn't work, and that I'd flush out the pan. That quieted him down. He told me to flush it, and to sweep up the broken glass and throw it away.

“I went to get a bucket of water. But naturally I wondered why he had taken the decanter to the lavatory and brought it out empty, which it wasn't before. And I remembered that he'd been alone in the lounge, where it was kept, the Saturday before the master died. And I thought to myself, suppose he'd put something in it?

“So I slipped a little bottle into the pocket of my apron. When I came back with the bucket of water he was still there, outside the door. I went in and pushed the door to, so that he couldn't see. Then I dipped the bottle in the pan, corked it up and slipped it back in my pocket. It didn't take a second or two, and when I'd done that I poured in the bucket with a splash, so that he could hear. I came out and he seemed quite satisfied.

“Then I fetched a dust-pan and brush, and swept up the broken glass. He asked me what I was going to do with it, and I said I was going to throw it away. He said he'd come with me, in case I cut my fingers. He followed me right into the area, and watched me as I emptied the glass into the dustbin. A few minutes after that he went away, and I didn't see him again until the cremation. But I've brought the bottle with me, sir.”

She opened her handbag and produced a small parcel, carefully wrapped in paper, which she laid on the desk. Arnold unwrapped the parcel, to find a small medicine bottle, half full of liquid. He took out the cork and sniffed, immediately detecting the smell of whisky. “Tell me again about how you found Sir Ambrose on Monday morning,” he said. “There was a glass on the table beside him, wasn't there?”

“That's right, sir,” she replied. “The master always had a drop of whisky before he went to bed. The doctor had told him to do that, and it was the only time he ever touched it. The decanter was kept in a cupboard in the lounge, with a glass and a siphon of soda. I used to see to that myself. I chanced to look in the cupboard one day this week, and the decanter was nearly half full.”

“What did you do with the glass that was standing on the table?”Arnold asked.

“I took it away later on and washed it up,” she replied. “I didn't think then that anything was wrong.”

Arnold nodded. “Did Sir Henry know that his uncle was in the habit of taking a drop of whisky last thing?”

“Oh, yes, he must have known!”she exclaimed with determination. “You see, now and again he'd come to see the master late in the evening. He's so busy that's the only time he could manage. And then the master would fetch another glass from the dining-room, and they'd have a drop together. I know that, for in the morning I'd find two glasses instead of one.”

“Sir Henry had called at the house on the previous Saturday, and you had shown him into the lounge?”Arnold suggested.

“That's right, sir,” Mrs. Renfrew replied. “He called and asked for the master. When I told him he wasn't back, he said he'd like to write a note. I took him into the lounge, showed him where the paper and envelopes were, and left him. He wrote a note, for I found it there and gave it to the master when he came home that evening. And what else he may have done when he was alone in the lounge I can't say.”

“Who went into the lounge between then and Thursday afternoon?”Arnold asked.

“There were several callers came to the house,” she replied. “But none of them went into the lounge, only Sir Henry. I went in, of course, and the master when he came home. And then on Monday several people. The doctor and his partner and the nurse, and you and Mr. Cudworth. There's nobody else been in there, that I'm sure.”

“Well, Mrs. Renfrew, you have done perfectly right in telling me what you have,” said Arnold gravely. “The contents of the bottle you have brought me will be analysed. If that analysis is not satisfactory, you may be called upon to give evidence in court. Meanwhile I must ask you not to say a word to any one about the matter. You understand that?”

Mrs. Renfrew nodded comprehendingly. “I'm not one to talk about a thing like that. And if it comes to giving evidence, I'll tell the truth, no more and no less. He'll find he can't talk me down, like he does most.”

With a final admonition to Mrs. Renfrew to keep her suspicions to herself, Arnold escorted her from the room. Then he wrote out a label and stuck it on the bottle. No sooner had he done that than he was summoned to the Chief's room.

Sir Edric was, as usual, affable enough, but his tone betrayed a certain anxiety. “So you're back again,” he said, motioning Arnold to a chair. “May I venture to hope that you have some slight progress to report?”

Arnold allowed himself a faint and respectful smile. “The murderer of Mr. Jonathan Denby is in custody at Fencaster, sir,” he replied simply.

“Ah!”Sir Edric exclaimed, in a tone of profound relief. “That puts an end to the importunity I've been subjected to. Who is the chap, and how did you get him? Tell me all about it.”

