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“Really?” said Adrian, his attention caught for the first time.

“Yes,” said Mr. Filigree. “It was a beautiful big grey cat and its name, as I ascertained upon enquiry, was Henry.”

“But, it it was grey and its name was Henry . . . ?” began Adrian, puzzled.

“Oh, the colour was probably due to age,” said Mr. Filligree, waving his hands about and diminishing such a minor discrepancy. And you know what silly names people call things. But it was quite unmistakably my Tabitha. It was one of the most remarkable pieces of evidence that I have been vouchsafed. It was her instant recognition of me that clinched the matter.”

“The fact that he was carrying a salmon and a half-barrel of oysters at the time had absolutely nothing to do with it!” said Samantha dryly, dishing the steaming stew out on to three plates, and placing them on the long trestle table. “Now, come and eat, for heaven’s sake, before it gets cold.”

Adrian, as he sat down, suddenly mused that he was extremely hungry. The stew smelled mouth-watering and in the heap of multi-coloured vegetables on his plate he could see small, fat dumpling; gleaming out of the gravy at him like pearl. Mr. Filigree squeaked on, explaining to Adrian how one can tell beyond a shadow of doubt when one meets a reincarnation, and Adrian nodded and said “Umm” at regular intervals, while stuffing the delicious stew into his mouth wolfishly.

When the last remnants of gravy had been eased from the plates with the aid of crusts of bread, and they were all sitting back replete and happy, there came a knock at the door.

Samantha rose from the table and went to the window where she peered round the curtain.

“Adrian,” she said, “upstaim quickly. It’s the police. Adrian stumbled to his feet and looked at her aghast. “Quickly,” she cried, her eyes flashing, “and take your plate with you.”

Blindly he grabbed his plate and scurried up the stairs, where he stood on the landing listening with bated breath while his heart pounded. The knocker fell on the door again and it sounded to Adrian like somebody hammering nails into his coffin.

“Just coming,” he heard Samantha call in a gay, unworried tone of voice, and then he saw her opening the front door and he shrank back into the shadows and listened.

12. THE DEPARTURE

“Good morning, Miss Filigree!” said a deep, soulful voice as Samantha opened the door.

“Yes,” she said.

“Sergeant Hitchbrisket,” said the voice, “Moleshire Constabulary. I wonder if I might have in for a word with you?”

“Certainly,” said Samantha brightly. “We have just finished lunch, but can I offer you a cup of tea?”

“That’s very kind of you, miss,” said Sergeant Hitchbrisket, following her into the kitchen.

He had a bony face like a ferret, and thick black hair which he had meticulously parted down the centre of his head. He nodded to Mr. Filigree who was still sitting at the table, open-mouthed, endeavouring to catch up with such rapidly moving events.

“Morning, sir,” he said. “Lovely day for the time of year, isn’t it?”

“Beautiful,” beamed Mr. Filigree.

“Do sit down, Sergeant,” said Samantha, placing a cup of tea on the table, “and tell us how we can help you?’

The Sergeant unbuttoned his uniform pocket and extracted a large and somewhat battered notebook, and then a pencil. He licked the end of the pencil and then licked his thumb and flipped over the leaves of his notebook, refreshing his memory, his lips moving as he read to himself.

“Well, it’s like this, miss,” he said at last. “We’ve been told to keep a sharp lookout for a criminal and it seemed to me that you might be able to help us with our investigations.”

“I doubt it,” said Samantha sweetly. “We don’t know very many criminals.”

“That is to say,” said Sergeant Hitchbrisket, reddening, “that you might be able to give us some information leading to his apprehension.”

“But, of course,” said Samantha, smiling affectionately at the Sergeant. “We are always ready to help the police. Father, would you mind taking the dirty plates out into the scullery, while I talk to the Sergeant?”

“Of course, my dear,” fluted Mr. Filigree, and he lumbered out of the room carrying the plates.

“My father,” said Samantha in a hushed voice, “is an extremely sensitive man, and I don’t want him upset.”

“Ah yes. Quite, miss,” said Sergeant Hitchbrisket. “As a matter of fact, it was due to your father that I came along.”

“Oh,” said Samantha, faintly, “why! What has he been doing?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing,” said the Sergeant hastily. “It’s not what he’s been doing, it’s what he’s been talking about.”

“I’m afraid I don’t quite follow you,” said Samantha, narrowing her green eyes at him speculatively.

“Well, miss,” said the Sergeant, “it’s like this. This criminal, whom I shall call Mr. X for the moment, has been going around the countryside with an elephant.”

“An elephant?” said Samantha, round-eyed.

“Yes,” said the Sergeant, “an elephant.” He glanced again at his notebook to make sure of his facts. “He is wanted for assault and battery to the Monkspepper Hunt and wilful damage and assault at Lord Fenneltree’s place.”

“Good heavens “ said Samantha. “But why should he want to do that?”

“Why indeed?” said Sergeant Hitchbrisket lugubriously. “The ways of the criminal mind are very obscure, very obscure indeed. Any road, he was last seen heading in this direction, see, and then this morning your father was down in the village and was talking to Bill Plungemusket, him what keeps the poultry farm, and he happened to mention as how he got an elephant. Now it seems unlikely, miss, that there can be more than one elephant running around these parts, so I thought I’d just come up and enquire.”

Although Samantha’s heart sank, she managed to arrange her face in an expression of astonishment.

“My father,” she said in astonishment, “said he had an elephant?”

“Yes,” said Sergeant Hitchbrisket stolidly. “Leastways, that’s what he told Plungemusket.”

Samantha frowned. “I cannot think what he can have been talking about,” she said. And then, suddenly, her brow cleared.

“Ah yes,” she said, “I know.”

She gave what she hoped was a gay laugh, jumped to her feet and went to the scullery door.

“Father,” she called, “will you come here a minute.” Adrian, listening from the top of the stairs, almost had a heart attack. He had been so pleased when Samantha had got Mr. Filigree out of the way that to reintroduce him into the room while the minion of the law was still there struck him as being the very height of foolhardiness. Mr. Filigree, wreathed in smiles, came into the room like a chubby, benevolent cherub.

“Father,” said Samantha, “Sergeant Hitchbrisket here is very interested in elephants.”

“Are you, by Jove?” shrilled Mr. Filigree excitedly. “My dear chap, how nice to meet a kindred spirit. I have a positive passion for them myself. What are yours called?”

“Well, I don’t actually have any,” said Sergeant Hitch-brisket. “You see, it’s like this, sir . . .”

“Oh, you poor man,” interrupted Mr. Filigree. “Fancy having a passion for elephants, and not owning one. Now, I had a hundred and one.”

“A hundred and one?” said Sergeant Hitchbrisket faintly.

“I do assure you,” said Mr. Filigree waggling his fat fingers earnestly, “I do assure you, it was a hundred and one, and the best of the lot was Poo-Ting. My dear fellow, if you could only have seen her kill a tiger. It was a treat, I assure you, a real treat.”