‘No good going further afield,’ thought Laura. ‘Nobody could have walked naked all over these fields without being spotted by somebody. What about a raincoat, I wonder? You could easily wear just a raincoat and a pair of shoes. No one would notice that. But what could have been the idea?’
She continued her search, but not even a raincoat could be found. She returned to Police-Constable Sandbank.
‘Nothing doing,’ she said briefly. ‘This means an attempt at murder. Somebody must have brought her and chucked her in. Drugged her first, I should imagine, and the cold water brought her round.’
‘Ah, very like,’ said the constable. ‘Times do change. Times past, we didn’t have nothing like this in the city. ’Tis the war, I reckon. Rouses the original in people, war do, so I say.’
Laura considered this opinion.
‘One thing, this wasn’t a Winchester woman,’ she remarked. ‘Well, I’d better get back to report. No, I won’t! I’ll have one more hunt.’
She was bending down poking into reeds when a young voice hailed her from the opposite bank of the river.
‘Missus, was you lookin’ for the old gentleman’s hat?’
‘Eh?’ said Laura, straightening. Opposite her stood a small boy, another in close attendance. The spokesman held out an object which, in spite of the fact that it had been in the water, she had no difficulty in recognizing as the remains of a white straw panama.
‘Yes! Hold on! I’ll come round by the bridge!’ she shouted. She skirted the stolid policeman and cast at him over her shoulder the tidings that things were moving.
The two boys were standing on the bridge by the time she reached it. She gave them sixpence for the hat and thanked them.
‘He’ll be looking for that,’ she said.
‘Not him,’ said the youngster who had held it. ‘He knowed he dropped it in the water, and he made out to catch it with his stick, but he pretended he couldn’t reach it. Us went paddlin’ after it, but the water was deep, so us come on out again, and it fetched up in the roots of the old willow tree, so us brought it back, but he’d gone. He run when he seed us coming.’
‘Would you know him again?’ asked Laura, who had been examining the inside of the hat for traces of an owner’s name, but had found none.
‘Sure us ’ud know him again,’ declared the boy.
Another thought struck Laura, who was fascinated by the story of the hat.
‘You said he saw you. Did you speak to him?’ she enquired. The youngster shook his head.
‘Don’t reckon he wanted us to, missus, and he wasn’t there when we got back. We seed him running away.’
‘Which way did he go from here?’
‘Over towards St Cross. Us hollered, but he never took no notice.’
‘Well, you’d better give me your names and addresses,’ said Laura. ‘Then, if he gives the five shillings reward, I’ll see that you boys get it. Don’t speak to him again. Run like bally rabbits if you see him. He kills little kids like you.’
She hastened towards the hotel with her trophy, the hat, but by the time she had reached College Walk she had been visited by what she considered to be an inspiration. Instead of turning up College Street she continued to follow the river. She walked past the walls of Wolvesey Castle and so to the bridge at the eastern end of the High Street. She then crossed the High Street and was soon walking down the narrow road which led to the offshoot of Winchester where lived the Potters and the Griers.
She stopped the first group of children she met, and asked for Mrs Grier’s house. Two of them escorted her to it, and lingered beside her as she knocked on the door.
‘All right. That’s all, thanks,’ said Laura. But her audience had no mind to give up their entertainment, and remained almost within arm’s length during the succeeding interview. The door was opened by a grubby little girl of about ten, who was reinforced by an even dirtier child, a boy, a year or two younger.
‘Mother in?’ Laura enquired. The little girl shook her head.
‘Father?’
Another shake of the head.
‘Ah,’ said Laura, ‘then this hat is no good at present, is it?’ She was turning away when the younger child began to cry. Laura turned round again, and the little girl, flinching, said anxiously:
‘He didn’t mean nothing. He didn’t like the lady what wore it.’
‘What lady?’ Laura enquired. ‘What was she like?’
But the little girl shut the door. Laura turned to the boys who were standing beside her.
‘What does she mean?’ she asked.
‘Why, the little ’un seen a lady – well, that’s what ’e said–what took Bobbie Grier away and drownded ’im.’
‘He couldn’t!’ said Laura sharply. The boy was silent. ‘Did he say that?’ she demanded. The boy began to whistle a tune. He made a sign to his mate, and the two of them suddenly fled. Laura hesitated. Then she went round to the back of the Grier’s house.
The garden was very tiny and was bounded by the river, here very shallow. There was nothing to be seen of the two Grier children. Laura, who had been obliged to walk some distance away from the front door and along the street before she gained the dirty little passage which led to the backs of the houses, had counted the front doors as she passed them, so she knew she had reached the right house.
She stepped over the broken stone wall which separated the garden from a muddy little path beside the river, and walked up to the back door. On this she tapped. She was immediately aware of two small noses pressed against the inside of the kitchen window. She stepped back from the door, smiled at the children and took out a piece of chocolate which she happened to have in her handbag.
Before anything decisive could result from this manœuvre there was the sound of a door being slammed. The children disappeared. Laura disappeared, too, and with considerable celerity, so that by the time the newcomer to the house had encountered the children, the self-invited visitor was out of sight from the back windows.
Doubtful as to the wisdom of her proceedings, but feeling that honour demanded the completion of her programme, Laura returned immediately to the front door and knocked.
This time the door was opened by a woman, the slat-ternly, unchaste, disreputable Mrs Grier.
‘Not to-day, thanks,’ said Mrs Grier, ‘and you leave my Billy alone! I wonder at you, pesterin’ poor children when their mum ain’t at ’ome to look after ’em! You ’op it, or I’ll call a policeman!’
‘I am a policeman,’ said Laura calmly. She held out the hat. ‘And I’m here on official business. What do you know about this?’
It was evident that Mrs Grier was too wary to be caught by so transparent a question. It was equally evident that, where the police were concerned, she had a guilty conscience.
‘What I says I says to a uniformed officer,’ she replied. ‘’Ow do I know who you are?’
‘Very well,’ said Laura. She took out a thin notebook which she used for recording small commissions or memoranda. ‘Obstructing the police in the execution of their duty,’ she said aloud as she scribbled in the book. ‘You’d better come along to the station, then. We thought you’d prefer this, that’s all. I didn’t come in uniform with good reason.’
‘Good reason is you ’aven’t got one!’ said Mrs Grier with great perspicacity before she slammed the door. She then opened the sitting-room window and shouted out of it, ‘Go and tell your — newspaper to —! I’m — sick of — reporters and swine like you!’
Laura departed amid jeers (and a stone or two) from children playing in the street, and walked thoughtfully back to the Domus.
‘The beginnings of proof against Mr Tidson,’ she said, when she met David Gavin and found that Mrs Bradley had arrived and was at Crete’s bedside, ‘although the little kid thought he was a woman. He is a bit effeminate, of course.’