The hasp didn't look right.
Frost tugged at it and the screws popped out of the wood, letting the hasp and the padlock fall with a plop to the ground.
The constable was incredulous. "It wasn't like that before, sir."
Frost pulled the door open gingerly. There was something on the floor. He swore softly, then stepped back so the others could see. The wind howled and screamed and drove snow onto the face of the crumpled figure huddled on the bare wooden floor.
Sandy Lane ran over from the marquee. The boatman rowed for the shore and joined them. They crowded around, silently, looking down on the gaping ugly face of death.
But it wasn't the child.
It was a man wearing an old army greatcoat several sizes 100 big for him. It was old Sam, the tramp who yesterday had marched into the station demanding the return of his pound. He had frozen to death and the dribble of spittle from the blue lips was a tiny river of ice.
Frost bent and touched the face. It was iced marble, ' colder even than the snow-driving wind that was howling with rage because they were ignoring it.
"He must have crawled in here last night to sleep," said the boatman." Poor old sod."
Frost wiped his hand on his coat again and again. "He's better off out of it." His foot kicked an empty wine bottle. "At least he died happy."
Sandy Lane left them and trudged back to the marquee. There was. no byline story in the death of an old tramp.
Frost nudged the army greatcoat with the toe of his boot. It crackled. "Watch out for fleas, boys. I'm told they won't stay on a dead body." He noticed the boatman. "Any luck?"
"No, sir. We'll try again to make sure but we've bashed the bottom and she'd be floating on top if she was there. There's less muck in the pond than we thought."
Frost sniffed. "Why should people come all this way with their old mattresses when there's lots of beauty spots far nearer." He took another look at the shriveled husk on the hut floor. "I don't want to be here when you chaps find Sam's body. I'm far enough behind with my paperwork as it is and this would be the last straw. So don't find him officially until I've gone." He paused. "And some brave soul will have to go through his pockets and see if he's got a second name. Let me know who does it and I'll recommend him for the Victoria Cross."
Sandy was swigging something from a hipflask. He spun round furtively as they entered the marquee.
"Bit early for that, Sandy, isn't it?"
"Never too early for me, Jack." He stuck the flask back in his pocket. "You'd think I'd be used to dead bodies after forty-one years, wouldn't you?"
"Did I ever tell you about my first body?" asked Frost. "He was a tramp, too. Dead for weeks during a heatwave. Council dug up the street twice thinking it was the drains. Then we found him-or what the rats had left…" He noticed the boat party were returned. "I'll tell you the rest later."
The reporter offered his cigarettes around and murmured confidentially to Clive, "Try and avoid hearing the rest at all costs. It put me off my grub for a week when he told it to me."
A rasping noise from outside as the boat was dragged ashore. Three frozen policemen stumbled in. Tracey wasn't in the lake.
"Sorry we couldn't oblige you, Sandy," said Frost.
"That's all right," replied the reporter. He zipped up his anorak. "What about lunch today at The Crown?"
"Why not? "said Frost.
The reporter waved and was lost in the snow.
"If anyone wants us, we'll be at the vicarage," said Frost. "Give us five minutes, then nip over and discover old Sam." He studied the blizzard outside. "You can't beat a white Christmas can you?"
The vicarage was a sprawling Victorian building, huge and cheerless enough for an army barracks, but the vicar, the Reverend James Bell, moonfaced and beaming, greeted them warmly.
"Inspector Frost! Come in, come in."
He ushered them into an uncarpeted hall with dark brown walls and a high ceiling. It was colder inside than out.
"There's a fire in my study. This way." He led them to a small room with an enormous marble mantelpiece and a fireplace large enough to roast an ox in; in it two pieces of smoldering coal fought for survival.
"It'll soon get warm," said the vicar optimistically, attacking the fire with a poker until all signs of life were extinct. "Oh dear." He knelt and began puffing and blowing into the grate in a forlorn attempt to raise the dead. At last he stood, admitting defeat. "Never mind. It's not as cold as it was."
On the marble mantelpiece were several photographs of recent church functions. One showed a group of children. The Sunday school Christmas party. Tracey Uphill was in no the center of the group. Frost picked up the photograph and studied it. "It's her we've come about, Padre," he said, pointing. "Young Tracey Uphill."
The vicar sat behind his paper-strewn desk and shook his head, sadly. "Oh yes. Terrible business. Simply terrible." He blinked in surprise as a spent match dropped into his paperclip tray. Frost had lit a cigarette.
"Sorry, Padre," boomed Frost, unabashed, "thought it was an ashtray." He retrieved the match and flicked it toward the grate. It missed by miles. "Hello, does old Martha write to you as well?" He pointed to a letter lying on the desk… spidery writing in green ink on stiff, deckle-edged notepaper.
"This?" The vicar held it up. "From our local clairvoyant, you mean?" He gave a tolerant smile. "She wants to hold a public spiritualist meeting in our church hall. We can't pick and choose our lettings, I'm afraid. Our collections are not as generous as one might wish, and things are so expensive. The price of coal!" He swung round for another post-mortem examination of the fire, but stopped as he remembered the reason for their visit. "I'm sorry. You're here about that poor child. How can I help you?"
"You knew her, didn't you, Vicar?"
The vicar seemed to start. "Only through Sunday school."
Frost's eyes narrowed. Why that reaction? "I meant through Sunday school, of course, sir. Pretty kid wasn't she?"
"Was she? I hadn't noticed." An attempt to sound offhand that didn't come off.
It suddenly occurred to Clive that both Frost and the Reverend James Bell were talking of Tracey in the past tense.
"Good looks run in her family," continued Frost. "You should see her mother. She's on the game, but I expect you know."
"Yes," replied the vicar, "I know. I've often seen the men going into her house."
Frost nodded. "She gets thirty quid a time for her Sunday afternoon service. A lot more than you get dropped in your collection plate, I bet." Frost was the only one who laughed and, to make up for the lack of appreciation, laughed loud and long. Clive looked openly disgusted, the vicar, both pained and rueful. Then Frost stopped abruptly, took a last drag on his cigarette, and hurled it in the general direction of the fireplace.
"We want to search the vicarage, Padre. The kid was supposed to have come here to play in the grounds, but she could well have sneaked into the vicarage without anyone knowing."
"No!" It was the shocked reaction to an improper suggestion.
Frost stared hard at the vicar. "Why not, sir?"
"It's not convenient, I'm afraid. We've got people coming. Later perhaps…?" He refused to meet the inspector's questioning eye.
Frost smiled. "We won't pinch anything, I promise you. I've got more hymnbooks than I can read back at home. We'll let you know when we've finished." He looked over the vicar's shoulder. "Hello, there's a trace of smoke coming from your fire. I'd encourage it, if I were you." A jerk of his head to Clive and they were out of the study before Bell could think of a reason to stop them.
Frost wound the scarf tighter round his neck. "Like a flaming igloo in there."
"He didn't seem too keen on our looking around," remarked Clive.
"Doesn't trust you, son. It's your suit. Not much better than yesterday's effort, I'm afraid. We'll start at the top and work down."