“The crucial drawings and formulas have always been kept in the safe,” Fabian explained. “As you can see, everything is stowed away under lock and key. And pray spare a kind thought for my window shutter, so witheringly dismissed by dear old Douglas.”

It was, Alleyn thought, an extremely workmanlike job. “And, I can assure you,” Fabian added, “it has not been fiddled with.” He sat on the bench and began to talk about their work. “It’s a magnetic fuse for anti-aircraft shells,” he said. “The shell is made of non-ferrous metal and contains a magnetically operated fuse which will explode the shell when it approaches an aircraft engine, or other metallic object. It will, we hope, be extremly useful at high altitudes where a direct hit is almost impossible. Originally I got the idea from a magnetic mine which, as of course you know, explodes in the magnetic field surrounding steel ships. Now, even though it contains a good deal of alloy, an aeroplane engine must, of necessity, also contain an appreciable amount of steel and, in addition, there’s a magnetic field from ignition coils. Our fuse is very different from the fuse in a magnetic mine but it’s a kind of second cousin in that it’s designed to explode a shell in the aeroplane’s magnetic field. As a matter of fact,” said Fabian with a glint in his eye, ”if it comes off, and it will come off, I believe, it’ll be a pretty big show.”

“Of course it will. Very big indeed. There’s one question I’d like to ask. What about ‘prematures’ by attraction to the gun itself, or explosion in transit?”

“There’s a safety device incorporated in the doings and it sees to it that the fuse won’t do its stuff until the shell starts to rotate and after it leaves the gun barrel. The result, in effect, is an aerial magnetic mine. I’ll show you the blueprints on presentation of your official card,” Fabian ended with a grin.

“I should be enormously interested. But not to-night if you don’t mind. I’ve still a job of work to do.”

“In that case, I’ll escort you back to your room, first making sure that no adventuresses lurk under the benches. Shall we go?”

Back in Alleyn’s room Fabian lit a cigarette at a candle, and gave his guest one of his sidelong glances. “Any good,” he asked, “or rotten?”

“The discussion?”

“Yes. Post-mortem. Inquest. Was it hopelessly stupid to do it?”

“I don’t think so.”

“To-morrow, I suppose, you’ll talk to the Johns family and the men and so on.”

“If I may.”

“We’re crutching. You’ll be able to see the set-up. It’s pretty much the same. All except—”

“Yes?” asked Alleyn as he paused.

“The press is new. I couldn’t stomach that. It’s the same kind, though.”

“I’ll just turn up there if I may.”

“Yes. O.K. I don’t know if you’re going to keep our unearthly hours. Please don’t if you’d rather not. Breakfast at a quarter to six.”

“Of course.”

“Then I’ll take you over to the shed. You’ll ask me for anything you want?”

“I just want a free hand to fossick. I’d be grateful if I could be disregarded.”

“Not very easy, I’m afraid. But of course you’ll have a free hand. I’ve told the men and Ducky and everybody that you’ll be talking to them.”

“How did they like that?”

“Quite keen. It’s given a fillip to the ever-popular murder story. Damned ghouls! There’ll be one or two snags, though. Wilson, the wool sorter, and Jack Merrywether, the presser, are not at all keen. Your friend Sub-Inspector Jackson got badly offside with both of them. And there’s Tommy Johns.”

“The boy’s father?”

“Yes. He’s a difficult chap, Tommy. I get on with him all right. He thinks for himself, does Tommy, and what’s more,” said Fabian with a grin, “he thinks much like me, politically, so I consider him a grand guy. But he’s difficult. He resented Flossie’s handling of young Cliff and small blame to him. And what he thinks of police methods! You won’t find him precisely come-to-ish.”

“And the boy himself?”

“He’s all right, really. He’s a likely lad, and he thinks for himself, too. We’re good friends, young Cliff and I. I lend him the New Statesman and he rebuilds the government, social customs and moral standards of mankind on a strictly non-economic basis two or three times a week. His music is really good, I believe, though I’m afraid it’s not getting much of a run these days. I’ve tried to induce him to practise on the Bechstein over here but he’s an obstinate young dog and won’t.”

“Why?”

“It was Flossie’s.”

“So the quarrel went deep?”

“Yes. It’s lucky for young Cliff that he spent the crucial time screwing Bach out of that haggard old mass of wreckage in the annex. Everybody knew about the row and his bolt down-country afterwards. Your boy-friend, the Sub-Inspector, fastened on it like a limpet but fortunately we could all swear to the continuous piano playing. Cliff’s all right.”

“What’s the explanation of the whisky incident?”

“I’ve not the slightest idea but I’m perfectly certain he wasn’t pinching it. I’ve tried to get the story out of him but he won’t come clean, blast him.”

“Does he get on well with the other men?”

“Not too badly. They were inclined at one time to look upon him as a freak. His schooling and tastes aroused their deepest suspicions, of course. In this country, young men are judged almost entirely on their ability to play games and do manual labour. However, Cliff set about his holiday jobs on the station with such energy that they overlooked his other unfortunate interests and even grew to encourage him in playing the piano in the evening. When he came home a good whole-hog Leftist, they were delighted, of course. They’re a good lot — most of them.”

“Not all?”

“The shearers’ cook is not much use. He only comes at shearing time. Mrs. Johns looks after the regular hands at other times. Lots of the shearers wait until they’ve knocked up a good fat cheque and then go down-country and blue it all at the pub. That’s the usual routine and you won’t change it until you change the social condition of the shearer. But this expert keeps the stuff in his cookhouse and if we get through the shearing season without a bout of D.T.s we’re lucky. He’s a nasty affair is Cookie but he’s unavoidable. They don’t dislike him, oddly enough. The roustabout, Albie Black, is rather thick with him. He used to be quite mately with young Cliff, too, but they had a break of some sort. Fortunately, I consider. Albie’s a hopeless sort of specimen. Now, if it’d been Albie who pinched the whisky I shouldn’t have been the least surprised. Or Perce. The cook’s name is Percy Gould, commonly called Perce. All Christian names are abbreviated in this country.”

“How did Mrs. Rubrick get on with the men?”

“She thought she was a riotous success with them. She adopted a pose of easy jocularity that set my teeth on edge. They took it, with a private grin, I fancy. She imagined she had converted them to a sort of antipodean feudal system. She couldn’t have been more mistaken, of course. I heard the wool sorter, a perfectly splendid old boy, he is, giving a very spirited imitation of her one evening. I’m glad the men were fifteen miles away from the wool-shed that night. The Sub-Inspector is a very class-conscious man. His suspicions would have gravitated naturally to the lower orders.”

“Nonsense,” said Alleyn cheerfully.

“It’s not. He brightened up no end when Douglas started off on his Markins legend. Markins, being a servant, might so much more easily be a murderer than any of us gentry. God, it makes you sick!”

“Tell me,” said Alleyn, “have you any suspicions?”

“None! I think it’s odds on a swagger had strayed up to the wool-shed and decided to doss down for the night. Flossie may have surprised him and had a row with him. In the heat of the argument he may have lost his temper and gone for her. Then when he found what he’d done, he put on Tommy Johns’s overalls, disposed of his mistake in the first place that suggested itself to him, and made off down-country. She hated swaggers. Most stations gave them their tucker and a doss-down for the night in exchange for a job of work, but not Flossie. That’s my idea. It’s the only explanation that seems reasonable. The only type that fits.”