I phoned the local car-hire firm, asked for the indefinite hire of one of their cars and that it should be brought and left at the gates of Mordon. Another call to Alfringham, this time to the Waggoner’s Rest, and I was lucky enough to get a room. The last call was to London, to Mary. I told her to pack a suitcase for me and one for herself and bring them both down to the Waggoner’s Rest. There was a train from Paddington that would get her down by half-past six.
I left the gatehouse and went for a walk through the grounds. The air was cold and a chill October wind blowing, but I didn’t walk briskly. I paced slowly up and down beside the inner fence, head bowed, gazing down at my feet most of the time. Cavell lost in thought, or so I hoped any onlooker would think. I spent the better part of an hour there, paralleling the same quarter mile of fence all the time and at last I found what I was looking for. Or so I thought. Next circuit round I stopped to tic my shoe-lace and then there was no more doubt in my mind.
Hardanger was still in the administrative block when I found him. He and Inspector Martin were poring over freshly developed batches of photographic prints. Hardanger looked up and grunted, “How’s it going?”
“It’s not. Any progress with you?”
“No prints on Clandon’s wallet, cigarette case or books of matches — except his own, of course. Nothing of any interest on the doors. We’ve found the Bedford van — rather, Inspector Wylie’s men have found a Bedford van. Reported missing this afternoon by a chap called Hendry, an Alfringham carrier with three of those vans. Found less than an hour ago by a motor-cycle cop in the Hailem Woods. Sent my men across there to try it for prints.”
“It’s as good a way of wasting time as any.”
“Maybe. Do you know the Hailem Woods?”
I nodded, “Half-way between here and Alfringham there’s a ‘ B’ road forks off to the north. About a mile and a half along that road. There may have been woods there once, but they’ve gone now. You wouldn’t find a couple of dozen trees in the entire area now — outside gardens, that is. Residential, what’s called a good neighbourhood. This fellow Hendry — a check been made?”
“Yes. Nothing there. One of those solid citizens, not only the backbone of England but a personal friend of Inspector Wylie’s. They play darts for the same pub team. That,” Hardanger said heavily, “puts him beyond the range of all suspicion.”
“You’re getting bitter.” I nodded at the prints. “From number one lab, I take it. A first-class job. I wonder which of the prints belongs to the man who stays nearest to the spot where the Bedford was found.”
He gave me an up-from-under glance. “As obvious as that, is it?”
“Isn’t it? It would seem to leave him pretty well out. Dumping the evidence on your own door-step is as good a way as any of putting the noose round your own neck.”
“Unless that’s the way we’re intended to think. Fellow called Chessingham. Know him?”
“Research chemist. I know him.”
“Would you vouch for him?”
“In this business I wouldn’t vouch for St. Peter. But I’d wager a month’s pay he’s clear.”
“I wouldn’t. We’re checking his story and we’ll see.”
“Well see. How many of the prints have you identified?”
“Fifteen sets altogether, as far as we can make out, but we’ve been able to trace only thirteen.”
I thought for a minute, then nodded. “That would be about right. Dr. Baxter, Dr. Gregori, Dr. MacDonald, Dr. Hartnell, Chessingham. Then the four technicians in that lab — Verity, Heath, Robinson and Marsh. Nine. Clandon. One of the night guards. And, of course, Cliveden and Weybridge. Running a check on them?”
“What do you think?” Hardanger said testily.
“Including Cliveden and Weybridge?”
“Cliveden and Weybridge!” Hardanger stared at me and Martin backed him up with another stare. “Are you serious, Cavell?”
“With someone running around with the Satan Bug in his pants pockets I don’t think it’s the time for being facetious, Hardanger. Nobody — nobody — is in the clear.” He gave me a long hard look but I ignored it and went on, “About those two sets of unidentified prints—–”
“We’ll print every man in Mordon till we get them,” Hardanger said grimly.
“You don’t have to. Almost certainly they belong to a couple of men called Bryson and Chipperfield. I know them both.”
“Explain yourself.”
“They’re the two men hi charge of running Alfringhain Farm — the place that supplies all the animals for the experiments carried out here. They’re usually up here with a fresh supply of animals every week or so — the turnover in livestock is pretty heavy. They were here yesterday. I checked on the register book. Making a delivery to the animal room in number one laboratory.”
“You say you know them. What are they like?”
“Young. Steady, hard-working, very reliable. Live in adjacent cottages on the farm. Married to a couple of very nice girls. They have a kid apiece, a boy and a girl about six years old. Not the type, any of them, to get mixed up in anything wrong.”
“You guarantee them?”
“You heard what I said about St. Peter. I guarantee nothing and nobody. They’ll have to be checked. I’ll go if you like. After all, I have the advantage of knowing them.”
“You will?” Hardanger let me have his close look again. “Like to take Inspector Martin with you?”
“All one to me,” I assured him. It wasn’t, but I’d manners.
“Then in that case it’s not necessary,” Hardanger said. There were times, I thought, when Hardanger could be downright unpleasant. “Report back anything you find. Ill lay on a car for you.”
“I already have one. Car-hire firm.”
He frowned. “That was unnecessary. Plenty of police and army cars available. You know that.”
“I’m a private citizen now. I prefer private transport.”
I found the car at the gate. Like so many rental machines it was a great deal older than its actual age. But at least it rolled and took the weight off my feet I was glad to take the weight off my feet. My left leg hurt, quite badly, as it always did when I had to walk around for any length of time. Two eminent London surgeons had more than once pointed out to me the advantage of having my left foot removed and sworn that they could replace it with an artificial one not only indistinguishable from the genuine article but guaranteed pain-free. They had been quite enthusiastic about it but it wasn’t their foot and I preferred to hang on to it as long as possible.
I drove to Alfringham, spent five minutes mere talking to the manager of the local dance-hall, and reached Alfringham Farm just as dusk was falling. I turned in through the gates, stopped the car outside the first of the two cottages, got out and rang the bell. After the third attempt I gave it up and drove to the second cottage. I’d get an answer there. Lights were burning behind the windows. I leaned on the bell and after some seconds the door opened. I blinked in the sudden wash of light, then recognised the man before me.
“Bryson,” I said. “How are you? Sorry to burst in like this but I’m afraid I’ve a very good reason.”
“Mr. Cavell” Unmistakable surprise in his voice, all the more pronounced in the sudden conversational hush from the room behind him. “Didn’t expect to see you again so soon. Thought you’d left these parts, I did. How are you, sir?”
“I’d like a few words with you. And with Chipperfield. But he’s not at home.”
“He’s here. With his missus. Turn about in each other’s house for our Saturday night get together.” He hesitated, exactly as I would have done if I’d settled down with some friends for a quiet drink and a stranger broke in. “Delighted to have you join us, sir.”
“I’ll keep you only a few minutes.” I followed Bryson into the brightly lit living-room beyond. A log fire burnt cheerfully in the fireplace and around it ‘were a couple of small settees and a high chair or two. In the centre was a low table with some bottles and glasses. A comfortable, homely scene.
A man and two women rose as Bryson closed the door behind me. I knew all three — Chipperfield, a tall blond man, the outward antithesis in every way of the short stocky Bryson, and the two men’s wives, blonde and dark to match their husbands, but otherwise was a strong similarity — small, neat and pretty with identical hazel eyes. The similarity was hardly surprising — Mrs. Bryson and Mrs. Chipperfield were sisters.