“Is he, though?” Alleyn muttered, more to himself than to Coombe. “She promised me she wouldn’t leave the pub. I’ll have to talk to Miss Emily.” He looked at Coombe. “This is going to be tricky,” he said. “If your theory’s the right one, and at this stage it looks healthy enough, do we assume that the stone chucker, wire stretcher, composite letter writer, dumper of Green Lady and telephonist are one and the same person, and that this person is also the murderer of Miss Cost?”

“That’s what I reckon. I know you oughtn’t to get stuck on a theory. I know that. But unless we find something that cuts dead across it…”

“You’ll find that, all right,” Alleyn said. “Miss Pride, you may remember, is convinced that the ringer-up was Miss Cost.”

Coombe thought this over and then said, Well, all right, he knew that, but Miss Pride might be mistaken.

Alleyn said Miss Pride had as sharp a perception for the human voice as was possible for the human ear. “She’s an expert,” he said. “If I wanted an expert witness in phonetics, I’d put Miss Pride in the box.”

“Well, all right, if you tell me so. So where does that get us? Does she reckon Miss Cost was behind all the attacks?”

“I think so.”

“Conspiracy, like?”

“Sort of.”

Coombe stared ahead of him for a moment or two. “So where does that get us?” he repeated.

“For my part,” Alleyn said, “it gets me, rather quicker than I fancy, to Wally Trehern and his papa.”

Coombe said with some satisfaction that this, at any rate, made sense. If Wally had been gingered up to make the attacks, who more likely than Wally to mistake Miss Cost for Miss Pride and drop the rock on the umbrella?

“Could Wally rig a trip wire? You said it was a workman-like job.”

“His old man could,” said Coombe.

“Which certainly makes sense. What about this padlocked cage over the slot-machine? Is it ever used?”

Coombe made an exasperated noise. “That was her doing,” he said. “She used to make a great to-do about courting couples. Very hot, she used to get: always lodging complaints and saying we ought to do something about it. Disgusting. Desecration… and all that. Well, what could I do? Put Pender on the job all day and half the night, dodging about the rocks? It couldn’t be avoided, and I told her so. We put this cage over to pacify her.”

“Is it never locked?”

“It’s supposed to be operated by the hotel at eight o’clock, morning and evening. In the summer, that is. But a lot of their customers like to stroll along to the spring of a summer’s evening. Accordingly, it is not kept up very consistently.”

“We’d better get the key. I’ll fix it now,” Alleyn said and snapped the padlock. It was on a short length of chain: not long enough, he noticed, to admit a hand into the cage.

On the way back to the hotel they planned out the rest of the day. Coombe would ring the Yard from the station. Alleyn, in the meantime, would start inquiries at the hotel. They would meet in an hour’s time. It was now half past ten.

They had rounded the first spur along the path and come up with an overhanging outcrop of rock when Alleyn stopped.

“Half a minute,” he said.

“What’s up?”

Alleyn moved to the edge of the path and stooped. He picked something up and walked gingerly round behind the rock. “Come over here,” he called. “Keep wide of those prints, though.”

Coombe looked down and then followed him.

“There’s a bit of shelter, here,” Alleyn said. “Look.”

The footprints were well defined on the soft ground and, in the lee of the outcrop, fairly dry. “Good, well-made boots,” he said. “And I don’t think the owner was here so very long ago. Here’s where he waited; and there, a little gift for the industrious officer, Coombe, is his cigar ash.” He opened his hand. A scarlet paper ring lay on the palm. “Very good make,” he said. “The Major smokes them. Sells them, too, no doubt, so what have you? Come on.”

They continued on their way.

As soon as Alleyn went into the Boy-and-Lobster he realized that wind of the catastrophe was abroad. People stood about in groups with a covert, anxious air. The porter saw him and came forward.

“I’m very sorry, sir. It bean’t none of my doing. I kept it close as a trap. But the ambulance was seen, and the stretcher party, and there you are. I said I supposed it was somebody took ill at the cottages, but there was Sergeant Pender, sir, and us — I mean, they — be all wondering why it’s a police matter.”

Alleyn said ambiguously that he understood. “It’d be a good idea,” he suggested, “if you put up a notice that the spring will be closed today.”

“The Major’ll have to be axed about that, sir.”

“Very well. Where is he?”

“He’ll be in the old house, sir. He bean’t showed up round hereabouts.”

“I’ll find him. Would you ring Miss Pride’s rooms and say I hope to call on her within the next half-hour? Mr. Alleyn.”

He went out and in again by the old pub door. There was nobody to be seen, but he heard voices in what he thought was probably the former bar-parlour and tapped on the door. It was opened by Patrick Ferrier.

“Hullo. Good morning, sir,” said Patrick and then: “Something’s wrong, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Alleyn said. “Very wrong. May I see your stepfather?”

“Well — yes, of course. Will you come in?”

They were all seated in the parlour — Mrs. Barrimore, Jenny Williams and the Major, who looked very much the worse for wear but assumed a convincing enough air of authority and asked Alleyn what he could do for him.

Alleyn told them in a few words what had happened. Margaret Barrimore turned white and said nothing. Jenny and Patrick exclaimed together: “Miss Cost! Not Miss Cost!”

Major Barrimore said incredulously: “Hit on the head and drowned? Hit with what?”

“A piece of rock, we think. From above.”

“You mean it was an accident? Brought down by the rains, what?”

“I think not.”

“Mr. Alleyn means she was murdered, Keith,” said his wife. It was the first time she had spoken.

“Be damned to that!” said the Major furiously. “Murdered! Old Cost! Why?”

Patrick gave a sharp exclamation.

“Well!” his stepfather barked at him. “What’s the matter with you?”

“Did you say, sir, that she was under an umbrella?”

“Yes,” Alleyn said and thought: This is going to be everybody’s big inspiration.

He listened to Patrick as he presented the theory of mistaken identity.

Jenny said: “Does Miss Pride know?”

“Not yet.”

“It’ll be a shock for her,” said Jenny. “When will you tell her?”

“As soon as I’ve left you.” He looked round at them. “As a matter of form,” he said. “I must ask you all where you were between half past seven and nine this morning. You will understand, won’t you—”

“That it’s purely a matter of routine,” Patrick said, “Sorry. I couldn’t help it. Yes, we do understand.”

Mrs. Barrimore, Jenny and Patrick had got up and bathed, in turn, round eight o’clock. Mrs. Barrimore did not breakfast in the public dining-room but had toast and coffee by herself in the old kitchen which had been converted into a kitchen-dining-room. Jenny had breakfasted at about nine and Patrick a few minutes later. After breakfast they had gone out of doors for a few minutes, surveyed the weather and decided to stay in and do a crossword together. Major Barrimore, it appeared, slept in and didn’t get up until half past nine. He had two cups of coffee but no breakfast.

All these movements would have to be checked; but at the moment there was more immediate business. Alleyn asked Major Barrimore to put up a notice that the spring was closed.

He at once objected. Did Alleyn realize that there were people from all over the country — from overseas, even — who had come with the express purpose of visiting the spring? Did he realize that it was out of the question coolly to send them about their business — some of them, he’d have Alleyn know, in damned bad shape?