Arnold told the whole story, to which Sir Edric listened in rapt attention. “Well, I'm blest!”he exclaimed when it came to an end. “Our friend Merrion seems to lead you into some pretty queer adventures. The evidence against this man Garth is purely circumstantial, but many a man has been hanged on less. However, he's Colonel Heythrop's bird, and no doubt he'll lay the facts before the public prosecutor. And it seems to me that a good many other cases that have puzzled us are now explained. That Stamford lorry, for instance. That remote corner of Icenshire seems to have concealed a regular den of thieves. Who was at the head of the gang?”

Arnold shifted uneasily in his chair. “Merrion thinks that Lord Mundesley was, sir. And I believe he's right, though Tranmere won't give him away. But the Colonel says that as his Lordship is in London just now, it's our job to tackle him.”

Sir Edric smiled. “So it is. But you don't relish the prospect of stalking such big game. It's not going to be an easy matter, I admit, but I'll do what I can to help you. Where is Lord Mundesley this moment?”

“I've sent Wighton to find out, sir,” Arnold replied. “He ought to be back before long. And Merrion suggested a way of dealing with Lord Mundesley. He thinks that if we can detain him, Tranmere will tell us the whole truth.”

“In spite of his vivid imagination, Merrion is more often right than not,” Sir Edric remarked. “Let me hear his plan.”

He listened to Arnold's exposition, rather doubtfully at first, but with growing confidence. “It's logical enough,” he said at last. “Anyway, it's worth trying. As soon as Wighton comes back, let me have his report. Anything else?”

“Yes, sir,” Arnold replied. “I've just had a visit from Mrs. Renfrew, the late Sir Ambrose Denby's housekeeper. She told me a most extraordinary story, and I hardly know what to make of it. She thinks now that her master may have been murdered.”

“The devil she does!”Sir Edric exclaimed. “You appear to be revelling in sensations this morning. What is her story?”

Arnold repeated in detail what Mrs. Renfrew had told him. “She seemed to me honest and straightforward enough, sir,” he concluded. “I don't think she invented the yarn out of malice, and it doesn't seem likely that she imagined it.”

“The Minister of Iron and Steel!”Sir Edric murmured, rather to himself than to Arnold. “The important personage who has been responsible for my being rung up every day with inquiries as to whether we had yet found the murderer of Jonathan Denby. Oh, I dare say Mrs. Renfrew is right. The man has always been an opportunist, and this was one he couldn't resist. With Jonathan dead, he became the heir to the money and the title, and he couldn't curb his impatience to inherit. I said not long ago that we were no respecters of persons. That's just as well, for it seems now that we have not only a baron, but also a Cabinet Minister to deal with.”

He indulged in a thoughtful pause, then went on more briskly. “One thing at a time. We can't do anything about this latest affair until we know what's in that bottle. Let the Home Office analyst have it at once, and ask for a full report as soon as possible. And when you hear where Lord Mundesley is, let me know.”

Arnold went out and took the necessary steps regarding the bottle. Wighton returned with his report, and once more Arnold presented himself before the Chief. “Lord Mundesley is staying at Byford's Hotel, sir,” he said. “But he is at the club now, and is expected to lunch there.”

“Very well,” Sir Edric replied. “You'll be relieved if I take this matter in hand myself, I dare say.” He picked up his telephone and gave instructions that he was to be put through to the club. Before very long he was connected, and in answer to his enquiry, was told that Lord Mundesley was on the premises, and would be informed of the call.

After a short delay Lord Mundesley announced himself. “I am sorry to trouble you, Lord Mundesley,” said Sir Edric. “I am an Assistant Commissioner of Metropolitan Police, speaking from New Scotland Yard. We are anxious to trace a man who was at one time employed by you, and we believe that you can give us particulars that will help us.”

“I am ready to do what I can to assist the police,” Lord Mundesley replied with dignity. “Who is this man?”

“I prefer not to discuss the matter over the telephone,” said Sir Edric. “I shall be most grateful if you can make it convenient to call here after lunch, say at half-past two, when, we can discuss the matter.”

“If you consider it necessary, I will do so,” Lord Mundesley replied. “I will call upon you at half-past two.”

