“But Miss Coleman hasn't come home.”
“Seemingly she bain't hungry enow yet.”
“How far did you chase her?”
“'Bout as fur as my bull chased a nosy gov'mint inspector as come poking around my dairy last year.”
“Not far, then,” Alec guessed with assumed indifference, hoping Tumbelow was not too obviously scanning the horizon for the bull. “What did you do after that?”
“Went to bring the cows in for milking, di'n't I, seeing my cowman wants his Sundays off nowadays and there's no other help to be got for love nor money, thanks to the bloody gov'mint's bloody war. A fine mess they made o' the world, if you ask me. They takes your money and what do you get? A lot o' dead soldiers, and a lot o' live bluebottles buzzing around where they bain't wanted!”
At a twitch of Coleman's finger, the dog began to rise slowly from its crouch, hackles bristling, a low rumble starting in its throat. Alec hurriedly decided he had enough information to begin checking the farmer's movements the previous day.
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Coleman,” he said. “I must ask you to let the police know at once if your daughter returns home, and we will inform you if we find her. I should add that it was not Mrs. Coleman's cousin who reported her absence to us, so you have no bone to pick with either lady.”
He and the sergeant beat a retreat with more haste than dignity. Tumbelow nobly let Alec lead the way, in spite of which the sergeant arrived back at the farmyard with both his ankles and the seat of his trousers intact. Either the farmer or his dog had more sense than to implement the threat of violence against the police.
Whether he had been equally restrainedâor unsuccessfulâwith regard to his daughter and her seducer was another matter.
Alec could only hope his parting words would save Mrs. Coleman from further bruising. He rather doubted it. He decided to have a
word with Puckle on the subject when he got back to Westcombe, though it was no business of Scotland Yard's and police intervention was in any case unlikely to do any good. The woman would never press assault charges against her husband. If he were fined, the financial loss would be equally hers; if he were imprisoned, how was she to run the farm without him?
“Back to HQ, sir?” asked Tumbelow, following Alec around the house.
“No, to the byre, or cow shed, or whatever it is. I want a word with the cowman if he's about.”
The milking shed was unoccupied, but through a door at the back they entered the dairy. Though the interior was cleaner than the dilapidated exterior of the building had led Alec to expect, he suspected it might not have satisfied the unfortunate government inspector. An elderly dairy-maid, her grey hair tucked up under a scarlet kerchief, was scrubbing out a butter-churn.
Alec introduced himself and the sergeant. “Milking time's over, is it?” he asked.
“Nay. They be just a-coming up.”
“Same time every day?”
“Aye. Cows be creeturs o' habit.”
“Even on a Sunday, eh?”
She looked at him with scorn. “Don't make no odds what day o' the week. You try telling a cow 'tis the Sabbath! When her udder's full, she wants milking.”
“And you work every day?”
“That I do. Not like some. There's three o' the beasties won't let another pair o' hands touch âem but mine, and what the master'll do when I'm too old for milking, I'm sure I don't know. The young girls don't stay down on the farm these days. Ifn they doesn't wed, they runs off to town for a job as gives 'em Sundays off.”
“So this time yesterday, the herd came in for milking?”
“That they did, wi' the master driving 'em acos that sluggard Barney Ridd's done took into his noddle to lie abed Sundays like a townsman.”
Alec glanced at his wrist-watch. Nearly five. He looked around the dairy. Among the milk cans, milking pails, churn, butter-moulds and other equipment less identifiable to a townsman, he saw no clock. “How do you know it was the usual time?”
The old woman's scorn redoubled. “Acos cows that's kept waiting past their time do be fair betwattled,” she said, “and yest'day they wasn't. And now I hears 'em coming and I've me work to do.” She took two pails from the shelf and stumped out to the milking shed.
The two policemen went after her. The yard was now full of lowing cattle, black and white, red, yellowish, every hue of the bovine spectrum. The last of the herd of a score or so were just emerging from the lane.
“My bike!” moaned Tumbelow, as a passing cow nuzzled the handlebars.
The yokel trudging in the rear gave her a whack on the rump with his stick and she ambled onward. The two dogs at his heels seemed to have little to do, the cows being eager for the relief of emptying swollen udders. As the first couple reached the shed, they headed for their accustomed places.
