"Chessingham's observatory? I've heard of it. No one can prove you were up there?"
"No." He frowned again, thinking. "Does it matter? I haven't even a bicycle and there's no public transport at that time of night. If I was here after ten-thirty I couldn't have made it to Mordon by eleven-fifteen anyway. Four and a half miles, you know."
"Do you know how the crime was carried out?" I asked. "I mean have you heard? By someone making a diversion to allow someone else to cut through the fences. The red herring got away in a Bedford van stolen from Alfringham."
"I'd heard something like that. The police weren't very communicative, but rumours get around."
"Did you know that the van was found abandoned only one hundred and fifty yards from your house?"
"A hundred and fifty yards!" He seemed genuinely startled, then stared moodily into the fire, "That's bad, isn't it?"
"Is it?"
He thought briefly, then grinned. "I'm not as smart as you think. It's not bad, it's good. If I were driving that van I'd have had to go to Alfringham first for it — after leaving here at ten-thirty. Also, if I were the driver, then I obviously couldn't have gone to Mordon — I'd have been making my supposed getaway. Thirdly, I wouldn't have been so damned stupid as to park it at my front door. Fourthly, I can't drive."
"That's, pretty conclusive," I admitted.
"I can make it even more conclusive," he said excitedly. "Lord, I'm not thinking at all to-night. Come up to the observatory."
We went up the stairs. We passed a door on the first floor and I could hear the subdued murmur of voices. Mrs. Chessingham and Mary talking. A Slingsby ladder led us up into a square hut affair built in the centre of the flat roof. One end of the hut was blanked off with plywood, an entrance covered by a hanging curtain. At the other end was a surprisingly large reflector telescope set in a perspex cupola.
"My only hobby," Ohessingham said. The strain had left his face to be replaced by the eager excitement of the enthusiast. "I'm a member of the British Astronomical Association, Jupiter Section, and a regular correspondent for a couple of astronomical journals — some of them depend almost exclusively on the work of amateurs like myself— and I can tell you that there's nothing less amateurish than an amateur astronomer who's been well and truly bitten by the bug. I wasn't in bed till almost two o'clock this morning — I was making a series of photographs for The Astronomical Monthly of the Red Spot in Jupiter and the satellite occulting its own shadow." He was smiling broadly in his relief now. "Here's the letter commissioning me to do them — they've been pleased with some other stuff I've sent in."
I glanced at the letter. It had to be genuine, of course.
"Got a set of six photographs. Beauties, too, although I say it myself. Here, I'll let you see them." He disappeared behind the curtain which I took to be the entrance of his darkroom and reappeared with a batch of obviously very new photographs. I took them. They looked terrible to me, just a bunch of greyish dots and streaks against a fuzzily dark background. "Not bad, eh?"
"Not bad." I paused and said suddenly, "Could anyone tell from those pictures when they were taken?"
"That's why I brought you up here. Take those to the Greenwich observatory, have them work out the precise latitude and longitude of this house and they could tell you within thirty seconds when each of these photographs were taken. Go on, take them with you."
"No thanks." I handed back the photographs and smiled at him. "I know when I've already wasted enough time— and I've wasted far too much. Send them to The Astronomical Monthly with my best wishes."
We found Mary and Stella talking by the fireside. A few civilities, a polite refusal of a drink and we were on our way. Once in the car I turned the heater switch up as far as it would go but it didn't seem to make any difference. The switch probably wasn't attached to any heater. It was bitterly cold and raining heavily. I hoped the rain would ease.
I said to Mary, "What did you find out?"
"I hate this business," she said intensely. "I hate it. This sneaking underhand approach to people. The lies — the lies to a lovely old person like Mrs. Chessingham. And to that nice girl. To think I worked all those years for the superintendent and never thought—"
"I know," I said. "But you have to fight fire with fire. Think of this double murderer. Think of this man with the Satan Bug in his pocket. Think of—"
"I'm sorry. I really am sorry. It's just that I'm afraid I was never cut out to be — well, never mind. I didn't find out much. They have a maid — that's why dinner was ready shortly after Stella rose. Stella lives at home — her brother insists on it, insists she spends all her time looking after her mother. Her mother is really pretty ill, I gathered from Stella. May go at any time — though she's been told by her doctor that a transfer to a warm climate, like Greece or Spain, might add ten years to her life. Some dangerous combination of asthma and a heart condition. But her mother doesn't want to go, says she'd rather die in Wiltshire than vegetate in Alicante. Something like that. That was all, I'm afraid."
It was enough. It was more than enough. I sat without speaking, thinking maybe the surgeons who wanted to give me a new foot had the right of it, when Mary said abruptly, "And you? Learn anything?"
I told her what had happened. At the end she said, "I heard you telling the superintendent that you really wanted to see Chessingham to find out what you could from him about Dr. Hartnell. What did you find out?"
"Nothing. Never asked him."
"You never — why on earth not?"
I told her why not.
Dr. Hartnell and his wife — they had no children — were at home. Both of them knew Mary — we'd met, socially, once, during the brief time Mary had been staying with me when I lived in Mordon — but they clearly didn't regard our visit as a social call. Everyone I was meeting was nervous, very much on the defensive. I didn't blame them. I'd have been nervous too if I thought someone was trying to hang a couple of murders round my neck.
I went through the spiel about how my visit was only a formality and the unpleasant experience I was sparing them by coming myself instead of letting one of Hardanger's men do the questioning. Their activities in the earlier part of the evening were of no interest to me. I asked them about the later part and they told me. At nine-thirty, they said, they had sat down to watch television — specifically, The Golden Cavaliers, a TV version of a successful stage play that had just finished a long run in London.
"Did you see that?" Mary broke in. "So did I. Pierre was out late last night with a business friend and I turned it on. I thought it was wonderful." For some minutes they discussed the play. I knew Mary had seen it and I knew she was finding out whether they also had really seen it and there was no question but that they had. After some time I said, "When did it finish?"
"About eleven."
"And then?"
"A quick bite of supper and bed," Hartnell said.
"By, say, eleven-thirty?"
"By that, at the latest."
"Well, that's perfectly satisfactory." I heard Mary clear her throat and looked across casually. Her steepled fingers were resting lightly in her lap. I knew what that meant— Hartnell was lying. This I couldn't understand — but I'd infinite faith in her judgement.
I glanced at the clock. I'd asked for a call at eight-thirty and now it was exactly that. Inspector Wylie was on time. The bell rang, Hartnell spoke into the phone then handed it to me. "For you, Cavell. The police, I think."
I spoke, holding the ear-piece fractionally away from my head. Wylie had a naturally carrying voice and I'd asked him to be good and loud. He was. He said, "Cavell? Ah, you told me you were going to be there so I took a chance. This is urgent. Nasty spot of bother at Hailem Junction. Close tie-up with Mordon, if I'm not mistaken. Very unpleasant indeed. Can you get down there immediately?"