Booth arrived panting on his heels.
'What is it?' the sergeant demanded. He peered into the window of the bric-a-brac shop. A bewildering variety of objects met his gaze: a grandfather clock, a tray of glass marbles, cushions of various shapes and sizes, a set of hunting prints… 'What are you looking at?' he asked.
'Do you see that painting of a house on the wall over there?'
Madden spoke in a conversational tone, and Booth understood he was meant to look past the window display to the wall at the back of the shop. He nodded.
'It's Melling Lodge.'
Billy's heart turned a somersault. He was afraid he'd been mistaken. 'It was that figure on the fountain…"
The words poured out as he found his tongue. '… the boy drawing his bow, I remember it, and the front of the house with the bench fixed in the wall…" He went silent again. He could feel the inspector's eyes on him.
'Well spotted, Constable.'
'Thank you, sir.'
Billy didn't look up. He was afraid Madden would see his tear-filled eyes. (Tears of relief, he told himself.) But he felt Booth's elbow in his ribs. The sergeant was grinning at him.
'What did I say, lad? Little things.'
'He calls himself Carver, sir. He's a chauffeur. He works for a lady named Mrs Aylward. Hermione Aylward. She's a painter. Her house isn't far from Knowlton. He's our man all right.'
Billy had watched Constable Packard turn bright red earlier when the same fact became clear. The constable had quickly volunteered to go to the pub and fetch some sandwiches for them. Billy reckoned he must have been ashamed at not having recognized Pike's face from the poster or drawings. Sergeant Booth took a more charitable view.
'It's the uniform,' he explained, while Madden was placing his call to Stonehill. 'You look at this Carver and you see a chauffeur. Specially if he's a bloke who never does anything to attract attention, never meets your eye. You've got no reason to look at him close or watch him. He's the one doing the watching.'
Madden was speaking into the phone. Billy pictured the chief inspector listening at the other end of the line, his grey eyes intent.
'The pattern's clear. All the facts fit. Mrs Aylward gets about a good deal. Her speciality is children's portraits. Do you recall that painting above the fireplace in the drawing-room at Melling Lodge? Mrs Fletcher with the two children? She did that. And there were individual portraits of the children in the Merricks' bedroom at Croft Manor. I expect we'll find they're her work as well. She's quite well known, apparently.'
That wasn't how Miss Grainger had put it, Billy reflected. (Dorothy Grainger, prop., the sign above the door of the bric-a-brac shop had stated.) Sporting a monocle, she had met them in breeches and a man's sports jacket, appearing through a curtained doorway to announce that the store was closing for lunch and they would have to return later. Madden had shown her his warrant card.
'Dear me! What has Hermione been up to?' Miss Grainger had close-cropped hair and a smoker's cough, and Billy had concluded she must be one of them (without knowing quite what that meant). Her heavy featured face was scored with lines of discontent. He goggled when she lit a cigar.
'A painter of note? Come now, Inspector! Let's not go overboard. Gainsborough won't stir in his grave, I assure you. Turner sleeps untroubled.'
Billy hadn't a clue what she was talking about, except it was plainly intended to be insulting towards Mrs Aylward. Somehow Madden had kept his patience.
'Would you tell us about this painting?' he had asked.
Now he spoke to the chief inspector: 'The children's portraits are commissioned, but she does other work as well — houses, landscapes and so on — and holds an exhibition from time to time. She must have done the painting of Melling Lodge on the side, when Mrs Fletcher and the children were sitting for her.'
The inspector had not thought it necessary to make the obvious point. That Pike would have driven Mrs Aylward to Highfield and thus had his first glimpse of Lucy Fletcher.
Miss Grainger had admitted to having a commercial arrangement with Hermione Aylward. The artist's unsold paintings were displayed in the shop at knockdown prices. However, the significance of the Melling Lodge picture had not escaped either of them.
'Directly after the murders she told me to raise the price from the usual twenty-five pounds to two hundred and to make sure people knew what the subject was. She wanted me to put up a sign, but I refused.
After all, there's such a thing as good taste. Since then we've hardly been on speaking terms.' Miss Grainger produced a satisfied smile. 'And, as you see, there have been no takers.'
The question of Mrs Aylward's chauffeur had arisen early in the interview. Madden had asked if she travelled by car.
'Indeed she does. In a damned great Bentley! You'd think royalty was approaching.'
'Then I take it she has a chauffeur?' Madden had asked noncommittally.
Miss Grainger had shrugged. 'Of course. Carver — isn't that his name?' This to Constable Packard, who had nodded. And then flushed as the realization came to him.
Billy didn't understand why the inspector hadn't shown her the pictures of Pike. It was another thing Sergeant Booth had had to explain to him.
'And let her know it's Carver we're interested in?
The word'll be around Knowlton before the afternoon's out. There's no need to tip our hand. We've not set eyes on him yet.'
But they knew where he was, near enough.
'At this moment, on his way back from Dover, sir.
He took Mrs Aylward over there to a luncheon.
They're expected back at the house by tea-time. She'll be spending the evening in.'
Madden had rung the house earlier, posing as a client interested in hiring the artist's services. He had found only the maid at home.
'I left a message saying I'd ring again later.'
Madden was silent for a while, listening to the chief inspector. He grunted and nodded, as though they were sitting face to face. Twice he looked at his wristwatch.
'We'll be in Packard's office, sir. We'll wait for you here.' He nodded again. 'I agree. We must act as soon as possible.'
Madden hung up the receiver. He looked at Booth and Billy, who were sitting facing him across the desk.
'The chief inspector's on his way. He'll pass by Folkestone and collect a squad of armed officers. As soon as they arrive, we'll go out to the house. We'll take him there.'
Pike left off digging in the compost pit and started back across the lawn towards the house. The road outside was hidden from his gaze by a privet hedge, but he kept his eye on the gate as he walked across the leaf-strewn grass. A short driveway led to the front door and beyond it was another stretch of straggly lawn bordered by a shrubbery and a brick wall. Pike's glance swept the garden.
When he passed the conservatory he saw Mrs Aylward's portly, middle-aged figure bent over a tub of hothouse peonies. The double doors to the adjoining studio were shut behind her, but Pike could see the lights switched on inside the house. The evening was drawing in.
He needed to keep busy, to have his hands occupied and his mind-fixed on details, no matter how small or trivial. His head felt raw inside. His thoughts gave him pain.
Several times in the past two days he had felt himself losing touch with his physical surroundings.
On one occasion he had had a sudden vision of the ground opening under his feet and himself, his consciousness, tumbling into blackness, spinning away like a dead leaf. He had bitten his lip hard, drawing blood, forcing himself to feel the pain of here and now.
Hourly he expected the police to arrive at the house.
He had given himself things to do in the garden so that he could keep watch on the front gate. But if he strayed too far from the stables he might be cut off from his escape route.