By the time Lockhart got home he was utterly despondent.
'It's no use,' he said, 'I can't get anyone to employ me at any sort of job and I can't get social benefits because they won't admit I exist.'
'Oh dear,' said Jessica. 'If only we could sell all the houses daddy left me, we could invest the money and live off the income.'
'Well, we can't. You heard what the Estate Agent said. They're occupied, unfurnished and on long leases and we can't even raise the rent, let alone sell them.'
'I think it's jolly unfair. Why can't we just tell the tenants to go?'
'Because the law says they don't have to move."
'Who cares what the law says?' said Jessica. 'There's a law which says unemployed people get free money, but when it comes to paying you they don't do it, and it isn't even as if you didn't want to work. I don't see why we have to obey a law which hurts us when the Government won't obey a law which helps us.'
'What's good for the goose is good for the gander,' Lockhart agreed and so was born the idea which, nurtured in Lockhart Flawse's mind, was to turn the quiet backwater of Sandicott Crescent into a maelstrom of misunderstandings.
That night, while Jessica racked her brains for some way to supplement their income, Lockhart left the house and, moving with all the silence and stealth he had acquired in pursuit of game on Flawse Fell, stole through the gorse bushes in the bird sanctuary with a pair of binoculars. He was not bird-watching in its true sense but by the time he returned at midnight the occupants of most of the houses had been observed and Lockhart had gained some little insight into their habits.
He sat up for a while making notes in a pocket book. It was carefully indexed and under P he put 'Pettigrew, man and wife aged fifty. Put dachshund named Little Willie out at eleven and make milk drink. Go to bed eleven-thirty.' Under G there was the information that the Grabbles watched television and went to bed at ten-forty-five. Mr and Mrs Raceme in Number 8 did something strange which involved tying Mr Raceme to the bed at nine-fifteen and untying him again at ten. At Number 4 the Misses Musgrove had entertained the Vicar before supper and had lead the Church Times and knitted afterwards. Finally, next door to the Flawse house, Colonel Finch-Potter in Number 10 smoked a cigar after a solitary dinner, fulminated loudly at a Labour Party political broadcast on television, and then took a brisk walk with his bull-terrier before retiring.
Lockhart made notes of all these practices and went to bed himself. Something deep and devious was stirring in his mind. What exactly it was he couldn't say, but the instinct of the hunt was slowly edging its way towards consciousness and with it a barbarity and anger that knew nothing of the law or the social conventions of civilization.
Next morning Jessica announced that she was going to get a job.
'I can type and take shorthand and there's lots of firms wanting secretaries. I'm going to a bureau. They're advertising for temporary typists.'
'I don't like it,' said Lockhart. 'A man should provide for his wife, not the other way round.'
'I won't be providing for you. It's for us, and anyway I might even find you a job. I'll tell everyone I work for how clever you are.'
And in spite of Lockhart's opposition she caught the bus. Left to himself, he spent the day brooding about the house with a sullen look on his face and poking into places he hadn't been before. One of these was the attic and there in an old tin trunk he discovered the papers of the late Mr Sandicott. Among them he found the architect's drawings for the interiors of all the houses in the Crescent together with details of plumbing, sewers, and electrical connections. Lockhart took them downstairs and studied them carefully. They were extremely informative and by the time Jessica returned with the news that she was starting next day with a cement company, one of whose typists was away with flu, Lockhart had mapped in his head the exact location of all the mod cons the houses in Sandicott Crescent boasted. He greeted Jessica's news without enthusiasm.
'If anyone tries anything funny,' he said, remembering Mr Tryer's tendencies with temporary typists, 'I want you to tell me. I'll kill him.'
' Oh, Lockhart darling, you're so chivalrous,' said Jessica proudly. 'Let's have a kiss and cuddle tonight.'
But Lockhart had other plans for the evening and Jessica went to bed alone. Outside, Lockhart crawled through the undergrowth of the bird sanctuary to the foot of the Racemes' garden, climbed the fence and installed himself in a cherry tree that overlooked the Racemes' bedroom. He had decided that Mr Raceme's peculiar habit of allowing his wife to tie him to their double bed for three-quarters of an hour might provide him with information for future use. But he was disappointed. Mr and Mrs Raceme had supper and watched television before having an early and less restrained night. At eleven their lights went out and Lockhart descended the cherry tree and was making his way back over the fence when the Pettigrews at Number 6 put Little Willie out while they made Ovaltine. Attracted by Lockhart's passage through the gorse the dachshund dashed down the garden with a series of yelps and stood barking into the darkness. Lockhart moved away but the dog kept up its hullabaloo and presently Mr Pettigrew came down the lawn to investigate.
'Now, Willie, stop that noise,' he said. 'Good dog. There's nothing there.'
But Willie knew better and, emboldened by his master's presence, made further rushes in Lockhart's direction. Finally Mr Pettigrew picked the dog up and carried him back into the house leaving Lockhart with the resolution to do something about Willie as soon as possible. Barking dogs were a hazard he could do without. He progressed by way of the Misses Musgrove's back garden their lights had gone out promptly at ten – and crossed into the Grabbles' where the downstairs lights were on and the living-room curtains partly open. Lockhart stationed himself beside the greenhouse and focused his binoculars on the gap in the curtains and was surprised to see Mrs Grabble on the sofa in the arms of someone who was quite clearly not the Mr Grabble he knew. As the couple writhed in ecstasy Lockhart's binoculars discovered the flushed face of Mr Simplon who lived at Number 5. Mrs Grabble and Mr Simplon? Then where was Mr Grabble and what was Mrs Simplon doing? Lockhart left the greenhouse and slipped across the road to the golf course, past the Rickenshaws at Number 1 and the Ogilvies at Number 3 to the Simplons' mock-Georgian mansion at Number 5. A light was on upstairs and since the curtains were drawn, the Simplons kept no dog and the garden was well endowed with shrubs, Lockhart ventured down a flowerbed until he was standing beneath the window. He stood as still as he had once stood on Flawse Fell when a rabbit had spotted him, and he was still as motionless when headlights illuminated the front of the house an hour later and Mr Simplon garaged his car. Lights went on in the house and a moment later voices issued from the bedroom, the acrimonious voice of Mrs Simplon and the placatory one of Mr Simplon.
'Working late at the office my foot,' said Mrs Simplon. 'That's what you keep telling me. Well, I phoned the office twice this evening and there was no one there.'
'I was out with Jerry Blond, the architect,' said Mr Simplon. ' He wanted me to meet a client from Cyprus who is thinking of building a hotel. If you don't believe me, phone Blond and see if he doesn't confirm what I say.'
But Mrs Simplon scorned the idea. 'I'm not going to advertise the fact that I have my own ideas about what you get up to,' she said. 'I've got more pride.!
Down in the bushes Lockhart admired her pride and was inspired by her reluctance. If she wasn't going to advertise what she correctly thought Mr Simplon was getting up to, namely Mrs Grabble, it might be to his own advantage to do it for her. And where was Mr Grabble? Lockhart decided to explore that gentleman's movements more closely before acting. Evidently there were nights when Mr Grabble stayed away from home.