Sir Edric thanked him, and rang off. “Will you come into my parlour, said the spider to the fly,” he remarked. “Half-past two, then. You'd better be here a bit before that, to give me a final briefing. I rather wish we had Merrion on hand to prompt us, since it's his idea. He's not in town, is he?”

“No, sir,” Arnold replied. “He went home to High Eldersham yesterday afternoon.”

“Then we shall have to get on without him,” said Sir Edric. “All right. Come back here when you've had your lunch.”

At a few minutes after half-past two Lord Mundesley was shown into the room, where Sir Edric and Arnold were already seated. Both rose to greet him. “I'm sorry to have to put you to this trouble. Lord Mundesley,” said Sir Edric. “Let me take your hat and coat. Now, please sit down.”

As he settled himself in the chair. Lord Mundesley looked about him. “I've heard your name, Conway,” he remarked patronisingly. “Though we have, I believe, not met before.” His gaze shifted to Arnold, at whom he stared intently. “I've seen you before, though. Are you not the officer who called with Mr. Merrion at Bromhoe Castle the other morning?”

Sir Edric interposed hastily: “We have a different matter to discuss. Lord Mundesley. This man I mentioned is said to have been employed by you at Bromhoe Castle. According to our information, his job there was to look after the pumping plant. It seems that he left your service to enter that of North Icenshire Transport Ltd.”

“Why, yes, I-remember the fellow,” Lord Mundesley replied disdainfully. “But I do not know what has become of him.”

“You gave him a letter of recommendation to the transport company, didn't you?”Sir Edric asked.

Lord Mundesley made a gesture indicating that such trifles were beneath his notice. “I may have done. Whenever possible I try to help those who have worked for me. Yes, I probably gave him the customary written reference.”

“Any recommendation coming from you would naturally carry great weight,” said Sir Edric. “Especially with the manager of North Icenshire Transport. He would regard such a recommendation as a direction, I imagine.”

“My influence in the county is considerable,” Lord Mundesley replied haughtily. “But I am unable to give you any information regarding this fellow, whose name I do not even recall. I will therefore waste no more of my time, or yours.”

He picked up his hat and coat from the chair on which Sir Edric had laid them, and without further farewell left the room. Sir Edric smiled. “He doesn't care about the subject of North Icenshire Transport,” he remarked. “Well, we shall see.” He sat back in his chair, waiting. In a couple of minutes the door burst open, and Lord Mundesley reappeared in a State of furious indignation. “It's outrageous!”he exclaimed. “Your damned ass of a policeman at the head of the stairs won't let me out without a pass. I told him who I was, but the thick-headed numskull didn't seem to understand. I'll trouble you to come and put him in his place this instant, Conway.”

But Sir Edric did not budge. “The policeman was merely doing his duty,” he replied quietly. “You see, the door of this building is a one-way valve. Any one may enter, but it is not so easy for them to go out again. Before I give you the necessary pass. Lord Mundesley, I must ask you to answer a question or two. Is it not a fact that William Overton, who holds the controlling interest in North Icenshire Transport, does so as your nominee?”

Lord Mundesley sat down heavily. It was quite obvious that he was calculating rapidly how much his questioner could really know. It was on the tip of his tongue to reply with a flat denial, but he checked himself. “I do not feel called upon to answer that question,” he said loftily.

This was enough for Sir Edric. “It is a fact,” he asserted with quiet confidence. “Now, Lord Mundesley, during your absence from Bromhoe events have moved rapidly. It will probably be news to you that Tranmere, the night foreman at the depot, has been arrested.” He paused for an instant. “And has made a statement,” he added significantly.

It certainly was news to Lord Mundesley. He stared wildly round the room, as though he expected Tranmere to emerge from some secret hiding place. Then he glared angrily at Sir Edric. “Arrested!”he exclaimed. “Upon what charge, may I ask?”

“That of receiving stolen goods,” Sir Edric replied. “The offences extend over a considerable period, approximating to some three years. The immediate charge is that of receiving the contents of a lorry stolen from outside a café near Stamford on the evening of Monday, January 31st. The man who stole the lorry is also in custody, upon another and more serious charge.”

“I find this most extraordinary,” said Lord Mundesley, with a remnant of dignity. “But I disclaim all responsibility.”

“I cannot accept that disclaimer,” Sir Edric replied sternly. “But for the moment we will let it pass. Now I must ask you to listen to me, carefully and without interruption. That Monday evening you summoned Swale to the castle upon a false pretext. Your reason for doing so was your knowledge that that night a lorry would be unloaded in Clynde churchyard, and its contents carried through the secret passage into the disused wing of the rectory.”

