Kirk, as delicately as he could, asked whether Joe had said anything to his wife about his quarrel with Noakes.

Well, no, not exactly. All he’d said was, that Mr Noakes wouldn’t listen to nothing and it was all up. He wouldn’t answer no questions-seemed regular fed-up like. Then he’d suddenly said he thought the best thing would be to chuck everything and go out to his elder brother in Canada, and would she go with him? She’d said. Why goodness gracious, Joe, surely Mr Noakes wasn’t going to tell on him after all this long while-it’d be a wicked shame, and after he’d paid all that money! Joe had only said gloomily. Well, you’ll see tomorrow. And then he’d sat with his head in his hands, and there wasn’t nothing to be got out of him. Next day they heard that Mr Noakes had gone away. She had been afraid he’d gone to Broxford to tell on Joe; but nothing happened, and Joe cheered up a bit. And then this morning, she heard Noakes was dead, and she was that thankful, you couldn’t think. But now Joe had gone off somewhere and Martha Ruddle came in with her talk-and since Mr Kirk had found out about the note-case, she supposed it had all come out, and oh, dear, what was she to do and where was Joe?

None of this was very comforting to Kirk. It would have cheered him up a good deal to learn that Sellon had spoken frankly to his wife about the quarrel. And he didn’t at all like the reference to the brother in Canada. If Sellon really bad done away with Noakes, he would have had about as much chance of escaping to Canada as of being made king of the Cannibal Islands, and reflection must have told him so; but that his first blind impulse should have been to flee the country was unpleasantly significant. It occurred to Kirk, incidentally, that whoever did the murder must have been going through a pretty trying time. For it seemed very unlikely that he or she had thrown Noakes down the cellar steps-else why was the door left open? The murderer, having clubbed Noakes and left him for dead, would have expected-what? Well, if he had done it in the sittingroom or the kitchen or any room downstairs, the body might have been seen the next time anyone happened to look in at the windows-Mrs Ruddle, or the postman, or an inquisitive lad from the village, or the vicar, on one of his visits. Or Aggie Twitterton might have come over to see her uncle. At any moment the discovery might have been made. Some poor devil (Kirk really felt a passing twinge of pity for the culprit) had been sitting for a whole week on the safety-valve, wondering! At any rate, the body must have been found the next Wednesday (that was today) because of Crutchley’s weekly attendance. If, of course, the murderer knew about that, as he or she was bound to do; unless the crime could be traced to a passing tramp or somebody-and what a good thing if it could!

(While thinking this out. Kirk was talking soothingly in his slow speech, saying that something unexpected might have called Joe away; he had sent a man out to hunt him up: a constable in uniform couldn’t very well get lost; it didn’t do to imagine things.)

It was queer that Sellon… Yes, by God, thought Kirk, that was queer; queerer than he cared to think about. He must take that away and chew it over. He couldn’t think properly, with Mrs Sellon’s lamenting voice in his ears… And the time didn’t fit, because Crutchley had been over an hour in the house before the body was discovered. If Joe Sellon had been hanging round there at, say, eleven o’clock instead of past twelve. Coincidence. He breathed again.

Mrs Sellon was wailing on. ‘We were that surprised when Willy Abbot come up with the milk this morning, to hear as a gentleman had taken Talboys. We didn’t know rightly what to make of it. I said to Joe, “Surely,” I said, “Mr Noakes wouldn’t go away like that and let the house”-because, of course, we thought he’d let it like he often done before-”not without letting someone know,” I said. And Joe looked awful excited. I said, “D’you suppose he’s gone off somewhere?” I said. “It looks queer to me,” I said, and he said, “I don’t know, but I’ll soon find out.” And off he went. And he came in afterwards and wouldn’t hardly swallow his breakfast, and he said, “I can’t hear nothing,” he said, “only there’s a lady and gentleman come and Noakes ain’t turned up,” he said. And he went out again, and that’s the last I see of him.’

Well. thought Kirk, that puts the lid on. He’d forgotten the Wimseys, coming in and upsetting everything. Though he was not an imaginative man, he could see Sellon, startled by hearing that there was someone in the house, rushing out to learn the news, perplexed beyond expression by the fact that no body had been found, not daring to go and make open inquiries, but hovering round the house, manufacturing excuses for talking to Bert Ruddle-and he didn’t like the Ruddles-waiting, waiting for the summons he knew must come, to him, to the only man in authority, hoping that the people in the house would leave it to him to examine the corpse, remove all evidences-

Kirk wiped his forehead, saying apologetically that he felt the room a little hot. He did not hear Mrs Sellon’s reply; he was imagining again.

What the murderer (better not call him Sellon), what the murderer found in that house was-not a helpless pair of London holiday-makers, not some vague artistic couple without practical common sense, not some pleasant retired schoolmistress coming to the country to enjoy a few weeks of fresh air and fresh eggs, but-a duke’s son who cared for no man and knew exactly where the local bobby got off, who had investigated more murders than Paggleham had known in four centuries, whose wife wrote detective stories, and whose manservant was here, there and everywhere on swift and silent feet. But supposing, just supposing, the first people who arrived had been Aggie Twitterton and Prank Crutchley-as in rights they ought to have been? Even a local bobby could do as be liked with them; take charge, turn them out of the house, arrange things as he chose-

Kirk’s wits were slow-moving, but when they took hold of a thing they worked with an efficiency which dismayed their owner.

He was trying to make some sort of commonplace rejoinder to Mrs Sellon, when there was the sound of a motor-cycle drawing up at the gate. Looking out of the window, he saw it was Police-Sergeant Hart with Joe Sellon behind him, like two knights templars on one mount.

‘Well!’ said Kirk, with a cheerfulness he was far from feeling, ‘here’s Joe back, anyhow, safe and sound.’

But he didn’t like the beaten, exhausted look on Sellon’s face as Hart steered him up the little garden path. And he didn’t look forward to questioning him.

Chapter XII. Potluck

Superintendent Kirk was spared the greater part of his ordeal; Sellon was in no fit state for undergoing a long interrogation. Sergeant Hart had picked up his trail in Pillington, where he had ridden through on his bicycle about half-past six. Then a girl was found who had seen a policeman following the field path on foot in the direction of Blackraven Wood-a favourite resort of ramblers and children during the summer months. She had particularly noticed him, because it was an unusual place in which to see a uniformed policeman. Following, as he said. this indication, Hart had found Sellon’s bicycle propped against a hedge near the entrance to the path. He had hastened in pursuit rather uneasy when he remembered that the little wood ran down to the bank of the Pagg. It was darkish by that time, and quite dark among the trees. With the aid of his torch, he had searched about for some time, calling as loudly as he could. After about three-quarters of an hour (he admitted that it had seemed a lot longer) he came upon Sellon, sitting on a fallen tree. He wasn’t doing anything-just sitting. Seemed dazed-like. Hart asked him what on earth he thought he was about, but could get no sense out of him. He told him, pretty sharply, that he must come along at once-the Super was asking for him. Sellon offered no objection, but came without protest. Asked again what brought him there, he said he was ‘trying to think things out’. Hart-who knew no details of the Paggleham affair-could make neither head nor tail of him; he didn’t think he was fit to be trusted to ride back alone, and therefore took him up on the carrier and brought him straight home. Kirk said he couldn’t have done better.