Hurrying out before they were boxed in, Alec and the sergeant picked their way around the side of the yard.
“Mr. Ridd,” said Alec, when they were close enough to the cowman to be heard over the mooing, “I'd like a word with you.”
“Ar?”
Barney Ridd was no more curious than the dairy-maid about why the police were interested in the habits of cows. He was as convinced as she had been that his charges had been milked at the usual time the previous day, though for a different reason: If they had been early, then they would have been desperate for relief this morning, which they were not. “This dang Summer Time the dang gov'mint invented” meant that milking time was now five o'clock morning and afternoon in the summer months, the cows being unwilling to obey the clock.
“How long does it take to bring them from the pasture?”
Ridd shrugged. “'Pends which field they'm in and how fast they feels like walking.”
“Yesterday?”
“Didn't ought to've took more nor half an hour. Less, most like. 'Sides, the master sets the dogs after 'em if they slows down.”
If Coleman had been a couple of miles away at three, pushing Enderby off the cliff, he had had plenty of time to get to the meadow where the cows had been grazing and bring them up to the milking shed by five.
U
ndeterred by dark clouds threatening more rain, and by the fact that their creations never survived more than a few hours, Belinda and Deva were hard at work on yet another castle. Daisy, relaxing in a deck-chair Peter Anstruther had obligingly carried down to the beach for her, tried to concentrate on a new library book.
Her mind wandered.
Anstruther was still a suspect. Though Alec hadn't been able to tell her much in that sneaky Inspector Mallow's presence, he surely would have let her know if their host was exonerated. This afternoon, Anstruther and Cecily both seemed preoccupied, not exactly worried but their thoughts elsewhere. At least they themselves were still here, unlike Donald Baskin.
Daisy had returned from the parish hall to find that Baskin had departed, his knapsack on his back. He'd told the girls he was off on an afternoon's hike with his picnic tea, as he'd mentioned to Daisy he might. But she remembered that he had arrived in Westcombe with all his possessions in the knapsack. Suppose he had quietly packed up again and scarpered?
He had come in search of George Enderby, that seemed indisputable. Foreseeing a possible opportunity to give the dastard his
comeuppance, Baskin might well have used a false name, in which case the police would find it near impossible to trace him.
So, ought Daisy to go and tell them he had gone off again? She tried to weigh the pros and cons.
Baskin had originally intended to leave today, satisfied with having accomplished what he came for. He had seen most of the countryside hereabouts, he had hurried to explain. Had he stayed on just to give the girls a treat, or to watch where the police investigation was heading? If the latter, why should he decamp now? Nothing suggested they were about to single him out from the list of suspects.
Daisy tried to remember what Alec had said about Baskin's apparent reactions on hearing Enderby was dead. No, she thought, not that he was dead, but that he had fallen from the cliff. First, believing Enderby to be injured, he had seemed frustrated, or rather, as though he didn't know what to do next. Suppose he had planned to give Enderby a thrashing, why should he care that his goal was thwarted since someone else had done the job for him? But if he had planned to kill him, the injuries would complicate matters since Enderby would be under medical care. He might well be unsure as to what was now his best course of action.
On the other hand, Enderby's death meant he did not have to go through with the planned murder. Small wonder if he had been relieved!
Daisy found herself faced with the conclusion that Baskin had come to Westcombe to discover whether the landlord of the Schooner really was the man he was after, and if so to kill him. And that led her right back to the question of whether he had in fact pushed Enderby over, which could account equally well for his relief on hearing he was dead, not merely injured.
Before Daisy had time to work out whether she was indulging in circular reasoningâan error not unknown to herâor ought to tell Alec that Baskin had left, Peter Anstruther arrived.
“Not the best of weather for lounging on the beach, I'm afraid,”
he said. “Ceci sent me to ask if you'd like me to carry down your tea on a tray, but I expect you'd rather come back to the house.”
“I don't know. The girls are having a wonderful time. I'm sure they'd rather have sand in their sandwiches than have to wash and change and brush their hair.”
Looking down the beach, he laughed. “They are in the middle of an ambitious project, aren't they? When I was a boy, my mother used to have the greatest difficulty getting me to come in for meals.”
