‘Mr Coles, I believe. Could you spare me a few minutes?’
‘Not if you’re a reporter.
‘No, I’m nothing of the sort.’
‘And not if you’re one of those damned snoopers who claim to have known my wife before I did.’
That put paid to the Sunday-school teacher, thought Laura. She said:
‘A friend, a man, drove me down, and I don’t want to waste his time. How soon can you join us for lunch?’
‘What is all this?’
‘You and your wife spent a week at a holiday camp this summer, did you not?’
Coles stared at her.
‘What is all this?’ he repeated. ‘Are you touting for a holiday camp? If so, it’s no good coming to me. I’ve never stayed at one in my life, and don’t intend to, and now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get back to my work.’
Laura knew when she was beaten. She said urgently:
‘Do you declare that you have never stayed at a holiday camp?’
‘Yes, I do. It’s not my idea of a holiday. It’s not cheap, either, nowadays. Anyway, what is all this about holiday camps? Other people have bothered me about them!’
‘But you used to stay at hotels?’
‘Oh, I see! You’re from the police! I stayed at hotels only because my wife paid. And now you can go back to whatever God-forsaken police barracks you’re attached to, you narking female busy, and let me get on with my job.’
He opened the door violently and let himself in, crashing it shut behind him. A sympathetic Carey gave Laura lunch and drove her straight back to the Stone House at Wandles Parva, where Dame Beatrice, having again forsaken the college high-table for the weekend flesh-pots provided by her French cook, had arranged to meet them.
Laura told the inconclusive tale, and added that she would never make either a policewoman or a reporter. Dame Beatrice cackled.
‘But you have made Mr Coles emphasise the very thing we regard as being of primary importance in the case,’ she said. ‘I had no hopes of the interview at all, therefore you have had great success.’
‘You mean it matters whether he went to that holiday camp?’
‘Of course it does, child. If his wife went there, she went with somebody else. If she did not go there either, it means that somebody had some reason to impersonate her, or else that it was her sister, Miss Carrie Palliser, with a lover.’
‘And as it doesn’t seem absolutely certain that the murdered woman was Mrs Coles… the apparent age of the body…’
‘Exactly. Here we have a very pretty kettle of fish. I am now going to interview Mr Coles myself, but not, this time, at the art school. Neutral territory is indicated, but some territories are less neutral than others. Suppose we send for him to visit us here?’
‘He won’t come.’
‘Do you care to risk a small sum in support of that theory?’
‘It isn’t a theory; it’s a broad-based fact. As it is, I’ve scared him stiff. I told you how he answered me. He must have a guilt-complex. You had better let him mature in cask for a bit.’
‘No, no. We’ll get him while he’s still in a state of ferment. Your question about the holiday camp, coming on top of mine, will have given him furiously to think, and, if we assist his thinking, I have an idea that he may be prepared to give us some information.’
‘I suppose it occurs to you,’ said Laura, after a pause, ‘that he may not really give a hoot about the whole businesss? He may be glad to wash his hands of the girl. And, anyway, he doesn’t know that we think the dead woman may not be his wife.’
‘True, and he must not be allowed to know it yet. Tomorrow is Saturday, and I ascertained from the time-table, which I saw in the principal’s room when I was at the art school, that they are in session on Saturdays from ten in the morning until midday. We have only to telephone, informing Mr Coles that we expect him to dinner, and that a car will be placed at his disposal, to receive an enthusiastic acceptance of our invitation. He was accustomed to sponge on his wife. He shall sponge on me.’
‘Bless your heart!’ observed Laura, sardonically. ‘I know he won’t come. I’ve got him terrified, I tell you.’ But her scorn was wasted. Dame Beatrice did the telephoning herself and returned to announce to her secretary that Coles was coming to dinner on the Saturday evening.
‘And how!’ said Laura, sceptical to the last. Dame Beatrice reassured her.
‘I can repeat the telephone conversation verbatim,’ she declared. ‘I rang the art school and obtained speech with the secretary, a most intelligent, willing and helpful girl. She located Mr Coles with the greatest of ease and he was soon brought to the telephone. I reminded him that he had met me, and gave him the invitation to dinner. The conversation then ran as follows. I quote.’
Laura grinned. She had spent several years in Dame Beatrice’s employment but was still prepared for surprises.
‘Uh-huh?’ she said, non-committally.
‘The conversation,’ said Dame Beatrice, ‘ran thus:
‘Is that Mr Coles?’
‘Speaking.’
‘Splendid. Dame Beatrice Bradley here. I visited you a short time ago, if you remember.’
‘Oh, yes. Well, well! And how do we find ourselves?’
‘Short of one weekend guest, Mr Coles.’
‘Too bad. Anything I can do?’
‘Of course. That is why I am speaking to you at this present moment. Are you able to join us?—The Stone House, Wandles Parva, Hampshire. Nearest station Brockenhurst, but, if you prefer it, I can send my car to pick you up and transport you hither. Don’t bother about a black tie, or anything of that sort. We shall be a very small family party. By the way, do not be alarmed if you meet my secretary who called at the art school yesterday.’
‘Not Lady Vere de Vere?’
(‘You see?’ said Laura, smugly.)
‘The same.’
‘I knew she couldn’t be a copper’s moll, although I called her one.’
‘That says a great deal for your sense of character.’
‘Did you say you could pick me up in a car? I’m not sold on paying my fare. Haven’t got it, to be precise’
‘Very well, then, Mr Coles. My chauffeur will be at your door at two o’clock this afternoon. You will be ready by then?’
‘Washed, shaved, shriven, and with a rose in my coat. Good-bye.’
‘So he’s coming,’ said Laura. ‘It’s a sobering thought. What a forty-guinea suit and my womanly charm could not accomplish, the promise of rich food and a chauffeur-driven car have pulled off with the greatest of ease. You called him a sponger, I believe. How right you so often are!’
Mr Coles had smartened himself up. He was also on the defensive, particularly with Laura.
‘I realise,’ he said, finding her in the dining-room before his hostess had come down, ‘that there’s method in this madness of inviting me here for the weekend, and you may as well know, first as last, that I’m not committing myself. I know the police think I’m responsible for what happened to Norah, but they’re wrong. And if you think the same, you’re wrong, too, Mrs Private-Detective Gavin.’
‘There, there. Have a cocktail,’ said Laura. ‘I mixed them myself, so I know they’re good. Now I’ll tell you the people you’re going to meet, and we’ll get the worst over first, and that’s my husband, Detective Chief-Inspector Robert Gavin of the C.I.D. However, take heart. He is not here in his official capacity.’