“I’ve never set eyes on that girl in my life! I’m not that sort of man!”
“That’s all right then. Shouldn’t blame you, you know. Man of the world. Still, if you say so. Question is, what was she doing down here? She doesn’t come from these parts, that’s quite certain.”
“That whole thing’s a nightmare,” fumed the angry master of the house.
“The point is, old man, what was she doing in your library?”
“How should I know? I didn’t ask her here.”
“No, no. But she came here all the same. Looks as though she wanted to see you. You haven’t had any odd letters or anything?”
“No, I haven’t.”
Colonel Melchett inquired delicately, “What were you doing yourself last night?”
“I went to the meeting of the Conservative Association. Nine o’clock, at Much Benham.”
“And you got home when?”
“I left Much Benham just after ten. Had a bit of trouble on the way home, had to change a wheel. I got back at a quarter to twelve.”
“You didn’t go into the library?”
“No.”
“Pity.”
“I was tired. I went straight up to bed.”
“Anyone waiting up for you?”
“No. I always take the latchkey. Lorrimer goes to bed at eleven, unless I give orders to the contrary.”
“Who shuts up the library?”
“Lorrimer. Usually about seven-thirty this time of year.”
“Would he go in there again during the evening?”
“Not with my being out. He left the tray with whiskey and glasses in the hall.”
“I see. What about your wife?”
“She was in bed when I got home, and fast asleep. She may have sat in the library yesterday evening, or in the drawing room. I didn’t ask her.”
“Oh, well, we shall soon know all the details. Of course it’s possible one of the servants may be concerned, eh?”
Colonel Bantry shook his head. “I don’t believe it. They’re all a most respectable lot. We’ve had ’em for years.”
Melchett agreed. “Yes, it doesn’t seem likely that they’re mixed up in it. Looks more as though the girl came down from town perhaps with some young fellow. Though why they wanted to break into this house…”
Bantry interrupted. “London. That’s more like it. We don’t have goings-on down here at least.”
“Well, what is it?”
“Upon my word!” exploded Colonel Bantry. “Basil Blake!”
“Who’s he?”
“Young fellow connected with the film industry. Poisonous young brute. My wife sticks up for him because she was at school with his mother, but of all the decadent useless young Jackanapes he wants his behind kicked. He’s taken that cottage on the Lansham Road you know, ghastly modern bit of building. He has parties there shrieking, noisy crowds and he has girls down for the weekend.” “Girls?”
“Yes, there was one last week one of these platinum blondes.” The colonel’s jaw dropped. “A platinum blonde, eh?” said Melchett reflectively. “Yes. I say, Melchett, you don’t think…” The chief constable said briskly, “It’s a possibility. It accounts for a girl of this type being in St. Mary Mead. I think I’ll run along and have a word with this young fellow Braid Blake what did you say his name was?”
“Blake. Basil Blake.” “Will he be at home, do you know?” asked Melchett. “Let me see, what’s today? Saturday? Usually gets here some time Saturday morning.” Melchett said grimly, “Well see if we can find him.” Basil Blake’s cottage, which consisted of all modern conveniences enclosed in a hideous shell of half timbering and sham Tudor, was known to the postal authorities and to William Booker, Builder, as “Chatsworth”; to Basil and his friends as “The Period Piece”; and to the village of St. Mary Mead at large as “Mr. Booker’s new house.” It was little more than a quarter of a mile from the village proper, being situated on a new building estate that had been bought by the enterprising Mr. Booker just beyond the Blue Boar, with frontage on what had been a particularly unspoiled country lane. Gossington Hall was about a mile farther on along the same road. Lively interest had been aroused in St. Mary Mead when the news went round that “Mr. Booker’s new house” had been bought by a film star. Eager watch was kept for the first appearance of the legendary creature in the village, and it may be said that as far as appearances went Basil Blake was all that could be asked for. Little by little, however, the real facts leaked out. Basil Blake was not a film star, not even a film actor. He was a very junior person, rejoicing in the position of about fifteenth in the list of those responsible for set decorations at Lenville Studios, headquarters of British New Era Films. The village maidens lost interest and the ruling class of censorious spinsters took exception to Basil Blake’s way of life. Only the landlord of the Blue Boar continued to be enthusiastic about Basil and Basil’s friends. The revenues of the Blue Boar had increased since the young man’s arrival in the place.