“The house was your father's?” Daisy asked, then suddenly couldn't recall whether that was a scrap of information she ought not to know. That was always a risk with eavesdropping.
But for all Anstruther knew, his wife had told her. “Yes,” he said, sitting down on a nearby rock. “My grandfather did well enough as a skilled craftsman with one of the local shipbuilders to build himself a cottage here. The business was booming in those days, but Westcombe isn't a deep enough port to build the modern big ships. My father went into the Coast Guard. He enlarged the house when he married. I've lived here all my life.”
“I envy you. It's a beautiful place.”
“It's wonderful to come home to after months at seaâyears during the Warâbut that's the trouble.” He sighed. “I've been at sea the greater part of the last twenty years.”
“Trouble?” Daisy said sympathetically.
“My poor Ceci! She's never complained, so I didn't realize how lonely she's been. You're too kind to condemn her for ⦠for what happened, but she can't go on living here among people who know. That's what I was thinking about up at the old fort yesterday, trying to work out what to do for the best. I just needed to get away somewhere quiet where I could think! Obviously, that bastâsorry, that dastard of an inspector didn't believe me.”
“Oh, Mallow didn't believe Mr. Baskin's story, either. At a guess, he never believes anything anyone says, on principle. Of course, the police have to be sceptical, but you needn't worry that Alec automatically
disbelieves what he's told. Did you come to any conclusions about what to do next?”
“The first step is obvious. I'm already working at a letter applying for a shore job. Gunnery instructor, with luck, not a glorified clerk. It may mean I don't get my commission, which I was hoping for next voyage, but it can't be helped.”
“Will you miss the sea?”
“There'll be plenty of short sails. You can't teach a man to shoot from a ship if he don't go to sea.”
“I suppose not.”
“Then, once I find out where I'm posted, I'll have to sell the house. I can't deny it'll be a wrench, but if I can't live here, there's no point hanging on to it. It's not as if I've stopped in this corner of Devon all my life. I know how to get on anywhere in the world. We'll be all right and tight.”
“I'm sure you will. You seem to have had a productive session of sweet silent thought.”
Anstruther looked blank. “A what?”
“Sorry! It's a bit of Shakespeare, I think. Poetry, anyway, and misquoted, and the reverse of relevant if I remember the next line correctly. I just meant you came to a lot of decisions while you were at the camp.”
“Actually, I'd pretty much decided all that already. It was more a matter of thinking things through, taking a look at possible consequences, making sure I'd decided right. And, to tell the truth, I was in two minds what to do about Enderby. The temptation to give him a good hiding was nearly irresistible.”
“Nearly?”
Standing up, Anstruther paced restlessly, one fist smacking into the other hand, while he explained. “It would have done more harm than good, wouldn't it? Drawn more attention to Ceci, confirmed in people's minds that what Stebbins said was true, perhaps got me thrown out of the Navy. I'd almost made up my mind the game
wasn't worth the candle, but the temptation was still there, I can't deny it. It's just as well for us that someone else got to him first, and more lethally than I'd ever contemplated.” He stopped and looked straight at Daisy. “I didn't kill him.”
“I'm quite prepared to believe you, or the girls and I would have left your house by now. But Alec needs evidence.”
He smiled. “I'm cheered by the thought that the chief inspector hasn't moved out, either. What about tea?”
Daisy glanced at Bel and Deva, still absorbed in their building. “We'll have it down here, if it's really not too much trouble and if it doesn't start raining.”
“Right you are. Thank you for letting me get that off my chest, Mrs. Fletcher.” He sketched a salute and turned towards the house.
All very well, Daisy thought: She was indeed prepared to believeâeven inclined to believeâthat Anstruther hadn't killed Enderby, but that wasn't quite the same thing as actually believing. He produced lots of good reasons for not pursuing vengeance, but had he really thought better of it? On the other hand, would he be calmly making plans for his and Cecily's future if there was a possibility that he might at any moment be arrested for killing his wife's lover?
“What's done is done,” he had said. “No use crying over spilt milk.” Did that philosophy enable him to continue coolly with his life as though he had not committed murder?