Lord Mundesley assumed an air of contemptuous scorn, and Sir Edric went on: “I am prepared to credit your ignorance of another fact. You did not know that Mr. Jonathan Denby, contrary to your express wishes, had established himself in the open part of the rectory that evening. Although you may have had your suspicions as early as the following Saturday, when you called at Guist Square, you did not know then where and by whom he had been murdered.”

“I most certainly did not!”Lord Mundesley exclaimed indignantly. “Nor do I know now.”

“I think we must qualify that statement,” Sir Edric replied. “You may not know, in the sense that you are in a position to swear to the identity of Mr. Denby's murderer. But you have withheld vital information from the police. On Wednesday Inspector Arnold, in company with Mr. Merrion, called upon you at Bromhoe Castle. They informed you that there was definite evidence of Mr. Denby's occupation of the rectory on the night of Monday, January 31st. You already knew, from the report of the inquest, that he had been killed during that night.

“The course of events must have been immediately clear to you. It was your manifest duty, at whatever cost to yourself, to reveal your knowledge of the presence of the lorry in the vicinity of the rectory. Instead of doing so, you endeavoured in every way to obscure the truth. You stressed the impossibility of Mr. Denby having been in the rectory, and you did your best to divert the enquiry into other channels. Perhaps you did not fully reflect upon the very serious situation in which you placed yourself?”

For the first time Lord Mundesley displayed signs of agitation. “I do not know what you mean,” he replied nervously.

“Then I will tell you,” said Sir Edric. “In withholding your knowledge from the Inspector, you connived at murder. By thus shielding the criminal, you became accessory to the crime after the fact. Do you wish to make a statement? If so—”

Lord Mundesley interrupted him. “I shall say nothing until I have consulted my solicitor,” he replied doggedly.

“Very well,” said Sir Edric. “In that case I have no option but to detain you. During the period of your detention you will be given every opportunity of communicating with your solicitor. That will do now, Inspector.”

Arnold rose and laid his hand lightly on Lord Mundesley's shoulder. Like a man in a trance he staggered to his feet and allowed himself to be led unprotesting from the room.

Sir Edric watched the departure. “It's worked very well so far,” he muttered to himself. “Now a little judicious indiscretion on our part, and the Sunday papers will be full of it.”

XXI

Monday came, and with it a visitor to Arnold's room. This was the analyst from the Home Office, to whom Mrs. Renfrew's bottle had been entrusted. “Good morning. Inspector,” he said. “You told me you wanted a report as soon as possible, so I thought you'd like a preliminary report on that sample of yours. You'll get a full analysis later, when we've finished with it.”

“That's good of you,” Arnold replied. “We're anxious to know what you've found.”

“I can tell you that, roughly,” said the analyst. “The basis of your sample appears to be whisky, diluted with particularly dirty water. But it also contains a drug, aconitine. I can't' tell you yet in what quantity the drug is present. We haven't had time yet to make out an exact estimate. All I can say now is that there is more than a trace.”

“You wouldn't expect to find this drug in a bottle of ordinary whisky?”Arnold asked.

“I certainly shouldn't,” the analyst replied. “And I hope I never shall, at all events if I had bought the bottle for my own consumption. Aconitine is a poison, with a specific action upon the heart.”

“On the heart?”Arnold repeated. “If a man whose heart was already dicky took some, it would kill him?”

“That depends, of course, upon how much he took,” the analyst replied cautiously. “If certain cardiac conditions already existed, a smaller dose would prove fatal than in the case of a normal heart.”

Arnold considered this. “Look here,” he said. “If a chap had died of this stuff and then been cremated, would it be any good analysing his ashes?”

The analyst smiled scornfully. “Not the slightest. You policemen are always expecting science to perform miracles. But there are limits. The process of cremation would destroy all traces of the drug. And now I'll get back. I'll let you have a full quantitative report as soon as I can.”

Arnold went to the Chief's room. As he entered. Sir Edric picked up a copy of a Sunday newspaper which lay on his desk, with a red pencil mark encircling one of the headlines. “You've seen this, I expect?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. I saw it yesterday,” Arnold replied, as he took the paper. The headline proclaimed staringly. “Peer Detained on Grave Charge.” But the judicious indiscretion had been carefully calculated. There was no hint of the nature of the charge. To fill up space the reporter had been driven to an account of Lord Mundesley's career, his estate at Bromhoe Castle, and his services to the Liberal party.

