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‘What is it?’ barked the Chief Constable, waving his monocle at Powerscourt as if it were a weapon. ‘This secret source? I demand to be told. I am the Chief Constable round here! I have the right to know!’

Powerscourt thought for a moment. He had no intention of telling the Chief Constable anything. Nor did he necessarily want a fight. Nor did he want to embarrass Inspector Blunden.

‘Chief Constable,’ he began, ‘I would like to make use of a military analogy, if I may. I served for a number of years as chief intelligence officer to the forces under the control of General Richardson on the North-West Frontier.’

The Chief Constable seemed to cheer up slightly at the mention of the military.

‘Chukka Richardson?’ he said. ‘Damn fine polo player, Chukka, damn fine.’

‘The same,’ replied Powerscourt. ‘On a number of occasions we would be summoned to his quarters, my colleague and I. Either we would propose a scheme to the general, or he would propose a venture to us. Always he would make it very clear what he wanted done. But he never issued a direct order. Nothing was ever put down on paper.’

Powerscourt looked closely at the Chief Constable to see if any light of understanding, even a glimmer, was visible. He saw nothing that pleased him. Bertram Willoughby-Lewis’ face was as blank as a sheet of fresh notepaper. ‘The general used to say that some damned fool in Whitehall might start asking questions if things were written down. He had a very low opinion of the damn fools in Whitehall, General Richardson. So we would carry out his orders. We never told him any of the details of the operations. He made it clear he never wanted to know. We went about our business. He stayed in his tent. The natives were confounded. Everybody was happy. The gentlemen of Whitehall would not have been happy but they were not there.’

‘That’s all very interesting, Powerscourt,’ said the Chief Constable, ‘always fond of a good story myself, but I don’t see what the North-West Frontier has to do with dead Candlesbys here in Lincolnshire. I say again, tell me about your secret source. There’s no time to waste, man. We need to press on.’

God in heaven, thought Powerscourt. The Chief Constable was remarkably stupid, even for a military man.

‘The reason, my dear Chief Constable, why our military operations in India were so successful is that nobody knew about them. Nobody could get in the way.’ Meaning, people like you, he muttered to himself. ‘This secret source is so delicate that anybody interfering with it could destroy it completely. It must be left to work at its own pace and in its own way. I believe it will help us solve the mystery, but not if it is interfered with. It is like a watch that will function perfectly as long as nobody tinkers with the mechanism.’

‘Damn it, man, you are insubordinate. I demand to know.’

‘And I’, said Powerscourt with a smile, ‘refuse to tell you.’

‘I could have you arrested, damn it,’ spluttered the Chief Constable.

‘I don’t think you would find that very helpful,’ said Powerscourt. ‘You’d lose all access to the secret source that may solve the mystery.’

A temporary pause in the confrontation came when a messenger hurried in to remind the Chief Constable that he had to return to Lincoln at once for a grand dinner with the dean and chapter of the cathedral. He picked up his papers and his cane and shuffled to the door.

‘Mark my words, Powerscourt, you haven’t heard the end of this.’

Powerscourt was so incensed with the ridiculous man’s behaviour that he fired straight back. ‘Neither have you!’

Blunden and Powerscourt did not speak until they were back in the Inspector’s office. ‘My God, my lord, I shouldn’t think anybody’s spoken to him like that in years. And thank you for taking the heat off me, my lord. I am most grateful.’

‘Think nothing of it, my friend. I am perfectly serious about this secret source. I wouldn’t have mentioned it except for the fact that anybody with half a brain would have left us to get on with it rather than strutting about demanding to know what it is. Stupid man!’

‘I’ve been thinking about this source, my lord,’ said Blunden. ‘I was thinking about it in there. I don’t want to know anything about it. I don’t want any names; I don’t want any information at all. That way I can tell the Chief Constable that I don’t know anything about it with a clear conscience.’

‘I think that’s sensible for the time being, actually, very sensible, if you don’t mind my saying so. No offence. I don’t think I’d tell the Chief Constable the time of day, if he asked me, after that display. Very well, Inspector, but there are a number of things I think you could have ready to go when I give you the word.’

