'It's deep then?'
'It is, especially after the rain we've been having.
Deep and dangerous. Bits of the overhang drop in from time to time. That's why they've got this wire round it. But what's wire to kids? Or anyone determined to get through?'
'What indeed?' said Backhouse staring at the neatly cut gap in the fence. 'Any fatalities?'
'Three, sir, that I know of.'
'Children?'
'That's what you'd expect, sir, but the answer's no. If they'd all been kids, something would have been done about the place long ago. Only one was anything like a child. Boy of sixteen, skylarking with friends round the edge, slipped and fell in. He couldn't swim.'
'And the others?'
'A man and woman, sir. Suicide pact. They were having an affair, but there were difficulties. They both wanted divorces but there was little chance of that. So they talked it over, it seems, then strolled up here one night and jumped in.'
'Good Lord! Yes, I seem to remember something. About twelve years ago?'
'That's right, sir.'
'I wasn't in this area then, of course, but it was in the national Press. Wait now, wasn't one of them called..’
'Yes, sir. Mary Pelman. She was married to Mr Angus Pelman.'
'Well now. There is a thing, Crowther,' said Backhouse. It was difficult to know whether he was commenting on Crowther's information or the arrival of the breakdown vehicle which came grinding up the long, wet track from the distant road.
'We found her almost at once,' Crowther continued. 'She came up to the surface. He stopped down in the mud. It took nearly three weeks before they got him out.'
'Who does it belong to, Crowther?' asked Backhouse, watching the breakdown truck negotiate itself into position before the Mini.
'No one, really,' said Crowther. 'Mr Pelman owns most of the land on this side, the south. His house is at the back of that ridge over there. Then the land drops away, woodland mainly, down to the village.'
'The woods behind Brookside Cottage?' said Backhouse.
'That's right. But there's no direct route. Not for a car. It'd have to come round by the road and up the old track. Three miles about.'
'Something seems to have come this way pretty regularly,' said Backhouse, examining the ground carefully. 'I wonder why? And who would want to cut a gap in the wire?'
'Can't say, sir,' said Crowther. 'Do you think Hopkins is in there, sir?'
'I don't know yet. I'm not even sure if I'd like him to be. It'd be neat, certainly. But I don't know.'
Forgetting Crowther's injunction, he strolled back towards the edge, thinking of the odd, enigmatic note found in the car. It was back at HQ now undergoing the most rigorous examination. Fingerprints, handwriting, type of paper, all would be subjected to the closest scrutiny. But the state of mind of the writer was what interested Backhouse. Could it be read as a confession and the last desperate cry of a man about to drown himself? It might well be. Hopkins seemed to have been something of an original. Perhaps the opinion of that other highly individual young man, Sergeant Pascoe, might be worth seeking. If it could be obtained without sparking off some kind of explosion.
The breakdown truck was advancing from the bosky tunnel into which the Mini had reversed. He turned to watch it. It wasn't possible for the truck to turn towards the track until the car was clear of the undergrowth. Therefore it came straight towards him. For a frightening second he thought it wasn't going to stop, but the driver began to spin the wheel round a good twenty feet away. In any case, it could hardly come through the small gap in the wire.
One of the truck's wheels lost its grip on the soft ground momentarily and began to spin. Foolishly the driver revved up and the next minute both were spinning wildly.
Half-wit, thought Backhouse, staggering slightly for some reason. Fainting fit? he wondered. The first warnings of a stroke? It was frightening, as if the ground were moving under him.
'Superintendent!' yelled Crowther.
Backhouse, still surprised, stepped towards him, then turned his step into a leap, as beyond all dispute the ground moved.
Crowther seized him by the hand and dragged him violently away from the quarry. Quite unnecessary, Backhouse thought, as he turned and looked back. It was a goood two seconds before a long section of earth, including the bit on which he had been standing, slid undramatically out of sight into the depths below. It was difficult to see any difference. If it hadn't been for the posts supporting the wire leaning drunkenly out into space it would have been impossible to detect that anything had happened.
'Get this thing out of here before it causes any more damage!' commanded Backhouse, pointing at the truck.
'If he's under that little pile, sir, he'll be hard to find,' said Crowther.
'We'll find him, never fear,' said Backhouse. 'If he was buried under a mountain, we'd find him.'
'Hello! Peter?' said Ellie uncertainly, standing at the open front door.
'Hello, love,' said Pascoe, stepping into the hall-way. 'Come on in.'
Ellie entered, still looking puzzled, and followed him into a comfortable sitting-room furnished in a period-less old-fashioned style.
'What are you doing here?' she asked. 'Or more important, what are we doing here? This isn't a subtle way of setting the scene for a marriage-proposal, is it? Because if this is your idea of home, I refuse!'
'It's not bad,' protested Pascoe. 'Very cosy.'
'So it's cosy! It also reeks of a-woman's-place-is-in-the-home. You've got a very Victorian paterfamilias look about you.'
'There are worse fates,' said Pascoe.
'What are we doing here, Peter?'
'Looking for cats. Or rather a cat. I've got the other two locked in the kitchen. Let me explain.'
'I wish you would.'
Pascoe had called to see Mavis Sturgeon in hospital. She was confined to bed, but much more alert now. Her main concern had naturally been for her husband, but she seemed ready to accept assurances that he was all right, but too weak to be visited even had she been fit. Pascoe had delicately probed to see if there were anything she could tell him, but the names of Cowley and Atkinson meant nothing to her. Lewis she had read about in the paper and she had an idea he was a member of the Liberal Club which Edgar had belonged to for more than forty years. She confirmed that her husband had been withdrawn and irritable for the past week or more, following a period of unexplained high spirits and excitement.
'I was worried about his retirement at first,' she said. 'He missed the business a lot. But then he seemed to come round, start taking an interest in things. I thought that… I thought…'
She blinked back tears. Pascoe intervened swiftly.
'Do you know where he might have been going today?' he asked.
'No. That's what makes it so odd. He'd no reason at all to be on that road. I've never liked that road, never. Always accidents, always something.'
Pascoe had risen to go, making an automatic promise to do anything he could to help and being surprised to find himself instantly put to the test.
'It's her cats. The neighbours will feed them, she knows, but she'd be happier if they went into their usual kennels. So I said I'd take them. And as it's no job for a singlehanded man, I left the message for you.'
'Thanks a lot.'
'Why did you ring me earlier?' asked Pascoe casually.
'Oh, nothing. I just felt like a chat,' she replied.
'I gather you had one with Dalziel.'
'We talked.'
'What did he say?'
'He advised me of my constitutional rights. And duties. And suggested strongly that a woman's place was around the home. Particularly the bedroom.'