The door of the sitting-room must have opened, for he suddenly heard a babel of words. Mrs. Gorman and her father were both talking at once, and talking in no very friendly spirit, to judge from the tone of their voices. Of what they said, Pettigrew could distinguish one word only, which was repeated by both speakers with considerable emphasis. It was the name, “Jack”. Once more, he observed, it was the live Jack rather than the deceased Gilbert who seemed to be the centre of concern. Then he heard the sitting-room door close again, and Mrs. Gorman’s footsteps making their way across the hall and along the passage that led to the kitchen. He thought, too, that he could distinguish something very much like a sob.

The tea was brought after what in the circumstances Pettigrew could not but feel was a commendably short interval. It was a tea worth waiting for, in the true Exmoor tradition, with farmhouse scones, heather honey in the comb and clotted cream. It was brought, not by Mrs. Gorman but by Doreen, breathing heavily and biting her underlip as she manoeuvred the tray into position, with Beryl, her younger sister, in giggling attendance.

“Mum says she’s sorry she can’t bring the tea herself, but she’s a bit upset this afternoon,” said Doreen gravely.

“I’m sorry,” said Pettigrew, politely.

“Uncle Gilbert’s dead!” exclaimed Beryl from the door, in a tone that was more like a shout of triumph than anything else.

“You be quiet, Beryl!” Doreen commanded. “It’s quite true what she says,” she informed Pettigrew. “But he wasn’t a real uncle, only a sort of cousin.”

“I see,” said Pettigrew. “I’m sorry.”

“There isn’t nothing to be sorry about,” remarked Doreen coldly. “Uncle Gilbert’s been ill for ages and ages. And now he’s dead we shall get all his money, Mummy says.”

“And we shall all go away and live with Daddy and leave the ’lectric light on as much as we like,” chanted Beryl. “All day if we want to. And I shall have a bicycle and a-”

“That’s enough!” Doreen drove her sister from the room, and turned back to Pettigrew. “You’ll have to excuse Beryl,” she said. “Mum’s always on at her about gossiping to strangers, but she’s that young, she will do it. And Mum says if there’s anything else you require will you knock on the floor and I’ll come up.”

Pettigrew required nothing else except some further information to satisfy his curiosity about the Gorman family, and this was denied him. Doreen had gone some way to clear up the question of Gilbert’s identity, and he knew from Eleanor that Jack was identical with the Daddy who was expected to allow his daughters to leave the electric light on-a sidelight on Jack’s character which he had not expected. But this still left a number of questions unanswered. Pettigrew postponed their consideration until he had disposed of his tea. Eating clotted cream and honey in bed may be among the highest of human pleasures, but it demands from its votaries undivided attention if it is to be accomplished without disaster to the bed-clothes. The tray removed (by a subdued and silent Mrs. Gorman), he pondered at length the various problems raised by the evidence, and amused himself by fabricating a number of theories to account for them. Then Eleanor came in, and with her assistance the theories became progressively more and more fantastic. It was merely idle curiosity on his part. The affairs of the Gormans and their congeners could be of no conceivable interest to him. But it served to pass the time-served, too, as an excuse for shelving once more the question which, at the back of his mind, he knew would have to be faced sooner or later. He slept badly again that night.

CHAPTER VIII. An Old Friend

On Monday morning Eleanor found it necessary to go into Whitsea to shop, and after the usual business with the thermometer decreed that her husband was to stay in bed until the afternoon, when he might get up. Once more Pettigrew was left to his own devices. He demanded nothing better. It was just the opportunity he needed for some serious reading…

Despite the heroine’s initial absurdity, the thriller really turned out very well. Pettigrew laid it down at last with a satisfied smile. He had guessed the criminal correctly, though admittedly for the wrong reasons. He leaned back on his pillow and stared out of the window at the familiar shapes of Tucker’s Barrows, dark on the horizon. He had not the energy to start another, heavier book. He was not in the least sleepy. There was still some time to go before lunch. He had nothing now to divert his mind from the problem which more or less unconsciously he had been shirking ever since his wife had rescued him by the road side. Was he to go to the police with the story of what he had seen on Bolter’s Tussock, and if so, what was that story to be?

The mood of fantasy in which he had been living two days before had deserted him entirely. In his sober senses he was quite certain that he had seen what he took to be the body of a man at a particular spot, and that it had not been there on his return, perhaps three quarters of an hour later. His duty as a citizen was perfectly plain. But even as he made the resolution, he realized what it would be like endeavouring to explain to a polite but sceptical police sergeant exactly what he had done on that occasion, and why; he heard, as though he were present, the comments of Messrs. Olding and Percy when called upon-as assuredly they would be called upon-to make their statements to the officer charged with the enquiry; he saw himself labelled as a half-witted busybody sent by providence to plague a hard-worked police force; and he wondered whether his duty as a citizen really involved him in all this. After all, he had seen whatever it was that he had seen for a very short time. He was in a highly suggestible state just then. Without admitting any truth to the man Tom’s ridiculous theory, there was always the possibility that he might have been mistaken. And if it turned out that he had been, then he would simply have exposed himself to ridicule to no purpose. The temptation to save himself from all this by simply doing nothing was almost irresistible; but some stubborn element in him resisted none the less. The conflict was still unresolved when Eleanor returned.

“You’re looking much better,” she assured him.

“I am much better.”

“Well enough to eat lunch?”

“Quite well enough to eat lunch.”

“Well enough to receive a visitor?”

“That depends on the visitor,” said Pettigrew warily. “If it is the girl friend at Minster Tracy-”

“No, it’s not the girl friend.” Eleanor called over her shoulder down the stairs, “Do come up!” Then she said, “I’m leaving you together,” and disappeared.

Pettigrew began to say something, but his protest died on his lips as the open doorway was blocked by the appearance of a broad, bulky figure-a figure, once agreeably familiar, that he had not seen for more than ten years, and which now seemed broader, bulkier and more agreeable than ever.

“Inspector Mallett!” Pettigrew exclaimed. “This is a pleasure!”

“Not Inspector,” said Mallett. “Plain Mister. I retired after the war, with the rank of Superintendent. I thought you knew,” he added reproachfully.

He walked across the room with the almost silent tread that always seemed so remarkable in a man of his enormous size and sat down by the bedside. Pettigrew looked into his wide, honest, intelligent face with something approaching affection.

“Do you know,” he said, “I haven’t thought of you for years, but now you are here I believe you’re the very man I’ve been waiting to see.”

“That,” said Mallett, “seemed to be the opinion of your good lady when I met her in Whitsea this morning.”

Pettigrew could find nothing better to say than, “Oh.”

“Perhaps I shouldn’t have said that,” Mallett observed. “I’m sorry, but one loses one’s finesse, living in the country.”