Anne drank and gasped. “It’s strong, isn’t it?”
“It should be,” said Miss Cornel composedly. “It’s genuine pre-war Glen Livet. I had this bottle given me when I won the Open Putter on the Ochterlony course in 1938.”
Both ladies sipped in respectful silence.
“That one’s to your address,” said Miss Cornel. “One more for your intended.”
“I don’t think—” said Anne.
“It’ll make you sleep,” said Miss Cornel genially.
“The funny thing is,” said Anne, “that I can hardly keep my eyes open—now.”
III
“Scotland Yard?”
“This is Scotland Yard. Duty sergeant speaking.”
“This is urgent. Can you put me through to—”
“Is this an emergency call?”
“It’s not a nine-nine-niner, if that’s what you mean,” said Bohun. “I must speak to Chief Inspector Hazlerigg.”
“I’ll see if I can contact him, sir.”
“It’s to do with the Lincoln’s Inn murder.”
“One minute, sir.”
There was a silence, a click, and a new voice said: “Can I help you? This is Inspector Pickup.”
Bohun recognised the name vaguely as one of the inspector’s colleagues. He said: “My name’s Bohun. I must speak to Inspector Hazlerigg.”
“I’m afraid that’s going to be rather difficult,” said Pickup. “The inspector was coming back from Norfolk tonight—”
“When does the train get in?”
“It got in fifteen minutes ago,” said Pickup. “Apparently he stopped the train en route and telephoned for a car to meet him at the terminus. He didn’t say where he was going.”
“Is Sergeant Plumptree there?”
“Sergeant Plumptree went in the car to meet him.”
“Damn,” said Bohun.
“If you have any information,” said Inspector Pickup, “perhaps I could take it. I’m standing in for Inspector Hazlerigg whilst he’s away.”
Bohun hesitated. He visualised himself trying to explain, over the telephone, to a complete stranger, the orbit of a steel screw on an inclined plane. Or the fact that people who play a lot of golf develop strong wrists. And that if they play right-handed the development of the left wrist will probably be greater than that of the right.
“No,” he said at last. “It doesn’t matter.”
He rang off. He thought for a moment of trying the stationmaster’s office at Liverpool Street, but abandoned the project before he had even reached for the phone. The train would be in by now and the passengers dispersed.
Direct action seemed to be the only answer.
Bohun kept his car in a private lock-up behind Bream’s Buildings. It was a 1937 Morris, not one of the uncrowned kings of the road, but a steady performer if handled properly.
Over the Thames by Blackfriars Bridge, he thought, there won’t be much traffic at this time of night. I hope the lights are all right. Bohun had never driven by road to Sevenoaks before, but he knew it lay to the west of Maidstone and he guessed that if he took the Old Kent Road to New Cross and forked right at Lewisham he could not be very wide of the mark. After that he would have to ask.
He crossed the river and ran through the Elephant and Castle roundabout, coldly deserted under its neon lights.
For the first time he spared a moment’s thought to wonder what was going to happen at the other end.
Supposing he found the two ladies virtuously asleep. Could he order Anne Mildmay to leave with him and return to London? Ought he to give even that amount of indirect warning to Miss Cornel? Even if every supposition he had made was correct, still was Anne in any danger?
Look out! Oh, a cat.
Whether she’s in any danger or not, said Bohun, following the tramlines round the Lewisham bend, it’s my fault that she went down there, and it’s my responsibility that nothing happens to her. The best thing I can do is to let them both know I’m there and I’ll camp out in the garden until morning. I shouldn’t think even Miss Cornel would dare make a move with me on her front lawn.
Where was Hazlerigg?
An A.A. scout, coming home from a late call, gave him some directions and he swung south through Bromley.
His thoughts reverted to Miss Cornel.
He wondered if everybody was always as slow and as stupid as they had all been, at seeing what lay under their noses. Of course, neither of her alibis was worth the paper it was written on. To start with, her companion at the office on that Saturday morning had been Eric Duxford. He could guess how much that meant. Eric no doubt arrived, put in a nominal ten minutes’ work and then went straight away to his other office. In fact, now that Bohun thought of it, had there not been an entry in Eric’s “private” appointment diary for eleven o’clock on February 10th—the very Saturday morning in question? Then, again, was it pure luck that Miss Cornel should have been at the office with such an accommodating partner? He rather thought not. It had originally been Miss Chittering’s Saturday. Miss Cornel’s story was that Miss Chittering had asked her to change Saturdays. What would Miss Chittering’s version have been—if anyone had thought to ask her?
And was that one of the reasons why Miss Chittering had been—steady! Road fork. Sevenoaks, nine miles. He was getting on. That was the weekend they should have concentrated on from the start. They knew Smallbone was alive up till Saturday morning. Instead of trying to find out how he spent the next week they should have realised…
But did one ever realise that the obvious explanation, the simple explanation was the right one?
All that speculation about the key of the deed box! Of course the one person who could most easily lay hands on it was Miss Cornel. Or about the difficulty of getting Marcus Smallbone to attend at the office at a given time. Who would be more likely to fix such an appointment than Miss Cornel? Or as to how the letter intending to incriminate Bob got under Miss Cornel’s desk? And why it wasn’t found before it had to be? Then there was the Tuesday of Miss Chittering’s death. Miss Cornel really had no alibi at all. It was the very simplicity of the idea which had made it so difficult to get hold of. Probably she had not gone to Charing Cross that night. There was no reason for her to do so. She could catch the train just as well from London Bridge or Waterloo. There was the very slight risk of meeting a passenger who knew her. She lived alone. Of course, the confusion caused by the electricity cut had been a help.
Steady again! He must be near by now. He remembered that Sergeant Plumptree, describing his visit to Sevenoaks, had said that Miss Cornel’s bungalow lay north of the town. He would have to take a left fork soon.
His headlights picked out a signpost; then he saw the policeman standing in the shadow of the hedge.
He braked sharply.
“Excuse me,” he said. “I’m looking for a bungalow called Red Roofs. A Miss Cornel lives there.”
“Five hundred yards along on your right, sir,” said the policeman impassively.
Bohun thanked him. He was moving when it occurred to him to wonder if it would have been wiser to have asked the policeman to come with him.
Then another thought struck him. The policeman had answered his question very promptly. And, though he had looked for it, he hadn’t seen the bicycle which he would have expected if the man had been on patrol.
He had more the look of someone posted…
Here it was.
A neat garden. A low hedge. Bohun cut out the engine and cruised the last hundred yards. Then he got out and switched off his headlights.
The moon, reflecting from the window-glass of the front room, made it difficult to see if there was a light behind the curtains or not.
He thought not. The house was very quiet.
As Bohun walked up the flagged path he had a sharp, clear picture of Miss Cornel coming out of the front door with a smile on her mouth and a heavy spade in one muscular hand.