job?’
‘With the Arts Council of Great Britain.’
Paul found that his attention was straying as the routine interviews proceeded. He ought to have been interested, as Vosper said, to watch somebody else at work. But Paul hadn’t yet acclimatised himself to the English times. In America they were hours behind and they never went to bed.
He stopped yawning when Tracy Leonard came into the room. She was tall and twenty-five and had straight brown hair. She wasn’t the type to take bullying from Charlie Vosper. She didn’t take to the bluff, fatherly manner either.
‘Mr Kelby is a historian, inspector. He needs his books and his papers, otherwise he can’t work. And he had promised Neville Chamberlain to his publisher by October.’
‘Neville Chamberlain?’ said Vosper blankly.
‘He was prime minister before the war.’
‘I know who he was, Miss Leonard! I just fail to see what Neville Chamberlain has to do with your employer’s disappearance!’
She smiled patiently, a demure advertisement for the very best toothpaste. ‘I am explaining to you that Mr Kelby cannot have left home voluntarily. He is writing a book on Neville Chamberlain, and obviously he will have done absolutely no work this week. He has to work here, among all this.’ She gestured eloquently at the muddle of the library.
Charlie Vosper took three deep breaths and composed his leathery face back into a friendly expression. ‘Well, that seems to imply that he was removed by force. After all, if he were lost or had fallen ill the local police would have found him. They’re known from here to London as the Blue Berets.’ He chuckled to prove his good nature, the policeman with a sense of humour.
‘How did you spend last Monday?’ he asked her.
‘I worked all day. I have a room in what Mr Kelby calls the east wing. It’s a room built on to the side of the house. I came through at nine o’clock and opened the post, sorted out the day’s work…’ She had worked for Kelby for several years and her routine was established.
‘When did you realise Mr Kelby was missing?’
Tracy Leonard smiled. She regarded that as a silly question. ‘He was due back from the town hall around one, and he didn’t return. If you mean when did I really become worried, that was in the evening. Ronnie Kelby and I spent half the evening doing a tour of Melford. We searched everywhere he was likely to be. And then at about ten o’clock we went to the police.’
‘Did Ronnie Kelby,’ the inspector asked surprisingly, ‘share your concern?’
‘I think so. He went for three hours without making a pass at me.’
‘How galling for you.’
‘It’s like having fleas, you don’t notice them after a while.’
Tracy Leonard had been one of Kelby’s brightest students; she had stayed on to do research with him when all her contemporaries had taken jobs as schoolteachers, and she had given up university life when Kelby had. She thought he was a great historian.
‘Have you any idea why he would have been taken by force?’
‘I assume somebody wanted to get their hands on that diary.’
‘What diary?’
‘The diary that Scott Reed left with him on Monday morning. It seemed to be an important historical document.’
Charlie Vosper rose slowly to his feet. ‘You didn’t tell me anything about a diary.’
‘You didn’t ask me. It was apparently rather valuable.’
Paul intervened tactfully to save the girl from the massive wrath of the law. ‘Rather scandalous, actually. I should think a lot of people would give a lot to have it suppressed.’
‘You knew about this?’ Charlie shouted.
‘I assumed everybody knew.’
Charlie Vosper was turning a terrible shade of mauve.
*
‘No, he wasn’t shouting, Mrs Ashwood. The inspector has one of those voices that carries a long way.’ Paul Temple lifted the ladle to his lips and tasted the stew. ‘Especially when he’s angry. This is a stew like they used to make it in the depths of the country, Mrs A.’
‘Mr Kelby is very partial to it, sir.’
‘I’m not surprised.’ Paul continued his approving tour of the kitchen. ‘How long have you been with Mr Kelby?’
‘Oh, it must be more than ten years now. Leo and I moved in when Mrs Kelby was taken ill. That was a sad time for Mr Kelby and he found he needed help. He’s such a good man. We did everything we could to keep this a home for him, especially after she died. Do you think he’ll be all right?’
‘I trust so, Mrs Ashwood. I really hope so.’ She was a large, motherly woman and she was clearly devoted to her employer. Paul sensed the grief that such disruptions of normal domesticity can cause; suddenly Kelby was a human being and it mattered that he should be well.
‘Is Leo your husband?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘I saw him working in the grounds.’
‘He’s a hard worker. It takes his mind off the trouble. Leo is more like a friend of Mr Kelby than just the handyman.’ She allowed a brief laugh to ripple through her ample body. ‘Mr Kelby always says that Leo taught him to be a countryman. They’re very close.’
It was relaxing in the kitchen. Gladys Ashwood lived in a nice world of nice people. She was sympathetic about Mr Ronnie. ‘Well, he was devoted to his mother. Her death was such a blow that he needed somebody to blame. He blamed Mr Kelby. But they’ve made it up now. Mr Kelby was so pleased that his son came home the other week. There’s even talk of Mr Ronnie staying…’ She liked Tracy Leonard: ‘Such a brilliant girl and ever so much the lady. She’s been here for nearly five years…’ None of these nice people would ever harm Mr Kelby. The only person she had bad words to say about was Ted Mortimer.
‘I feel responsible in a way,’ she was saying. ‘Ted Mortimer used to be very close with my husband and me. We used to see a lot of him. But he’s not a countryman. He was in the merchant navy.’
Paul was drinking a cup of tea she had poured him and he scarcely heard her story about the row Kelby had with the neighbouring farmer. ‘Mr Kelby was going over there on Monday afternoon,’ she said, and the words registered with a sudden shock.
‘What did you say, Mrs Ashwood?’
‘To see Ted Mortimer. He was going over to Galloway Farm—’
‘Did he ever arrive?’
‘I couldn’t say.’
‘What was their row about?’
‘I wouldn’t
