his enemies; yes.”
“By the police; for two murders.”
“Executions.”
“You a disciple of John Knox, Nevil?”
“Good God, no. What has that to do with it?”
“He believed in self-appointed executioners. The idea has a little ‘gone out’ in this country, I understand. Anyhow, if it’s a choice between Rosemary’s opinion of Kotovich and the opinion of the Special Branch, I’ll take the Special Branch.”
“The Special Branch only do what the Foreign Office tells them. Everyone knows that. But if I stay and explain the ramifications of the Kotovich affair to you, I shall be late for the film.”
“What film?”
“The French film I am going into Larborough to see.”
“I suppose you know that most of those French trifles that the British intelligentsia bate their breath about are considered very so-so in their own country? However. Do you think you could pause long enough to drop a note into the letter-box of The Franchise as you go by?”
“I might. I always wanted to see what was inside that wall. Who lives there now?”
“An old woman and her daughter.”
“Daughter?” repeated Nevil, automatically pricking his ears.
“Middle-aged daughter.”
“Oh. All right, I’ll just get my coat.”
Robert wrote merely that he had tried to talk to them, that he had to go out on business for an hour or so, but that he would ring them up again when he was free, and that Scotland Yard had no case, as the case stood, and acknowledged the fact.
Nevil swept in with a dreadful raglan affair over his arm, snatched up the letter and disappeared with a “Tell Aunt Lin I may be late. She asked me over to dinner.”
Robert donned his own sober grey hat and walked over to the Rose and Crown to meet his client – an old farmer, and the last man in England to suffer from chronic gout. The old man was not yet there, and Robert, usually so placid, so lazily good-natured, was conscious of impatience. The pattern of his life had changed. Up to now it had been an even succession of equal attractions; he had gone from one thing to another without hurry and without emotion. Now there was a focus of interest, and the rest revolved round it.
He sat down on one of the chintz-covered chairs in the lounge and looked at the dog-eared journals lying on the adjacent coffee table. The only current number was the Watchman, the weekly review, and he picked it up reluctantly, thinking yet once more how the dry feel of the paper offended his finger tips and its serrated edges set his own teeth on edge. It was the usual collection of protests, poems, and pedantry; the place of honour among the protests being accorded to Nevil’s future father-in-law, who spread himself for three-quarters of a column on England’s shame in that she refused sanctuary to a fugitive patriot.
The Bishop of Larborough had long ago extended the Christian philosophy to include the belief that the underdog is always right. He was wildly popular with Balkan revolutionaries, British strike committees, and all the old lags in the local penal establishment. (The sole exception to this last being that chronic recidivist, Bandy Brayne, who held the good bishop in vast contempt, and reserved his affection for the Governor; to whom a tear in the eye was just a drop of H2O, and who unpicked his most heart-breaking tales with a swift, unemotional accuracy.) There was nothing, said the old lags affectionately, that the old boy would not believe; you could lay it on with a trowel.
Normally Robert found the Bishop mildly amusing, but today he was merely irritated. He tried two poems, neither of which made sense to him, and flung the thing back on the table.
“England in the wrong again?” asked Ben Carley, pausing by his chair and jerking a head at the Watchman.
“Hullo, Carley.”
“A Marble Arch for the well-to-do,” the little lawyer said, flicking the paper scornfully with a nicotine-stained finger. “Have a drink?”
“Thanks, but I’m waiting for old Mr. Wynyard. He doesn’t move a step more than he need, nowadays.”
“No, poor old boy. The sins of the fathers. Awful to be suffering for port you never drank! I saw your car outside The Franchise the other day.”
“Yes,” said Robert, and wondered a little. It was unlike Ben Carley to be blunt. And if he had seen Robert’s car he had also seen the police cars.
“If you know them you’ll be able to tell me something I always wanted to know about them. Is the rumour true?”
“Rumour?”
“Are they witches?”
“Are they supposed to be?” said Robert lightly.
“There’s a strong support for the belief in the countryside, I understand,” Carley said, his bright black eyes resting for a moment on Robert’s with intention, and then going on to wander over the lounge with their habitual quick interrogation.
Robert understood that the little man was offering him, tacitly, information that he thought ought to be useful to him.
“Ah well,” Robert said, “since entertainment came into the country with the cinema, God bless it, an end has been put to witch-hunting.”
“Don’t you believe it. Give these midland morons a good excuse and they’ll witch-hunt with the best. An inbred crowd of degenerates, if you ask me. Here’s your old boy. Well, I’ll be seeing you.”
It was one of Robert’s chief attractions that he was genuinely interested in people and in their troubles, and he listened to old Mr. Wynyard’s rambling story with a kindness that won the old man’s gratitude – and added, although he was unaware of it, a hundred to the sum that stood against his name in the old farmer’s will – but as soon as their business was over he made straight for the hotel telephone.
There were far too many people about, and he decided to use the one in the garage over in Sin Lane. The office would be shut by now, and anyhow it was further away. And if he telephoned from the garage, so his thoughts went as he strode across the street, he would have his car at hand if she – if they asked him to come out and discuss the business further, as they very well might, as they almost certainly would – yes, of course they would want to discuss what they could do to discredit the girl’s story, whether there was to be a case or not – he had been so relieved over Hallam’s news that he had not yet come round in his mind to considering what—
“Evening, Mr. Blair,” Bill Brough said, oozing his large person out of the narrow office door, his round calm face bland and welcoming. “Want your car?”
“No, I want to use your telephone first, if I may.”
“Sure. Go ahead.”
Stanley, who was under a car, poked his fawn’s face out and asked:
“Know anything?”
“Not a thing, Stan. Haven’t had a bet for months.”
“I’m two pounds down on a cow called Bright
