“Dear me! You are most expressive; impressive, too. What can you have discovered?”
“Nothing, as yet. Just a hunch, and I must do something about it before I hand it over to the police. In other words, we’ve got to go back to Brayne; at least, I must. No need for you to come. In fact, I’d much rather you didn’t. If I’m on the wrong tack, I’d rather feel a fool on my own.”
“I quite understand. What is more, I think that your theory is reasonable, considering all the circumstances which, so far, have come to our knowledge.”
“You must be clairvoyante,” said Laura. “How did you guess what I’ve been thinking?”
“I know the way your mind works.”
“That’s the worst of living with a psychiatrist. I can’t keep any secrets. What makes you think my hunch is reasonable? I didn’t tell you what it was because I thought you’d hoot with ill-considered mirth, and that would have discouraged me.”
“These murders have followed a bizarre pattern, therefore no theory about them, however seemingly far-fetched, can be laughed out of court or disregarded. As for discouraging you, I would not dream of it.”
“Many thanks. So you don’t mind if I go out prospecting on my own?”
“So far as I am concerned, you have a free hand. When do you propose to return to Brayne?”
“Tomorrow, starting more or less at the crack of dawn, if you don’t mind. I may need all day for the search, you see. I’ll go in my own car and take sandwiches and a thermos. That way I won’t have to waste time getting a lunch somewhere. Good thing the weather keeps fine.”
She set off on the following morning not quite at the crack of dawn but by nine o’clock. In the boot of the car were a garden rake, a light spade, a piece of clean sacking, a trowel and a tin of carbolic powder. Laura was not at all certain that she would be able to find a use for any of these, or that she would press them into service even if she did find a use for them, but they seemed to lend interest and colour to the expedition.
As far as Southampton the road was fairly clear of traffic and, later, she made excellent time on the Winchester bypass, so that it was just before noon when she reached Brayne. She parked the car in front of the roadhouse, went in for a beer, and asked whether she might leave the car for a couple of hours while she attended to important business. The barman said that he couldn’t care less, half-a-crown was passed over the bar counter and Laura, shouldering the rake, crossed the road and took the path which led down to the canalised little river. Careful prospecting was necessary, she decided, before excavation was possible.
There were schoolchildren on holiday, people exercising dogs, older people resting on the park benches and, when she reached the river, boys bathing. She took the path to the bridge where the river and its canalised stretch joined forces, followed the towing-path and soon came to the steep bridge which carried the towing-path over the canal.
She kept straight on into Batty-Faudrey country, first alongside the trickling little weir and then by the side of the river. Her plan was to follow the path rapidly to its end and then scrutinise it closely on her return to the weir. To her relief, there were no children either swimming in the river or playing on the bank. The river, shallow and weedy in this stretch, was not attractive to youngsters, she supposed. The bank, however, was luxuriant with tall grasses and rose-bay willow herb. There were hawthorn and wild rose bushes, besides wild clematis, hedge parsley and clumps of stinging-nettles. Farther on, both banks were tree-lined, and, as well as the spears of the yellow iris, by this time long past flowering, knotted figwort was growing beside the water.
Almost immediately Laura found herself skirting the Batty-Faudrey woods of Squire’s Acre. The trees were elms, lime trees, horse-chestnuts, holly and oaks, and, although not densely congregated, they effectively hid the house, for they grew on a very considerable slope which terminated at the river bank. Laura walked on and, just before she came to the end of the Squire’s Acre estate, the river rejoined the canal.
She stood for a few moments to look at the confluence and then turned to retrace her steps. The first thing in particular that she noticed was a tall gate set in the iron railings which bordered the estate. It was padlocked, but a little farther on somebody had managed to wrench apart two of the uprights of the iron railings to make an aperture through which a slim, agile body could force its way up into the woods. Boys, thought Laura. She wondered whether the Colonel knew that his estate was open to trespassers; however, it was no business of hers.
She quartered and raked the ground systematically in search of clues. She was looking for a spot where the soil had been disturbed.
She spent a full hour and a half in diligent search, but found nothing to arouse her suspicions, so she tied a bit of string to the Batty-Faudrey railings to mark the limit of her progress and then returned to the weir to eat the sandwiches and fruit and to drink the coffee she had brought with her. Then she smoked a cigarette, tossed the stub of it into the water and returned to her self-imposed task.
She had carefully worked over another few square yards of the riverside when she was aware of voices—very youthful voices.
“Damn!” muttered Laura. “Hope they’re not coming this way.”
But that, it appeared, was exactly what they were doing. They soon hove in sight, three little boys aged about eight or nine, armed with jam-jars and fishing nets and intent upon minnows and sticklebacks. They pulled up when they saw Laura. She smiled at them. If they were going to fish for tiddlers, she surmised, they were not likely to concern themselves with her own activities. They did not return the smile, but passed her in single file and were lost to sight among the bushes which bordered the river bank.
She waited for a minute or so, and then resumed her careful, plodding and rather tiring work. She could hear the shrill chattering and wrangling of the children, but could not distinguish what they said. She was not particularly interested, in any case, but concentrated upon the job in hand until there was an interruption. Running along the rough path came two of the small boys. They pulled up about three yards away from her.
“I say, missus,” gasped one of them, “give us a lend of your rake”.
Laura suspended operations.
“What for?” she asked.
“We found some treasure, missus. It’s in the water in the weeds and us can’t get it up.”
“It’s ever so ’eavy,” said the second child. “It might be money.”
“I’d better come along and help,” said Laura, “but I shouldn’t think it’s money. More likely to be some old iron. Where’s the other boy?”
“He’s watching the spot, so we won’t lose the place. He’s in the water, standin’ up.”
“Can he swim?” asked Laura, relieved to know that the Third Musketeer was still vertical.
“No, none of us can’t swim, not yet.”
“All right. Come on, then.” The boys trotted before her, and she followed with long strides. When they reached the spot where the third child was standing up to his thighs in the water, she said again, “I shouldn’t think it’s money, you know.”
“Might be gold cups and a crown and that,” said the boy who had asked for the rake. “Our teacher told us as how a king watched a battle from here. He might have chucked a lot of stuff in the river, thinking to get it later on, when the battle was finished and the enemy was all lying dead.”
“Like pirates,” suggested the second boy.
“Or there was King John in the Wash,” put in the first boy, who seemed to have been an attentive pupil.
“Where is it, exactly?” called Laura to the guardian of the treasure.