“Yes.”
“And that’s what happened-literally?”
“Not quite. The eagles are only metaphorical, unfortunately. But the carcase is literal.”
“Well, it’s all very interesting, but it can’t be the one you saw on Saturday.”
“That’s what you’d think, isn’t it?” said Pettigrew.
In the brief silence that followed, they saw the motor bicycle that had been approaching from Whitsea come to a standstill beside the police car. It did not stay there long. The uniformed constable, evidently posted there for the purpose, waved it on, and the rider went on his way, looking dangerously back over his shoulder as he did so. Then came the coach, to be dealt with in the same fashion.
“There’ll be a lot more eagles about in a minute, I’m thinking,” said Mallett. “There’ll be photographers and an ambulance and men to take casts of footprints. They’ll block the view as best they can with police cars until they’ve got enough hurdles and screens to keep the place private. By that time there’ll be a queue of cars and buses right across the Tussock, trying to stop and being moved on, and trying to move on and being stopped. It’s wonderful how even an out of the way place like this fills up when there’s a corpse involved. We only got here just in time to see anything.”
“And what exactly have we seen?” said Eleanor. There was an awkward little pause, and then Mallett said, “Well, Mr. Pettigrew, as your good lady said just now, it can’t have been what you saw when you were having your little trip on horseback.”
“It was exactly the same,” said Pettigrew flatly. “You told me he had on a bluey-grey coat, I remember. This one’s green.”
“I was wrong, that’s all. I told you at the time my recollection was very vague. Now I’ve seen it again, I’m quite positive it’s the one I saw before.”
“Well then, sir, it is the same man, and he’s been lying there ever since Saturday. You made a mistake about the place when you went back, that’s all.”
“I didn’t make a mistake,” said Pettigrew stubbornly. “He’s in the same spot now that he was in when I first saw him-the place I went back to with Percy Percy when he wasn’t there. You can mark it by those boulders. They’re the only ones anywhere near the place.”
“Well, then…” said Eleanor, and stopped abruptly. “Mr. Mallett,” she went on, with a hint of desperation in her voice, “what do you really think?”
“I think,” Mallett replied, “that we should all be the better for a little snack, madam.”
The snack, as Pettigrew had expected, turned out to be a gargantuan meal. Such time as they were able to spare from the food that was continually pressed on them they devoted to contemplating the proceedings on the Tussock below, which followed very much the pattern that Mallett had foretold. He, meanwhile, kept up a running commentary on the spectacle, blending appreciation with criticism as the procedure of police investigation took its course. The meal and its accompaniment came to an end at about the same time. In the circle of rocks, the full fed guests made their final refusals of another helping, and brushed the last crumbs from their clothes. On the moor, the corpse, having been photographed from all angles, had been removed to the mortuary, and behind their screens junior policemen were settling down to a routine search of the surrounding ground. There was nothing more to see and nothing more that they were able to eat. It was peaceful among the rocks-peaceful, and decidedly warm. For the second time since his holiday began Pettigrew began to doze after a picnic meal. And once more, it was his wife’s voice that jerked him awake.
“Have you considered precognition, Frank?”
“Considered-what?”
“Precognition. It’s a possibility, you know.”
Pettigrew reluctantly forced himself to consider it.
“You mean,” he said, “that I might have seen what wasn’t there at the time but was going to be there later?”
“Yes. Like the man who wrote An Experiment with Time.”
“I don’t think I’m a bit like the man who wrote An Experiment with Time. Things like that don’t happen to me. I’m simply a normal bloke, with normal senses.”
“Perhaps. But you weren’t in an altogether normal state on Saturday afternoon. You were thinking about something you had seen on Bolter’s Tussock fifty years ago-something that had made a tremendous impression on you at the time. You found yourself more or less reliving that experience. Subconsciously-if that’s the right word-you were expecting to see it again. Nobody could have been surprised if you had seen it-or fancied that you had seen it, which is exactly the same thing. And all unknown to you, only just round the corner in time, something just like it was there, waiting to be seen. You took a jump forward three days, instead of backwards fifty years, and saw that instead. It seems a possible theory to me. Doesn’t it to you?”
There are those who boast that they have second sight. There are even said to be families-mostly on the western fringes of the British Isles -in which any individual lacking it is regarded as eccentric. To Pettigrew, the idea that he might even for the space of a single afternoon, have been visited with the gift was utterly repellent. It was quite inconsistent with the character of logical formality that he had built up in a lifetime of hard work. The knowledge that deep down within him lurked a strong vein of fantasy made him all the more anxious to disclaim the possibility. But even as he opened his mouth to blast his wife’s ridiculous theory, the devil tempted him and he saw its manifest attractions. It was neat, it was comprehensive, above all it absolved him once and for all from the duty of taking any action. He had only to concede that for once in his life he had been “fey” and… He found himself looking at Mallett. “What is your opinion?” he asked. Mallett was engaged in strapping up the picnic basket. He pulled hard at a recalcitrant strap, and the effort made his face rather red.
“You’ll excuse me, sir,” he said, “if I prefer not to have any opinion on that subject. It’s not in my line at all. I’ve never seen anything before it happened. It would have saved me a lot of trouble if I had sometimes, I dare say. But I can guess what’s coming as well as the next man, and if that’s what precognition is, then I precognose that we shall find things rather badly upset when we get back to Sallowcombe.”
“Why is that?”
“Has it occurred to you, sir, that in all the questions we’ve been asking about the poor devil they’ve just taken away in the ambulance, we never thought to ask who he was? Well, it’s difficult to be certain at this range, but I had a good look at him through the glass, and it’s my belief that he’s none other than Jack Gorman.”
CHAPTER X. Sunbeam Cottage
I’m afraid it’s not very much to look at,” Mallett said apologetically as he stopped the car outside his house.
Pettigrew said nothing but privately he disagreed heartily. Sunbeam Cottage-such was its regrettable name-was a lot to look at-one might say, a great deal too much. In a country of soft colours and smooth curves it stood out, vivid, angular and irredeemably ugly. Happily the distressing exterior was redeemed by a cheerful, comfortable interior. Mallett insisted on taking them all over it while the kettle boiled for tea. Back in the sitting-room he said:
“Well, now, Mrs. Pettigrew, what do you think of it?”
Eleanor murmured something that she hoped would satisfy an obviously house-proud owner, but Mallett brushed it aside.
“I’m speaking of the spare room, of course,” he said. “It’s not so large as the one at Sallowcombe, but do you think it will do?”