“That ought to do the trick,” said Sir Edric. “You'll go back to Fencaster and see Tranmere?”

“Yes, sir,” Arnold replied. And then, significantly: “The analyst has just been to see me about that bottle.”

“Ah!”Sir Edric exclaimed. “And what has he found?”

Arnold repeated, without comment, what the analyst had told him. As he listened. Sir Edric took off his glasses and polished them, always a sign on his part of profound mental activity. “It's going to be damned difficult!”he exclaimed. “The motive stands out clearly for all the world to see. But we can't proceed against Denby on motive alone. The Director of Public Prosecutions would have a fit if we suggested such a thing, especially Denby being who he is. We can't prove that he added this drug to his uncle's whisky. And now it's even impossible to establish that the immediate cause of Sir Ambrose's death was poisoning by aconite.”

Arnold made no suggestion, knowing that the Chief would ultimately reach his own decision. And after a couple of minutes Sir Edric replaced his glasses with an air of resolution. “All the same, we can't leave it at that,” he went on. “Denby may be a Cabinet Minister, but he's subject to the law like all the rest of us. We are bound at least to ask him why he emptied that decanter of whisky down the lavatory.”

He rose abruptly from his chair. “No use putting off the evil day. Call up one of the cars, and you and I will go to the Ministry now.”

The Ministry, being of recent formation, was not housed in Whitehall, but had taken over a block of offices in Kingsway. On arrival there, Sir Edric and Arnold, having given their names, were taken to the private secretary's room. “You want to see the Minister, Sir Edric?” the private secretary said in a shocked tone. “I'm afraid that's quite impossible. He is particularly busy this morning, studying the answers to the questions he is to be asked in the House this afternoon. If you will be good enough to tell me why you want to see the Minister, I will speak to him about it on the first available opportunity.”

“I cannot do that,” Sir Edric replied firmly. “Our business with the Minister is of a strictly personal nature. I must formally request you to tell him that we are here, and wish to see him.”

The private secretary hesitated. “If I am to do that, I must at least be able to give him some hint of the nature of your business.”

“Very well,” Sir Edric replied. “You may tell the Minister that our visit concerns the death of Sir Ambrose Denby.”

“Well, I'll see what I can do,” said the private secretary, without enthusiasm. A baize door was set in one side of the room. He opened this, and knocked timidly on an inner door. A voice from within bade him enter, and he disappeared, shutting both doors behind him.

A minute or two later he reappeared, a sheaf of papers in his hand. “The Minister will see you shortly, Sir Edric,” he said. “He will ring when he is ready. Will you be good enough to wait here till then?”

He provided a couple of chairs, upon which Sir Edric and Arnold sat down expectantly. With a few muttered words of excuse the private secretary returned to work at his desk. It was very quiet in the room, the silence being broken only by the faintly heard rumble of the Kingsway traffic. The windows were shut, and the central heating produced an atmosphere which Arnold, at least, found almost stifling. A messenger appeared, to lay a bundle of files in the private secretary's tray, and depart as silently as he had come.

The minutes passed with maddening slowness, until they had lengthened to half an hour. At last Sir Edric could control his impatience no longer. “The Minister must have forgotten that we are here,” he said. “Will you please be good enough to remind him that we are still waiting?”

“I hardly like to do that,” the private secretary replied apologetically. “You see, it's his busiest morning of the week.”

“I am sorry, but I must insist,” said Sir Edric. “My time may not be so valuable as that of a Cabinet Minister, but you will appreciate that I have my own not unimportant duties to perform.”

Reluctantly the private secretary repeated his previous performance. He rose, opened the baize door, and rapped more tentatively than ever upon the inner one. But this time there came no answering voice. The private secretary stood for a full minute, listening, then, acutely conscious of Sir Edric's eyes fixed upon him, rapped again, a little louder.

Still no reply came. At length, after a further interval, the private secretary turned the handle of the inner door. He opened it a few inches and peeped in. Then, with a sudden exclamation, he leapt across the threshold, leaving the door wide open behind him.