Powerscourt spoke for a couple of minutes. After he had finished, Blunden whistled softly and began making elaborate notes in his book in his finest copperplate.

Lady Lucy hoped to speak to her husband before she set off for another session with the sick of Candlesby. She knew that he had been thinking of something he wanted her to do, but he had said he wanted more time to think about it. She was a couple of paces outside the hotel with an enormous basket on her arm, looking, she felt, rather like Little Red Riding Hood, when the Silver Ghost whispered into view.

‘Hop in,’ said a familiar voice, ‘and I’ll take you down. I’ve just had a set-to with that stupid Chief Constable. Bloody fool threatened to have me arrested.’

‘That would have been a first,’ said Lady Lucy, ‘first time you’d have been arrested, I mean, rather than you arresting the murderer. It might have been rather interesting, Francis, the inside of a cell, that sort of thing, prison food, those fashionable prison clothes.’

Powerscourt laughed. ‘I’ll tell you about it later, my love. If the men in uniform should come to take me away, Lucy, send word to Charles Augustus Pugh to get here as fast as he can and have me sprung from the jail. And send word to Rosebery as well. Former Prime Ministers are always good to have on board in a crisis. I think the Chief Constable might not be happy in a very short time. Anyway, I’ve always wondered what prison food is like. Seriously, Lucy, this is what I want to suggest with your old ladies. We have just a small collection of words or phrases from their ramblings so far that might be relevant. I cannot emphasize enough that you must exercise your own judgement about what I’m suggesting. If you hear one of those words again or a different word that you think might be relevant, try asking a question. Where did the money come from? Why is the sail important, that sort of thing. I simply don’t know enough to imagine what their response might be. You must feel your way, Lucy. If you think it’s not working, just back off.’

A crowd of Candlesby children had gathered round the Silver Ghost as it purred into the village. They gave a ragged cheer when Lady Lucy got out. She was already a heroine to them. Powerscourt opened up the bonnet and showed the children the engine. One small boy wanted to know how it worked. Powerscourt had to confess that he didn’t know. He said he didn’t know how a horse worked either. But he promised to send Rhys, the butler cum chauffeur, the next time. Rhys knew how the Silver Ghost worked. He knew how horses worked too. Rhys had piles of motoring magazines by his bed at home. He rather missed them up here in Lincolnshire.

Lady Lucy was taken in hand by the two ladies who organized the nursing in Candlesby village. They were known to her as Maggie and Mary and didn’t appear to have any surnames. The young ones were nearly all recovered, they told her; only one little girl was left on the danger list. But three new old ladies had been taken sick, and one of them was already very ill indeed. Lady Lucy was taken first to see Will, the little boy she had entertained with the cat story. He gave her a big hug when she came in and asked after Christopher and Juliet. Lady Lucy had told him about her twins, who were more or less the same age. Will told her the doctor had said he could get up for an hour the next day. Will was looking forward to that. Then she was taken to Bertha, the old lady who was very ill. Her bedroom was so small there was scarcely room for another grown-up. Lady Lucy perched on the edge of the bed and mopped the old lady’s face. She was sweating profusely and muttering into her pillow. ‘No shoes,’ Lady Lucy heard two or three times. She had resolved to write everything down now in case Francis could find a meaning where she couldn’t. Bertha dozed off for a minute or two, holding desperately on to Lady Lucy’s hand. When she woke up she looked briefly at her visitor and sank back on the pillow. Lady Lucy had noticed that none of the old ladies ever had more than one pillow. Strange sounds came from Bertha now that might have been muffled screams. She tossed about as if her life depended upon it. ‘Wind,’ she said suddenly, ‘great wind.’ A pause and then she said, ‘Poor Lucy, poor Lucy.’ Lady Lucy thought it generous of the old lady to sympathize with her in her hours of nursing. ‘Men,’ Bertha said now, ‘men.’