He had means, opportunity, and a strong motive. Not that means was an important indicator in this case. If Enderby had been close enough to the edge of the cliff and taken by surprise, practically anyone could have pushed him over.
How close to the edge had the jacket and earring been found? Daisy wished she had thought to ask Miss Bellamy. As for taking the victim by surprise, Georgie Porgie would have been on the alert the instant he caught sight of Anstruther, his known enemy. Baskin would have had a much better chance of getting close to Enderby, who had no reason to suppose him an ill-wisher.
Where Donald Baskin was concerned, motive was the sticking
point. Daisy could not forget his mutter in the dark garden: “That settles it! The man's a cad and a bounder and he's got to be stopped.” It sounded as if what they had overheard about Enderby and Cecily had been the last straw, making Baskin decide to act. But what were the rest of the straws burdening the proverbial camel? Impossible to believe that the mild schoolmaster was actually a maniac who went around righting other people's wrongs by murder!
Daisy sighed. She wasn't getting anywhere. Besides, for all she knew, by now Alec might have found witnesses to give both men alibis, or proof that Stebbins or Coleman was the murderer. Or he might have found Coleman's daughter and received from her an eyewitness report. She wished she had an excuse to go and ask him.
A drop of rain splotched the open page of her book. Quickly she closed it and tucked it into her bag. No tea on the beach today. She managed to lever herself out of the deck-chair. As she straightened, she looked towards Bel and Deva and saw that Sid had arrived upon the scene.
He looked very much more respectable since his night in the washhouse gaol. Though his feet were still bare, the trousers of dark brown duck had no visible holes. His shirt, a green and brown check, was collarless, but he wore a red handkerchief around his neck. It clashed abominably with the pink and purple band of the Panama Belinda had given him. Beneath its brim, the stubbled chin and shy, innocent eyes were the same. His hair was short and neat, though. Mrs. Puckle must have trimmed his mane. He didn't have his cart with him, but he had brought something to give the children.
Sid the beachcomber was Sid Coleman, the farmer's brother and thus uncle to the vanished Olive. Might Olive have taken refuge in his shack? Surely Alec wouldn't mind if she asked.
Daisy walked down the beach. The rain was spitting down now, and it was time to go in to tea. The girls skipped towards her, each adorned with a necklace of shells and feathers strung on fishing line.
“Look, Mummy! Sid made these for us. Isn't he clever? It'll be perfect with my Red Indian costume you brought me from America.”
Behind them, Sid beamed and nodded, took out his mouth-organ and played a snatch of “Widdecombe Fair.”
Deva pulled a face. “My ayah,” she said softly, “would say only an Untouchable would wear such rubbish.”
At least she spoke softly. Some of Belinda's care for other people's feelings had rubbed off on her. “How nice of Sid,” said Daisy. “I hope you both thanked him.”
“Of course, Mummy.”
“Good. Then collect your things and go on up to the house for tea, before you get any wetter. If that's possible. I'll be with you in a moment. I just want to ask Sid a question.”
Sid cocked his head with an enquiring look. Then his gaze moved beyond Daisy. His face convulsed with fright and he took to his heels.
“Sid!”
He scuttled on, heading for his cart, which he'd left on the track a short way up the hill, Daisy saw.
Turning, she found Peter Anstruther approaching. He was in civvies but had on his RN cap, presumably the first thing that came to hand to keep his hair dry. He stared after Sid. “What's up with him? He's never been afraid of me before.”
“Perhaps it's your headgear. He's probably afraid of any uniform since Constable Puckle hauled him off to the clink for the night.”
“Puckle arrested Sid? What on earth for?”
As they followed the girls back up the beach, Daisy told him about Sid's brush with Mrs. Hammett and the law.
“Meddlesome old biâwitch,” he said with the easy tolerance of one rarely present to be meddled with. He stopped to fold the deck-chair. “This is what I came down for, to help you with the chair. Ceci was sure you'd not want tea on the beach in this rain, not that it's what we'd call rain at sea.” Deck-chair in one hand, his other under her elbow to help her through the rocks, he went on, “Fred Puckle's not a bad chap, a bit slow, but when Ellen Hammett gets on her high horse, it's easier to knuckle under.”