With a beckoning gesture to Arnold, Sir Edric rose rapidly to his feet and crossed the room to the open doorway. He saw before him the Minister's room, a seemingly vast apartment, with panelled walls and heavily carpeted floor. The size of the room was accentuated by the sparseness of its furnishing. At the end farthest from the door stood a big table, its size proportionate to that of the room. And in a heavy padded chair behind this table sat the Minister of Iron and Steel, his arms and the upper part of his body resting motionless on the table before him.

The private secretary stood for a second or two irresolute, appalled by the spectacle. “He must have fainted!”he exclaimed at last in a hushed voice. “Overwork! I must ring for the doctor!”

He ran back to the telephone on his own desk; Sir Edric and Arnold crossed the wide space to the table, and the former laid his finger on the Minister's pulse. “The doctor will be too late,” he said quietly. “Well, perhaps after all this is the best that could have happened.”

Neither he nor Arnold had the slightest doubt, even at this first glance. The table was covered with files and loose papers, lying as the Minister bad been studying them. Besides these was a carafe, three parts full of water, and a tumbler. One of the outflung arms had overset the tumbler, which lay on its side on one of the sheets of paper. A few drops must have remained as it fell, for on the paper, by the rim of the tumbler, was a small pool of liquid.

Sir Edric pointed to this. “There is nothing more for you to do here, Arnold,” he said. “I will stop and see that this liquid is collected for analysis. You have other matters to attend to.”

Arnold left the Ministry and returned to Scotland Yard. His principal reflection was that if Mrs. Renfrew could be tempted to make her story public, a first-class scandal would ensue. But, as the Chief had said, other matters claimed his attention. He spoke on the telephone to Colonel Heythrop and to Merrion and, early that afternoon, caught a train to Fencaster.

He and Merrion met at the King's Head a few minutes before six o'clock. The loud-speaker in the hall was switched on, and the voice of the announcer was reading the Meteorological Office forecast. “Hold on a minute,” said Arnold, as Merrion made a move towards the lounge. “Wait for the news. There'll be an item that will interest you.”

The forecast came to an end, to be followed by the sound of Bow bells. This died away, and the announcer spoke again. In a calm and impassive voice he read the bulletin. Sir Henry Denby, the Minister of Iron and Steel, had been found dead that morning in his room at the Ministry. No particulars were given, but the Prime Minister came to the microphone. He described in moving tones the great services his colleague had rendered to the country, and expressed his deep sorrow at the tragedy, a sorrow which he felt sure would be shared by the community at large.

“I'm not so sure about that last bit,” Merrion remarked. “What do you know about this?”

“I'll tell you later,” Arnold replied. “At the moment we've other fish to fry. As no doubt you've seen, we've detained Lord Mundesley. Your plan has worked pretty well so far. I've arranged with the Colonel to interview Tranmere, and I told him I'd bring you with me, if I could. We'd better get across to police headquarters now.”

Colonel Heythrop was in his room when they arrived. “Hallo, here you are I “he exclaimed. “What's this I've just heard about the Minister of Iron and Steel? Death has been pretty busy in the Denby family recently. Murder natural death, and now something that from the little we're told looks uncommonly like suicide.”

Arnold evaded the subject. “I've brought Mr. Merrion with me, sir. Perhaps we might see Tranmere now?”

“Of course,” Heythrop replied. “You seem to have been pretty busy since we last met. Inspector. I see you've detained Lord Mundesley. I hope you haven't laid yourself open to proceedings for wrongful imprisonment. What's the charge?”

“Connivance in the murder of Mr. Jonathan Denby, sir,” said Arnold. “But it may not be necessary to proceed with that, if Tranmere makes a full and complete statement. He's been allowed to see the newspapers?”

“Being merely under detention, he's been given what he wanted,” Heythrop replied. “Garth is in a different box altogether. He was taken before the Bench this morning, charged with murder, and remanded in custody. If you want to see Tranmere, I'll send for him.”

Tranmere was brought in, looking particularly sheepish, and told to sit down. Arnold eyed him severely. “Well, Tranmere,” he said, “lying won't do you any good now. You've seen that your boss. Lord Mundesley, has been detained?”

