to drink one large cup, then went back to hoeing his beans. Fred was a man of few words when his mind was intent upon a job of work, so Sally quickly prepared a tray and carried it into the sitting-room, where her husband had returned to his desk in the corner.
‘I suppose you wouldn’t have any idea how many ducklings we have under six months?’ he enquired.
‘Thirty-four,’ she replied without a moment’s hesitation, pulling up a small table and starting to pour out the tea. ‘Now, what’s all this about Mildred?’
He told her all about the strange disappearances of the two girls, and of the death of Barbara Willis. But he did not mention the Chief’s invitation, for he wanted to clarify the situation a litttle more in his own mind. After tea, he returned to his form-filling, while Sally fed the livestock and did a dozen other odd jobs that had accumulated during her shopping expedition.
Fred came in, washed himself, and cooked his own supper. He had a little room of his own, where he presently retired, and Wyatt suggested to Sally that they might go to the pictures in Faversham, as there was just time to catch the last house.
The main feature was one of those fast-moving American crime epics, concerning the adventures of a tough ‘private eye’, who found himself embroiled in a chain of bizarre situations of growing intensity, and remaining as tough as ever even when the girl practically threw herself into his arms for the final fade-out.
Wyatt found it quite stimulating, and as they walked to the car park he determined to tell Sally about Sir James’ proposition on the way home. But it was not until they had left the outskirts of the town behind, and he was cautiously steering the car through the dusky country lanes, that he came really to the point.
‘So that’s what was in the wind this afternoon,’ said Sally after he had finished. She made no further comment for two or three minutes. The car’s headlights picked up a young rabbit which scurried ahead of them for a hundred yards, then suddenly swerved into the hedgerow.
‘What d’you make of it, Sally?’ he asked. ‘The Chief wants you in on it, too – and I told him I wouldn’t do anything without consulting you.’
‘I’m glad of that,’ she replied. ‘Because you’re certainly not going to do anything. We’re not breaking up our happy home for the Home Secretary himself!’
‘But wait a minute, Sally,’ he began to protest, but she shook her head quite decisively.
‘You know perfectly well the doctors said you weren’t to go taking chances with that leg of yours,’ she reminded him.
‘He says he only needs my brains,’ he reminded her.
‘I dare say he says that,’ sniffed Sally, ‘but you know as well as I do that if you started in on a case, you’d always be pushing your nose into the most dangerous corners. It isn’t fair, Lionel … just as we’ve settled down so nicely here.’
Lionel Wyatt sighed. He supposed Sally would have her way, as usual. Not that there wasn’t something to be said for her point of view. A woman hankered after a settled sort of home and a husband around, not a man who was gadding all over the country and getting mixed up with unpleasant customers at every turn.
‘Well, I won’t phone the Chief till tomorrow anyhow. I reckon it won’t do any harm to sleep on it,’ he said presently, as they came to the familiar turning that led to their little farm.
‘Fred’s closed the yard gate again, damn him!’ muttered Wyatt under his breath. ‘He might have left it for me.’ He opened the car door and got out to open the gate. After he had done so, Sally saw him leave the glaring cone of the headlights and pick up something from the grass verge beside the road.
He came back to the car and switched on the dashboard light to examine his find. It was a neat lady’s leather handbag.
‘Is this yours?’ he asked.
Sally shook her head.
‘I don’t make a habit of leaving my handbags at the side of the road,’ she replied rather pertly.
‘You’ve left them in all sorts of places,’ he grinned. ‘Remember that time you left one in the witness box at the Old Bailey?’ He fumbled with the clasp of the bag and carefully opened it. The contents gave no indication of the owner; there was a lipstick, mirror, powder compact, a handkerchief, a stub of pencil and a book of stamps. He was about to replace the stamps when something caught his eye and he held the buff-coloured book closer to the light.
‘What is it?’ asked Sally.
‘There’s a name scribbled here rather faintly … “Doctor Fraser”.’
‘That’s the name Sir James mentioned, isn’t it? The one they found on the prescription belonging to Barbara Willis.’
Wyatt nodded thoughtfully and snapped the bag shut, pushing it into the cubbyhole at the end of the dashboard. He flicked off the light and drove slowly into the yard towards the disused stable they had converted into a garage. Neither of them spoke again until they were facing the garage doors, when Sally said: ‘My turn this time. I can manage the doors now since Fred put the new catch on them.’
He nodded absently and watched her pull open the heavy left-hand door. As the car’s headlights penetrated into the garage, he saw her stiffen suddenly. Then she turned, with a look of horror which seemed more ghastly in the strong glare.
‘Lionel! There’s somebody in there!’ she cried.
He leapt out of the car and rushed over to her.
‘All right, Sally – all right.’ His hand gripped her shoulder and he followed her gaze. Just within the circle of light was a woman’s foot. He could see the shape of the girl dimly; she was slumped in a far corner against a large oil drum, just beyond the range of the headlights.
‘Stay here, Sally,’ he ordered, and went over to the other end of the garage. Five minutes later, he was back.
‘She’s been strangled,’ he said quietly.
Sally caught her breath.
‘Who is she?’
Even as she asked, something seemed to tell her what he would answer.
‘This will be a bit of a shock,’ he said slowly.
‘You know her?’
‘Yes – it’s Mildred Gillow.’
His hand on her shoulder felt her recoil physically as if from a blow.
‘Poor Mildred,’ she whispered. ‘Then Sir James was right – it must be … Ariman …’
Wyatt left the car where it was, switched off the lights and closed the garage door. Immediately on entering the house they went to Fred’s room, and found him in bed, snoring heavily. With some difficulty, Wyatt woke him and asked if he had seen any strangers about during the evening.
Fred rubbed his eyes and ruffled his sandy hair thoughtfully.
‘I’ve been down in the far orchard most of the time since supper,’ he recalled sleepily. ‘Didn’t
