‘Not a soul,’ yawned Fred. ‘But there was a phone call for you – not that I could make much sense of it. Some feller said he’d got an important message for you, so I said I’d give it you when you came in. But you couldn’t call it much of a message, at least, not to my way of thinking.’
‘What did he say, Fred?’
Fred yawned again.
‘As far as I could make out, all this cove said was: “Present my compliments to Mr Wyatt. The name is Mr Rossiter”.’
It was well after midnight before Wyatt and Sally were able to get to bed. They had had to contact the local police, who had removed the body of Mildred Gillow to the mortuary. Fortunately, Wyatt had been on friendly terms with the constable at the village police station for some considerable time, but even so, the sergeant who came over from Faversham was inclined to query some of his statements. Quite understandably, he found it difficult to believe that Mr and Mrs Wyatt could discover the body of an old friend in their garage without having at least a clue as to how it had got there.
In the end it was Sally who suggested that her husband should ring up Sir James. The sergeant pricked up his ears, and Wyatt was bound to explain to him:
‘She means my old chief at the Yard – the Assistant Commissioner.’
The sergeant was obviously impressed as Wyatt picked up the receiver and gave the familiar number. As he had expected, Sir James had left his office, but Wyatt eventually managed to get his home telephone number from one of the inspectors on night duty, whom he had known slightly some years previously.
When Wyatt broke the news to Sir James, the familiar voice positively crackled, so they could hear it all over the room.
‘You’ve got to come in on this case, Wyatt … you’ve simply got to … and there’s no time to lose.’
Wyatt looked across at Sally questioningly. She reached over and took the receiver from him.
‘All right, Sir James,’ she said quietly. ‘You can count us in.’
At ten o’clock next morning Wyatt and Sally were heading west, bound for the fishing village of Shorecombe. Wyatt had persuaded Sir James that a trip up there was a very necessary item in their plan of campaign.
They found there was no hotel in the place; the best accommodation they could get was at a not unattractive inn called the Silver Fleet, which catered for a certain number of visitors during the summer months. Their room was rather cramped, but very clean, and they both rather enjoyed the friendly atmosphere of the saloon bar down below, where the fishermen mingled with local shopkeepers and a sprinkling of visitors. Wyatt got on well with Fred Johnson, the landlord, a jovial type of Yorkshireman in the early fifties, who was quite ready to discuss the recent tragedy, though he could throw no light on it. He did, however, vouch for the character of Bill Tyson, the fisherman who was with Hugo Linder when they discovered the body.
‘I’ve known old Bill best part of thirty years,’ he informed Wyatt. ‘Straight as a line – asks favours of no man. I’d trust ’im wi’ me last bottle of Napoleon brandy.’
Wyatt smiled. He intended to see Bill Tyson himself sometime, but he felt now that perhaps he would not learn very much. However, it would be interesting to hear his version of the discovery of Barbara Willis. They were in their room the morning after their arrival, when Fred Johnson suddenly appeared in his shirt-sleeves to announce that Hugo Linder was down below, asking if he could have a word with them.
‘You could see him in the back parlour if you like,’ volunteered the landlord.
‘Thanks,’ nodded Wyatt, ‘will you tell him we’ll be down almost at once?’
They found that Hugo Linder was a typical Scandinavian, with fair hair and Nordic profile, a profile marred only by a slightly twisted nose, which, they learned later, was the result of amateur boxing activities in his college days.
‘I got your message, Mr Wyatt,’ he began, after introducing himself, ‘so I thought I’d come round right away. I’ve just been reading this morning’s paper about the other girl being found, and it seems to me there’s no time to be lost.’
Wyatt nodded, and went on to ask him a series of questions about the discovery of the body of Barbara Willis. These revealed nothing new, but they helped Wyatt to get all the details firmly fixed in his mind.
‘And what about Mr Tyson?’ he asked at length. ‘Was he upset when he saw the body in the water?’
‘We were both upset. One moment we were laughing and joking, and the next we were struggling to get that girl out of the net.’
Linder spoke perfect English, but there was just the faintest trace of his Norwegian origins in his intonation.
‘Did you know it was Barbara Willis?’ asked Sally.
‘No, I hadn’t the slightest idea who it was. But Tyson recognized her at once. He had been reading all about her, and her photo had been in his paper for several days.’
Wyatt put his empty glass on the mantelpiece, and said: ‘How long are you staying here, Mr Linder?’
The young Norwegian frowned thoughtfully.
‘Perhaps another two or three weeks. I am usually here for a month at this time of year – it’s my annual holiday. I rent a small, furnished cottage over on Fallow Cliff, not far from Bill Tyson’s place. My home, of course, is in London.’
‘What part of London?’ idly queried Sally.
‘St John’s Wood.’
Wyatt continued pleasantly:
‘I was hoping that Tyson could have come along with you. Maybe I’ll walk over and see him later on.’
Linder smiled.
‘I’m afraid poor old Tyson does not like answering questions, and he’s had rather a lot just lately. You may find him a little difficult to handle, Mr Wyatt. He was quite rude to that other fellow.’
‘What other fellow?’ demanded Wyatt at once.
‘Why the man who came over from Teignmouth. I think his name was Knight.’
‘Knight?’ repeated Sally. ‘Wasn’t that the man who was engaged to Barbara Willis?’
‘That’s right,’ nodded Wyatt.
‘Then I suppose it was understandable that he should be curious about his fiancée’s death,’ said Linder. ‘He drove over from Teignmouth yesterday morning. He seemed most anxious to know what actually happened when we discovered the body.’
‘You say Bill Tyson lives near you at Fallow Cliff?’ persisted Wyatt. Linder
