jumping off the cliff with a glider. Swimming on an empty stomach, all alone, is just too ordinary. The young fools make me tired.”
“Is that a bracelet round her ankle, or what?” the constable asked.
Yes, it was a bracelet. A chain of platinum links. Curious links, they were. Each one shaped like a C.
“Well,” the sergeant straightened himself, “I suppose there’s nothing to be done but to remove the body to the mortuary, and then find out who she is. Judging by appearances that shouldn’t be difficult. Nothing ‘lost, stolen or strayed’ about that one.”
“No,” agreed the ambulance man. “The butler is probably telephoning the station now in great agitation.”
“Yes.” The sergeant was thoughtful. “I still wonder how she came here, and what—”
His eyes had lifted to the cliff face, and he paused.
“So! We have company!” he said.
They turned to see a man’s figure on the cliff-top at the Gap. He was standing in an attitude of intense eagerness, watching them. As they turned towards him he did a swift right-about and disappeared.
“A bit early for strollers,” the sergeant said. “And what’s he running away for? We’d better have a talk with him.”
But before he and the constable had moved more than a pace or two it became evident that the man, far from running away, had been merely making for the entrance to the Gap. His thin dark figure shot now from the mouth of the Gap and came towards them at a shambling run, slipping and stumbling, and giving the little group watching his advent an impression of craziness. They could hear the breath panting through his open mouth as he drew near, although the distance from the Gap was not long and he was young.
He stumbled into their compact circle without looking at them, pushing aside the two policemen who had unconsciously interposed their bulk between him and the body.
“Oh, yes, it is! Oh, it is, it is!” he cried, and without warning sat down and burst into loud tears.
Six flabbergasted men watched him in silence for a moment. Then the sergeant patted him kindly on the back and said, idiotically, “It’s all right, son!”
But the young man only rocked himself to and fro and wept the more.
“Come on, come on,” rallied the constable, coaxing. (Really, a dreadful exhibition on a nice bright morning.) “That won’t do anyone any good, you know. Best pull yourself together—sir,” he added, noting the quality of the handkerchief which the young man had produced.
“A relation of yours?” the sergeant inquired, his voice suitably modulated from its former businesslike pitch.
The young man shook his head.
“Oh, just a friend?”
“She was so good to me, so good!”
“Well, at least you’ll be able to help us. We were beginning to wonder about her. You can tell us who she is.”
“She’s my—hostess.”
“Yes, but I meant, what is her name?”
“I don’t know.”
“You—don’t—know! Look here, sir, pull yourself together. You’re the only one that can help us. You must know the name of the lady you were staying with.”
“No, no; I don’t.”
“What did you call her, then?”
“Chris.”
“Chris, what?”
“Just Chris.”
“And what did she call you?”
“Robin.”
“Is that your name?”
“Yes, my name’s Robert Stannaway. No, Tisdall. It used to be Stannaway,” he added, catching the sergeant’s eye and feeling apparently that explanation was needed.
What the sergeant’s eye said was, “God give me patience!” What his tongue said was, “It all sounds a bit strange to me, Mr.—er—”
“Tisdall.”
“Tisdall. Can you tell me how the lady got here this morning?”
“Oh, yes. By car.”
“By car, eh? Know what became of the car?”
“Yes. I stole it.”
“You what?”
“I stole it. I’ve just brought it back. It was a swinish thing to do. I felt a cad so I came back. When I found she wasn’t anywhere on the road, I thought I’d find her stamping about here. Then I saw you all standing round something—oh, dear, oh dear!” He began to rock himself again.
“Where were you staying with this lady?” asked the sergeant, in exceedingly businesslike tones. “In Westover?”
“Oh, no. She has—had, I mean—oh dear!—a cottage. Briars, it’s called. Just outside Medley.”
“ ’Bout a mile and a half inland,” supplemented Potticary, as the sergeant, who was not a native, looked a question.
“Were you alone, or is there a staff there?”
“There’s just a woman from the village—Mrs. Pitts—who comes in and cooks.”
“I see.”
There was a slight pause.
“All right, boys.” The sergeant nodded to the ambulance men, and they bent to their work with the stretcher. The young man drew in his breath sharply and once more covered his face with his hands.
“To the mortuary, Sergeant?”
“Yes.”
The man’s hands came away from his face abruptly.
“Oh, no! Surely not! She had a home. Don’t they take people home?”
“We can’t take the body of an unknown woman to an uninhabited bungalow.”
“It isn’t a bungalow,” the man automatically corrected. “No. No, I suppose not. But it seems dreadful—the mortuary. Oh, God in heaven above!” he burst out, “why did this have to happen!”
“Davis,” the sergeant said to the constable, “you go back with the others and report. I’m going over to—what is it?—Briars? with Mr. Tisdall.”
The two ambulance men crunched their heavy way over the pebbles, followed by Potticary and Bill. The noise of their progress had become distant before the sergeant spoke again.
“I
