"If you wanted to capture my interest, you have succeeded. What is this thing - the product of a Ouija board? Or a cryptic message you found in a bottle?"
"Neither. I mentioned already that both Aunt Jane and Father John claimed the hobby of criminology. They gave me the name and address of a man whom they seem to consider the leader of their little clique, and suggested we talk to him."
Illya gave Napoleon a look that implied a straitjacket and probably a padded cell. "A hobbyist?" he said unbelievingly. "An amateur detective of some kind? What on earth could you hope to find out from an armchair expert? He probably follows all the crime stories in the newspapers and pastes them in scrapbooks, with little notations on theories and resolutions. With the resources of Scotland Yard, part of MI-5, and all of U.N.C.L.E., you want to seek the advice of some utterly incompetent little man who has probably never seen an actual crime outside a newspaper photograph?"
Napoleon raised a hand to shorten his partner's out burst. "He may be, or he may not," he said. "Talking with a little old lady and an equally unprepossessing priest, I gained quite a respect for their minds and abilities, as I believe I said only recently. They seemed to admire this man tremendously, and because of this I am willing at least to talk to him. You may either come along or pursue your interests here in the city while I go alone."
"Where? And what do you know about him? What does he do for a living? What's his name, and what are his qualifications?"
"Actually I know very little. He's very old, apparently - somewhere around a hundred years old, according to Father John. Aunt Jane said he was once a detective, though I imagine most of our modem techniques would be beyond him by this point. Outside of that, all I know is that he is long retired, and keeps bees on his little Sussex farm. And his name is William Escott. I'll be going down to see him tomorrow afternoon."
Illya sighed. "I may as well come along. It might be interesting, if not educational."
It was three o'clock on a still May afternoon when two casually dressed individuals descended from the second passenger car of a little local train at the station of a sleepy Sussex town. One was tall, long-jawed, and obviously American. The other was square-faced and blond, wearing American clothes but of less certain nationality. They conversed together in low tones, and though the usual station loungers could have taken oath that neither of them had ever been in the village before, both strode directly up High Street without pausing to ask for directions.
They walked completely through the village and out the other side where High Street narrowed again to a two-laned strip of pavement cracked with heavy use. The shriek of the train announcing its departure from the station came faintly to them across the somnolent haze of the afternoon.
They had walked perhaps half a mile beyond the last houses of the village before Napoleon turned left into a narrow dirt lane that wound off under the branches of great antediluvian oak. The only sounds that reached them now were the whispers of a fitful breeze stirring the leaves nearby and the distant drone of insects. The harsher buzz of a light plane somewhere far away in the sky mingled with the soft undercurrent of sound to give an impression to city-bred ears of total silence.
Weeds stood cockily down the center of the road between parallel ruts, and the most observant eye would detect no trace of the oil stains that mark a road frequented by motor vehicles. They seemed to have stepped from the train into a village of 1900, and to have walked from there to a time a hundred years earlier. A feeling of peace, of separation from the Twentieth Century, soaked slowly into them with the heat from the haze-shrouded golden sun. A startled rabbit leaped from the cover of a clump of grass and bolted across the roadway - a flicker of gray fur and a rustling and then stillness again.
The road wound around the foot of a low gentle hill, and dipped into a green valley. They stopped at the top of the grade and looked ahead of them. A small stream sparkled amid rush-crowded banks, and a grove of ash trees stood tall and graceful beside a small thatch-roofed cottage. Behind the cottage ranks of white boxes perched on low tables, grass standing proud and uncut about them. Now the two visitors became aware of numbers of bees, humming like a chorus, darting around them.
Illya finally broke the silence that had accompanied them since passing the edge of town. "Is this the place?" His voice was almost unconsciously lowered to match the hush of the little valley.
Napoleon nodded, and started on down the lane. A path wound off it to the door of the cottage, and ended where an ancient thorn bush stood beside the slab of rock that served as a stoop. Napoleon knocked at the heavy dark wooden door, and the sound seemed to echo inside the house for several seconds before it died away and was replaced by the sound of shuffling footsteps.
The door swung inward, and an aged face peered out at them.
"William Escott?" Napoleon inquired.
"At your service," said a whispery voice, which still held overtones of a former strength. "Come in, come in."
They followed him into the dim, cool interior of the cottage, and found chairs set about a fireplace. The room was a shambles. Books were stacked on tables and chairs, a stench of sulfur dioxide tinged the air from an ancient fractionating column visible on the kitchen sink, a few letters were pinned to the top of the mantel piece with an opened jackknife, a violin case stood in a corner by the most comfortable chair, and various unidentifiable objects stood and lay about the cozy little room.
When they were seated, Escott spent several seconds studying them both intently while they returned his scrutiny. They saw a very old man, not bent with age but standing as straight as a soldier, whose hawklike eye had not been clouded with the passage of time, and whose face retained the keenness that must once have been his. His bright gaze darted from one to the other of his guests as his bees darted from flower to flower. At last he spoke, directly to Napoleon.
"You have recently been in Devonshire, where you had a misfortune of some kind. You spent a short time there, and returned to London... yesterday. You came from London today to see me. Why?"
Taken off balance by the sudden question, Solo said, "That's very good. How do you do it?"
"From the looks of mudstains on your coat, I should imagine," Illya murmured.
"But I had it cleaned and pressed as soon as I got back."
Escott chuckled, a surprisingly deep rich sound. "Precisely how I placed you in London yesterday." He pointed to Napoleon's trouser cuff. "That particular type of crease is affected by a chain of dry cleaning establishments in London, and while the garment has obviously scarcely been worn a day since the pressing, the cloth lacks the slightly matted appearance of moderately long storage. I decided it was pressed yesterday. The slight tear in your coat indicates the misfortune, but the fact that it is only stitched up, not fully repaired, also indicates that it was quite recent. Presumably you would have had the damage taken care of on your return to London unless you only had a day - enough time for a dry-cleaning but not enough for invisible reweaving."
"Oh," said Napoleon inadequately. "How did you decide it was in Devonshire?"