Tranmere seemed so full of words that they tumbled out of him incoherently. “Yes, I've read that. I didn't think when you spoke to me you'd do that. And now that it's happened I've got myself—”

“Be quiet and listen,” Arnold interrupted. “You know that Lord Mundesley has been detained, and you can guess better than any one else what the charge against him will be. But he may try to wriggle out of it. He may take the line that he knew nothing of what was going on at the depot, and that you alone were responsible. If he does, you'll be left to hold the baby, and a pretty fractious child it will turn out to be. So, you see, it's in your own interests to tell the truth. How much in fact did Lord Mundesley know of what was going on?”

“Every blessed thing!”Tranmere exclaimed unhesitatingly. “It was him that started it, to begin with. I and the rest of us only did what he told us to. He'd sit up there at the castle and give us our orders.”

“So now we've got that straight,” said Arnold, “the best thing you can do is to tell us all about it, in your own words.”

Tranmere's statement was long and involved, but certain points emerged clearly enough. Nobody but himself and the manager was aware that Lord Mundesley was the virtual proprietor of North Icenshire Transport. Under cover of land drainage, a private wire had been laid across his property from the castle to the depot. It was by this that he issued his instructions, and was kept informed of every detail of the business, legitimate and illegitimate.

The illegitimate transactions took place always at night, when Tranmere and one or two trusted men working under him were at the depot. The manager was not in the secret, though he must have wondered at some of the queer things that happened. For instance, the mysterious appearance of strange lorries, under the pretext of needing repair, and their equally mysterious disappearance a few days later. None of the regular lorry drivers, nor the skipper and engineer of the tug, were in the inner ring.

The first use of the depot as a repository for stolen goods had been four years ago. One evening Lord Mundesley had rung up Tranmere on the private line. A lorry would arrive at the depot that night. No questions were to be asked, but the goods it carried were to be locked up in one of the sheds. This had been Tranmere's first meeting with Larry Garth. Larry had driven the lorry away that same night, and, under Lord Mundesley's instructions, the goods had subsequently been dispersed to various directions.

This had happened several times, and there had always been the risk of stolen goods being found at the depot. Then the possibility of using the rectory had occurred to Lord Mundesley. He had found an old plan, which showed the course of the smuggler's passage. The necessary work, including the driving of a tunnel from the vault to the old passage, had been carried out under his instructions by the members of Tranmere's gang. The reconstruction of the churchyard path had formed a cover for their operations.

It had been Tranmere himself who had visited the rectory on the Saturday night that Arnold and Merrion were there. Lord Mundesley had told him to collect a bale of cloth for dispatch to an address in Coventry by a lorry which was leaving for that address early on Monday morning. Tranmere had driven to the vault in a light van, and while he was getting out the bale, had been seriously alarmed by a sudden noise which could only have come from the open part of the rectory. He had reported this to Lord Mundesley, who had given orders that the rectory was to be emptied of all it contained, and the passage blocked. The stolen goods were to be taken out to sea on the first opportunity and sunk. Garth had been one of the men who bad carried out these orders.

When Tranmere had finished his statement. Colonel Heythrop questioned him regarding Garth. According to Tranmere, Garth and one or two others had been regularly employed, with Lord Mundesley's knowledge, in watching for lorries which, with their contents, could conveniently be stolen. The theft of the Stamford lorry had been planned in advance, and Lord Mundesley had undertaken to keep Swale out of the way on the night it was expected. Garth had brought it in, and unloaded it single-handed. On his return from the rectory he had seemed apprehensive about something, and had asked when a lighter would be going out. Tranmere had told him that an empty one was to be towed to Dells on the very next tide. Garth had said that he would go with it, as he wanted to get out of the way for a bit. Before garaging the lorry in one of the sheds, Garth had driven it to the dockside. His explanation for doing this had been that he had in it some things of his own which he wanted to take on the lighter with him.

After dinner that evening, when Arnold and Merrion were alone, the latter returned to the subject of Sir Henry Denby. “Now then,” he said, “let's hear what's behind that startling bit of news we listened to.”

Arnold told him the whole story, beginning with his interview with Mrs. Renfrew, and ending with the dramatic scene at the Ministry. Merrion listened attentively, making no comment till Arnold had finished. “As Conway remarked, the man was an opportunist,” he said then. “Of course he had nothing whatever to do with the murder of his cousin. But Jonathan's death opened for him prospects which he could not resist the temptation of realising. He must have known when he called at Guist Square that Saturday that Sir Ambrose would not come home until after his son's funeral. So he took a little supply of aconitine with him.

