can’t throw yourself into the water this time of year. You land on the beach. And there isn’t any doubt what you’ve done.”
“Might have walked into the water till she drowned,” said Bill, who was a last-ditcher by nature.
“Ye’? Might have died of an overdose of bull’s-eyes,” said Potticary, who approved of last-ditchery in Arabia but found it boring to live with.
Chapter 2.
They stood round the body in a solemn little group: Potticary, Bill, the sergeant, a constable, and the two ambulance men. The younger ambulance man was worried about his Stomach, and the possibility of its disgracing him, but the others had nothing but business in their minds.
“Know her?” the sergeant asked.
“No,” said Potticary. “Never seen her before.”
None of them had seen her before.
“Can’t be from Westover. No one would come out from town with a perfectly good beach at their doors. Must have come from inland somewhere.”
“Maybe she went into the water at Westover and was washed up here,” the constable suggested.
“Not time for that,” Potticary objected. “She hadn’t been that long in the water. Must have been drowned hereabouts.”
“Then how did she get here?” the sergeant asked.
“By car, of course,” Bill said.
“And where is the car now?”
“Where everyone leaves their car: where the track ends at the trees.”
“Yes?” said the sergeant. “Well, there’s no car there.”
The ambulance men agreed with him. They had come up that way with the police—the ambulance was waiting there now—but there was no sign of any other car.
“That’s funny,” Potticary said. “There’s nowhere near enough to be inside walking distance. Not at this time in the morning.”
“Shouldn’t think she’d walk anyhow,” the older ambulance man observed. “Expensive,” he added, as they seemed to question him.
They considered the body for a moment in silence. Yes, the ambulance man was right; it was a body expensively cared for.
“And where are her clothes, anyhow?” The sergeant was worried.
Potticary explained his theory about the clothes; that she had left them below high-water mark and that they were now somewhere at sea.
“Yes, that’s possible,” said the sergeant. “But how did she get here?”
“Funny she should be bathing alone, isn’t it?” ventured the young ambulance man, trying out his stomach.
“Nothing’s funny, nowadays,” Bill rumbled. “It’s a wonder she wasn’t playing 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
