‘What makes you think that I did?’ Dame Beatrice enquired. ‘The descriptions of the two men do not tally. All the same, there are factors which make me highly suspicious of Knight. The times fit all too well.’
‘How do you mean? What times? ’ asked Honfleur.
‘Knight has been on sick leave.’
‘We had a medical certificate, you know.’
‘One only?’
‘Well, yes, but we allow the chaps a lot of leeway. They get stomach ulcers, you see, so, if we get a medical certificate to say so, we trust the driver to come back when he feels fit enough, and of course we pay him while he’s away from work. Luckily, although I told you we are a subsidiary of the bus company, we’re independent of them so far as our treatment of our workers is concerned and so we can make our own rules.’
‘I see. Well, how long was Knight away before he took the coach up to Scotland?’
‘Three weeks altogether.’
‘During those three weeks a coach was “borrowed” and two of your drivers were killed.’
‘A nasty coincidence, but a coincidence nevertheless. I’m certain of it.’
‘Your drivers are long-service, responsible men, yet one of them moves, or allows to be moved, his coach from the entrance to Hulliwell Hall, and the same kind of thing happens at Dantwylch. In each case the driver is murdered. Do you think Noone and Daigh would have allowed any casual stranger to move (or to persuade them to move) the coach for which they were responsible?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘But if a mate of theirs – you told me that your drivers are a close-knit little community – if one of their own comrades begged them, as a favour, to move the coach, might they not, knowing that their passengers were safely occupied for anything from an hour to an hour and a half, have complied with what I have no doubt seemed to be a reasonable request?’
‘Well, I suppose, if you put it like that
‘I do put it like that.’
‘Oh, dear! But I still don’t believe Knight was involved in all this.’
‘Who else, then?’
‘Well, a driver from another company, I suppose. It’s known that there were other coaches, besides ours, at Hulliwell Hall and at Dantwylch on the days in question.’
‘Have it your own way for the present. Knight then returns to work…’
‘To help us out, remember.’
‘Possibly. I understand, though, that he did not usually take the tour up to Fort William.’
‘Well, no, but I can assure you he did not suggest the trip to me. I asked him whether he would be willing to deputise for Ford, whom I wanted for the Brittany tour, as he’s done it before—’
‘What about Driver Dibbens? Is he not Ford’s partner? I understood that they alternated.’
‘I was very glad to rest Dibbens. He’s had more than his share of extra work since we lost Noone and Daigh and while Knight himself was on sick leave.’
‘Were your drivers, any of them, acquainted with your erstwhile friend Vittorio?’
Honfleur stared at her.
‘Please don’t call him my friend,’ he said. ‘I never really took to the fellow. He was useful, merely. Had a nose for antiques, and could manage to pick up things I wanted much cheaper than I could have got them for myself, even if I’d known where to look for them. It was because of what Miss Mendel reported to you that I severed my connection with him. I only hope she was telling the truth about what she was shown at his digs. Do you think she was?’
‘Yes. You have not answered my question.’
‘Well, yes, some of my drivers did know him. I used to reserve him a seat on a coach whenever he asked me to do so. He would go on a coach which was only half to three quarters booked up so that there was room in the boot to bring back anything he was able to find for me.’
‘And for himself, no doubt. How often did he travel with Knight?’
‘Not more than with several of the others.’
‘But he did travel with him. Where?’
‘Oh, when Knight was on the East Anglia tour he went with him, and on some of the West Country tours.’
‘But not to Scotland?’
‘No. Knight never did the Scottish tours except the one to Edinburgh and the Trossachs.’
‘I understood that he had been once before to Saighdearan, and that cannot have been more than a year or two ago, since the hotel is almost new.’
‘Perhaps you’re right, but, you know, Dame Beatrice, I do honestly think you’re making bricks without straw.’
‘The Israelites, faced with a similar situation, had to gather their own straw. Allow me to do likewise.’
‘You suspect Knight of murdering two of his fellow drivers? But I’m sure that’s quite ridiculous.’
‘I don’t think Honfleur was exactly enamoured of your conclusions,’ said Laura, when he had left them. ‘Why didn’t you tell him that Vittorio has been murdered, too?’
‘He will know soon enough. I do not wish to spread that particular bit of news until it is released to the newspapers.’
‘And what else?’
Dame Beatrice cackled and did not reply, so Laura continued:
‘It seems to me that you’ve got something up your sleeve, as usual. What do you know that I don’t – apart from the value of those pistols? Funny the killer didn’t find them, seeing how he had ransacked that bungalow.’
‘He did not find them because he was not looking for them. I do not think he had any idea that they were there.’
‘What was he looking for, then?’
‘Probably some incriminating documents.’
With this unsatisfactory answer Laura found she had to be content, so all she said was:
‘Oh, well, all we can do is to wait upon events, I suppose.’
Events were not long in coming. Laura, who never needed more than three to four hours of sleep a night, was wide awake when the sounds downstairs caused her to sit up in bed and listen. Then she crept out on to the landing and listened again. She returned to her room, pulled slacks and a sweater over her pyjamas and laced up a pair of stout but rubber-soled shoes before she made her way to her employer’s bedroom. Dame Beatrice, partly because of her medical training and partly because it came naturally at her advanced age, was a light sleeper. She sat up the moment Laura turned the handle of the door.
‘Don’t show a light,’ murmured Laura. ‘Visitors downstairs.’
‘I expected them,’ Dame Beatrice murmured in response. ‘Leave my door ajar.’ She fished a small revolver out from under her pillow, slid out of bed and pulled on her dressing-gown and slippers. ‘Into the cupboard with you.’
The Stone House had been built in an age when the principal bedrooms needed an annexe in the form of a powder closet. That which was attached to Dame Beatrice’s room was large and airy and had a small window which overlooked the drive. Laura went over to this as Dame Beatrice quickly rearranged the bed, then extracted the key from the lock of the powder-room drawer and brought it in with her, but did not quite close the door. ‘Not burglars?’ Laura asked, sotto voce again.
‘I think not. Listen!’ The Stone House possessed a creaking stair. Dame Beatrice, whose life had been threatened more than once by the friends and relatives of persons she had helped to get (in the old days) hanged or (nowadays) put away, had realised the value of this stair and had allowed it to remain as a useful kind of watchdog. Sure enough the intruder trod on it as he made his stealthy progress upwards and it gave its usual warning. There was a slight exclamation, quickly stifled, and then the bedroom door creaked in its turn.
Laura tensed herself. Dame Beatrice cocked her revolver. A faint, grey, late summer dawn was already beginning to break and she always opened her curtains when she was ready to get into bed, so that, although it was still too dark to recognise the intruder, it was just possible to follow his shadowy movements as he crossed over to the bed.