“As for his suicide, I hardly know what else you could have expected. You may know very well that the actual proof of his guilt was of the very slenderest. But try to look at the matter as he saw it. Ever since that disastrous meeting with Mrs. Renfrew at the lavatory door, he must have been haunted, day and night, by an overwhelming dread. Not only his liberty, but his career, were at stake. Had he been brought to trial, even though a jury found him not guilty, the scandal would have cost him his future.

“Then, this morning, he was told that Conway had called to see him regarding the death of Sir Ambrose. Just think what that message must have meant to him! Regarding the death of Sir Ambrose? He knew very well that an Assistant Commissioner of Metropolitan Police does not call in person, even upon a Cabinet Minister, merely for the purpose of asking trivial questions. His conscience must have told him that it was all up, that the police knew the whole truth, and that he could not hope to leave his room a free man. He was not prepared to face the consequences. He preferred to poison himself with, I expect, the same drug with which he had poisoned his uncle.”

In this Merrion was right. Not only was a phial which had contained aconitine found in the dead man's pocket, but analysis of the spilt water revealed the presence of the same drug. At the inquest the police offered no evidence. Sir Edric's lame excuse for his visit to the Ministry was accepted. He had called on Sir Henry, as his uncle's heir, to ask him certain formal questions. Mrs. Renfrew had the sense to keep her knowledge to herself. Evidence was submitted that for a long time past deceased had been overworking himself. The verdict was that Sir Henry had taken his life while his mind was temporarily deranged. It never became public knowledge that on the Monday afternoon the Prime Minister had sent for Sir Edric, with whom he had a long and strictly private conversation.

Lord Mundesley was charged with receiving goods, knowing them to have been stolen, and was committed for trial. His control of North Icenshire Transport was readily established. William Overton, like Tranmere, appalled at the arrest of his patron, was without much persuasion induced to confess that he was a man of straw, acting merely as Lord Mundesley's nominee. The private wire was traced from the depot to a room in Bromhoe Castle. The manager of the depot, very much against his will, admitted that he had been appointed by Lord Mundesley in person, who had always directed the business, down to the minutest detail.

The defence, which was ably conducted, did not attempt to deny Lord Mundesley's control of the company. The line taken was that he had been entirely ignorant of the traffic in stolen goods. That the goods stored in the rectory had been stolen was proved beyond possibility of doubt. The reward of salvage produced an abundant harvest from the sea. The example of the Norgarths was followed by other fishermen, and quite a number of articles found floating about Dumpling Deep were brought ashore, to be traced eventually to their rightful owners.

Had the case against Lord Mundesley depended upon Tranmere's evidence alone, the defence might have succeeded. But it turned out that Charles Overton, the butler, had been in the secret. This discovery was due to the initiative of Swale, who had interrogated him on his own account. Following his brother's example, the butler made a clean breast of it. During his master's frequent absences in London, he had on numerous occasions received messages from Tranmere over the private wire relating to the receipt or dispatch of-stolen goods. These messages he had written down and posted to Lord Mundesley at the club.

At the trial, the imagination of the jury was clearly captured by Swale's evidence as to his summons from Lord Mundesley on the night when the Stamford lorry was unloaded. This rounded off a mass of evidence for the prosecution which was already overwhelming. The jury brought in a verdict of guilty, and the judge passed a sentence of five years' imprisonment.

Against Garth a double-barrelled weapon was prepared. It was felt that, the evidence of his murder of Jonathan Denby being purely circumstantial, he might be acquitted on that charge. A second charge was therefore entered, that of the theft of the contents of the Stamford lorry. But this charge was never proceeded with. Garth persisted in his denial of all knowledge of the murder, and, against the advice of his counsel, insisted upon making his appearance in the witness-box. There he told so many obvious lies, and faltered so badly under cross-examination, that he practically demonstrated his guilt. He was found guilty, and duly condemned.

The suicide of the Minister of Iron and Steel caused a tremendous sensation, intensified in Icenshire by the almost simultaneous arrest of one of the leading figures in the county. It can hardly have been a coincidence that the Bishop of Fencaster, preaching in the Cathedral on the following Sunday, took as his text the words of the Psalmist: “I myself have seen the ungodly in great power. ... I went by, and lo, he was gone! I sought him, but his place could nowhere be found.”

THE END