he would Major Burnaby must have been deeply impressed by the spirit message. Narracott turned it over in his mind. A queer thing to happen—a very queer thing to happen. The sort of thing you couldn’t explain satisfactorily. There might be something in this spirit business after all. It was the first well-authenticated case he had come across.
A very queer business altogether but, as far as he could see, though it explained Major Burnaby’s attitude, it had no practical bearing on the case as far as he himself was concerned. He had to deal with the physical world and not the psychic.
It was his job to track down the murderer.
And to do that he required no guidance from the spirit world.
Glancing at his watch, the Inspector realized he could just catch the train for Exeter if he hurried off. He was anxious to interview the late Captain Trevelyan’s sister as soon as possible and obtain from her the addresses of the other members of the family. So, with a hurried word of farewell to Major Burnaby, he raced off to the station. The Major retraced his steps to the Three Crowns. He had hardly put a foot across the doorstep when he was accosted by a bright young man with a very shiny head and a round, boyish face.
‘Major Burnaby?’ said the young man.
‘Yes.’
‘Of No. I Sittaford Cottages?’
‘Yes,’ said Major Burnaby.
‘I represent the Daily Wire,’ said the young man, ‘and I—’
He got no further. In true military fashion of the old school, the Major exploded.
‘Not another word,’ he roared. ‘I know you and your kind. No decency. No reticence. Clustering round a murder like vultures round a carcass, but I can tell you, young man, you will get no information from me. Not a word. No story for your damned paper. If you want to know anything, go and ask the police, and have the decency to leave the friends of the dead man alone.’
The young man seemed not a whit taken aback. He smiled more encouragingly than ever.
‘I say, sir, you know you have got hold of the wrong end of the stick. I know nothing about this murder business.’
This was not, strictly speaking, the truth. No one in Exhampton could pretend ignorance of the event that had shaken the quiet moorland town to its core.
‘I am empowered on behalf of the Daily Wire,’ went on the young man, ‘to hand you this cheque for £5,000 and congratulate you on sending in the only correct solution of our football competition.’
Major Burnaby was completely taken aback.
‘I have no doubt,’ continued the young man, ‘that you have already received our letter yesterday morning informing you of the good news.’
‘Letter?’ said Major Burnaby. ‘Do you realize, young man, that Sittaford is about ten feet deep in snow? What chance do you think we have had in the last few days of a regular delivery of letters?’
‘But doubtless you saw your name announced as winner in the Daily Wire, this morning?’
‘No,’ said Major Burnaby. ‘I haven’t glanced at the paper this morning.’
‘Ah! of course not,’ said the young man. ‘This sad business. The murdered man was a friend of yours, I understand.’
‘My best friend,’ said the Major.
‘Hard lines,’ said the young man tactfully averting his eyes. Then he drew from his pocket a small folded piece of mauve paper and handed it to Major Burnaby with a bow.
‘With the compliments of the Daily Wire,’ he said.
Major Burnaby took it and said the only thing possible under the circumstances.
‘Have a drink, Mr—er—?’
‘Enderby, Charles Enderby my name is. I got here last night,’ he explained. ‘Made inquiries about getting to Sittaford. We make it a point to hand cheques to winners personally. Always publish a little interview. Interests our readers. Well, everyone told me it was out of the question—the snow was falling and it simply couldn’t be done, and then with the greatest good luck I find you are actually here, staying at the Three Crowns.’ He smiled. ‘No difficulty about identification. Everybody seems to know everybody else in this part of the world.’
‘What will you have?’ said the Major.
‘Beer for me,’ said Enderby.
The Major ordered two beers.
‘The whole place seems off its head with this murder,’ remarked Enderby. ‘Rather a mysterious business by all accounts.’
The Major grunted. He was in something of a quandary. His sentiments towards journalists remained unchanged, but a man who has just handed you a cheque for £5,000 is in a privileged position. You cannot very well tell him to go to the devil.
‘No enemies, had he?’ asked the young man.
‘No,’ said the Major.
‘But I hear the police don’t think it is robbery,’ went on Enderby.
‘How do you know that?’ asked the Major.
Mr Enderby, however, did not reveal the source of his information.
‘I hear it was you who actually discovered the body, sir,’ said the young man.
‘Yes.’
‘It must have been an awful shock.’
The conversation proceeded. Major Burnaby was still determined to give no information, but he was no match for the adroitness of Mr Enderby. The latter made statements with which the Major was forced to agree or disagree, thereby providing the information the young man wanted. So pleasant was his manner, however, that the process was really not painful at all and the Major found himself taking quite a liking to the ingenuous young man.
Presently, Mr Enderby rose and observed that he must go along to the post office.
‘If you will just give me a receipt for that cheque, sir.’
The Major went across to the writing table, wrote a receipt and handed it to him.
‘Splendid,’ said the young man and slipped it into his pocket.
‘I suppose,’ said Major Burnaby, ‘that you are off back to London today?’
‘Oh! no,’ said the young man. ‘I want to take a few photographs, you know, of your cottage at Sittaford, and of you feeding the pigs, or hoeing up the dandelions, or doing anything characteristic that you fancy. You have no idea how our readers appreciate that sort
