(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
Why, how now, friends! what saucy mates are you,
That know nor duty nor civility?
Are we a person fit to be your host;
Or is our house become your common inn
To beat our doors at pleasure? What such haste
Is yours, as that it cannot wait fit times?
Are you the masters of this commonwealth
And know no more discretion?
– John Ford: ’Tis Pity She’s a Whore.
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.
This explanation took place in the sittingroom. Mrs Sellon had got Joe into the kitchen and was trying to coax him into eating a bit of something. Kirk sent Hart back to Broxford, explaining that Sellon was unwell and in a spot of trouble, and warning him not to say too much about it to the other men. He then went in to tackle his black sheep.
He soon came to the conclusion that Sellon’s chief trouble, beside worry, was sheer exhaustion and lack of food. (He remembered now that he had had practically no lunch, though ham sandwiches and bread and cheese had been [liberally provided at Talboys.) Sellon’s account of himself, when Kirk got it out of him, was that, after interviewing Williams and writing his report, he had gone straight over to Broxford, expecting to find Kirk already there. He hadn’t liked to go back to Talboys, on account of what had happened-seemed to him he was better out of the way. He’d waited about half an hour for Kirk; but the men kept asking him about the murder, and what with one thing and another he couldn’t stick it. So he’d left the station and gone down to the canal and walked about a bit by the gas-works, meaning to come back later. But then it ‘came over him’ how he’d been and gone and done for himself, and even if he could clear himself of the murder charge there were no hopes for turn. So he’d taken his bike again and gone off, he couldn’t rightly remember where or why, because he couldn’t get his mind clear, and he thought if he could just go and walk about somewhere, maybe he could think better. He remembered going through Pillington and walking over the fields. He didn’t think he’d had any special reason for going to Blackraven Wood-he’d only wandered about. He might have fallen asleep. He had had a sort of notion about chucking himself into the river, but he was afraid it would upset his wife. And he was very sorry, sir, but he couldn’t say no more than that, only that he didn’t do the murder. But, he added, oddly, if his lordship didn’t believe him, then nobody eke would.