He said, puzzled: 'What boat? We don't have a boat.'
'Caroline does. She bought Mr Hoskins's old cabin cruiser berthed at Wells-next-the-Sea. I know because he put a card in Mrs Bryson's window at Lydsett and my Uncle Ted thought he might have a look at it as it was going cheap. But when he rang, Mr Hoskins told him it had been sold to Miss Amphlett from Larksoken.'
'When was that?'
'Three weeks ago. Didn't she tell you?'
He thought: One more secret, innocent perhaps, but still strange. She had never shown the slightest interest in boats or the sea. An old cabin cruiser, going cheap. And it was autumn, hardly the best time to buy a boat.
He heard Shirley's voice: 'Sophia's rather a pretty name.
Old-fashioned, but I like it. She doesn't look like a Sophia, though, does she?'
But Jonathan had seen more than her full name and the date of birth. Underneath were the names of her parents. Father, Charles Roderick St John Amphlett, deceased, army officer. Mother, Patricia Caroline Amphlett. He had brought with him a sheet of paper torn from a notebook and quickly wrote down both the date and the names. They were a bonus. He had forgotten that the application form was so detailed. Surely, with this information, a detective agency would be able to trace her mother without too great difficulty.
It was only when the keys had been replaced in the security cupboard that he could breathe freely. Now that he had gained what he wanted it seemed ungracious to hurry away. It was important to be gone before Mrs Simpson returned and Shirley was left to face the inevitable question about what he was doing there and might be forced into a lie. But he lingered a moment while she settled herself at her desk. She began threading paper clips together to make a chain.
She said: 'I feel really awful about this murder, I really do. Do you know, I was actually there on Sunday afternoon, I mean the actual place where she died. We went for a picnic so that Christopher could play on the beach. I mean Mum, Dad, Christopher and me. He's my baby brother, he's only four. We parked the car on the headland only about fifty yards from Miss Robarts's cottage, but of course we didn't see her. We didn't see anybody the whole afternoon, except Mrs Jago in the distance on her bicycle delivering the church magazines.'
Jonathan said: 'Have you told this to the police? I suppose they might be interested. I mean, they'd be interested in hearing that you hadn't actually seen anyone near her cottage.'
'Oh yes, I told them. And they were very interested. Do you know, they asked me whether Christopher had spilled any sand on the path. And he had. Wasn't that funny? I mean, it was funny they should think of it.'
Jonathan said: 'When were you there, then?'
'They asked me that as well. Not very long. Only from about half-past one to about half-past three. We actually ate our picnic in the car. Mum said it wasn't the time of year to sit around on the beach getting cold. Then we went down the path to that little cove and Christopher made a sandcastle near to the sea. He was happy enough but it wasn't warm enough for the rest of us to sit about. Mum more or less had to drag him away yelling. Dad went on to the car and we were lagging a bit behind. Mum said, "I'm not having you carrying that sand into the car, Christopher. You know your dad won't like it." So she made him dp it out. More yells from Christopher, of course. Honestly, that kid can be diabolical sometimes. Funny, isn't it? I mean, us being there on that very same afternoon.'
Jonathan said: 'Why do you think they were so interested in the sand?'
'That's what Dad wanted to know. That detective, the one who was here and interviewed me, said that they might find a footprint and want to eliminate it if it belonged to one of us. Dad reckons they must have found a footprint. A couple of young detectives, very nice they were, came to see Dad and Mum yesterday evening. They asked Dad and Mum what shoes they had been wearing and they actually asked if they could take them away. Well, they wouldn't do that, would they, if they hadn't found something?'
Jonathan said: 'It must have been a terrible worry to your dad and mum.'
'Oh no, it didn't bother them. After all, we weren't there when she died, were we? After we left the headland we drove to have tea with Gran at Hunstanton. We didn't leave until half-past nine. Far too late for Christopher, Mum said. He slept in the car all the way home, mind you. But it was funny though, wasn't it? Being there on
the very day. If she'd been killed a few hours earlier we'd actually have seen the body. I don't think we'll go back to that part of the beach again. I wouldn't go there after dark for a thousand pounds. I'd be frightened I might see her ghost. Funny about the sand, though, isn't it? I mean, if they do find a footprint and it helps them to catch the murderer it will all be because of Christopher wanting to play on the beach and Mum making him spill out the sand. I mean, it was such a little thing. Mum said it reminded her of Vicar's sermon last Sunday when he preached about how even our smallest actions can have immense consequences. I didn't remember it. I mean, I like singing in the choir, but Mr Smollett's sermons are dead boring.'
So small a thing, a footprint in soft sand. And if that footprint was made in the sand spilled by Christopher from his bucket, then it was made by someone who had used that path after half-past three on Sunday afternoon.
He said: 'How many people here know about this? Have you told anyone except the police?'
'No one but you. They said that we weren't to talk and I haven't, not until now. I know Mrs Simpson was curious why I asked to see Chief Inspector Rickards. She kept saying that she couldn't see what I could tell them and that I wasn't to waste police time trying to make myself important. I suppose she was worried thinking I'd tell them about the row she and Miss Robarts had when Dr Gledhill’s personal file was missing and Dr Mair had it all the time. But you won't tell, will you? Not even Miss Amphlett?'
'No,' he promised. 'I won't tell. Not even her.'
There was a surprising number of detective agencies in the yellow pages and apparently very little to choose between them. He chose one of the largest and wrote down the London telephone number. It wouldn't do to telephone from the power station and he didn't want to wait until he got home where there would be even less privacy. He was anxious, too, to ring as soon as possible. His plan was to lunch at a local pub and find a public call box.
The morning seemed interminable but at twelve o'clock he said that he was taking an early lunch hour and left, checking first that he had sufficient small coins. The nearest kiosk was, he knew, in the village close to the general store. It was a public position but he told himself that there was no need for particular secrecy.
His call was quickly answered by a woman. He had prepared what he would say and she seemed to find nothing strange in the request. But it became apparent that it wouldn't be as easy as he had hoped. Yes, she said, the agency could certainly hope to trace an individual from the information provided but there was no fixed charge. Everything depended on the difficulty and how long it took. Until his request had been formally received it was impossible even to give an estimate. The cost might be as little as £200 or as much as £400. She suggested that he should write in immediately, setting out all the information in his possession and stating clearly what he required. The letter should be accompanied by a down payment of £100. They would certainly deal with it as a matter of urgency, but until the request was received they could give no assurance of how long it would take. He thanked her, said that he would write, and put down the receiver, glad that he hadn't given her his name. Somehow he had imagined that they would take the information down over the telephone, tell him what the cost would be, promise him a quick result. It was all too formal, too expensive, too slow. He wondered whether to try another agency, then told himself that in this highly competitive field they were unlikely to give him any more encouraging news.