Lathom’s inscrutable features gave no hint as to how he felt, and before he could reply Sir James said:
‘You can play a lone hand as much as you like, Wyatt. Or ask for help whenever you feel you need it. It won’t be a case of your butting in; Lathom will remain in charge and look after the desk work and keep you au fait with the latest developments. We’d like to think we’ve got you up our sleeve as a master card when things get hot.’
‘I’ll telephone you as soon as I’ve had a talk with Sally,’ promised Wyatt, and Sir James levered himself somewhat reluctantly out of his armchair.
‘Are you sure you won’t stay to tea?’ asked Wyatt. ‘It won’t take Fred ten minutes to lay everything on …’
‘No, thanks, Wyatt. We must get back at once. There are a lot of things to follow up at that end. I’ll expect you to telephone me before this time tomorrow, then we can decide on some plans for you if you care to take on this job. I’m relying on you to talk Sally into it.’
Wyatt accompanied his visitors out to their car, enquiring after one or two of his former colleagues at the Yard, and welcoming this rare opportunity to talk shop, which was not often vouchsafed to him nowadays, for Sally hardly ever referred to the old days. She always believed in living in the present, and all her energies seemed to be absorbed in running the smallholding.
When he had waved goodbye to them, he limped back to the front porch and sank into a deck-chair. He had forgotten all about the form that was waiting to be filled up; instead, his brain was awhirl with the recollections of the Ariman case. He was still sitting there when their ancient but solid coupé drew up outside, and Sally flung open the door.
‘Hi there!’ she called. ‘Wake up and give me a hand with the parcels!’
He got up and went slowly towards the car, taking in her trim figure, with neat blue shirt open at the neck, which somehow made her look amazingly cool even after a six-mile drive and two hours’ shopping on a warm afternoon.
‘Hallo, Sally … you’re back,’ he murmured lamely. ‘Have a good time?’
‘Nothing special.’ She smiled at him … it was a frank, welcoming smile that shone from the depths of her unusual grey eyes, and was reserved only for her husband.
‘What have you been up to?’ she wanted to know. ‘I hope you filled in that form, and wrote that letter to the poultry food people …’
‘I’ve had visitors,’ he interposed. ‘An old friend of yours.’
‘So you’ve done nothing except snooze in a deck-chair. Didn’t they stay for tea? And who was this old friend?’
‘Sir James Perivale, no less. He had to get back to Town in a hurry.’
Sally puckered her shapely lips into a low whistle of surprise. ‘Whatever brought him here?’ she wanted to know.
‘He was down at Sittingbourne, and thought he’d like to see how we’re getting on,’ replied her husband evasively, as he gathered up an armful of parcels.
‘I’d like to have seen the Chief again,’ said Sally. ‘How was he?’
‘He looked quite fit. Said he was very sorry to miss you, but he had to rush off. The old boy’s absolutely tireless. He’s busy on a case that Mildred’s mixed up in.’
Sally paused in the act of collecting her shopping basket from the back of the car.
‘Mildred? I haven’t heard from her for some time. What’s she up to nowadays?’
‘Nobody seems to know,’ replied Wyatt. ‘You see, she happens to have disappeared. Let’s go in and have some tea, and I’ll tell you all about it.’
In the kitchen they found Fred Porter, with a face like the rising sun, just pouring out some tea. He stayed long enough to drink one large cup, then went back to hoeing his beans. Fred was a man of few words when his mind was intent upon a job of work, so Sally quickly prepared a tray and carried it into the sitting-room, where her husband had returned to his desk in the corner.
‘I suppose you wouldn’t have any idea how many ducklings we have under six months?’ he enquired.
‘Thirty-four,’ she replied without a moment’s hesitation, pulling up a small table and starting to pour out the tea. ‘Now, what’s all this about Mildred?’
He told her all about the strange disappearances of the two girls, and of the death of Barbara Willis. But he did not mention the Chief’s invitation, for he wanted to clarify the situation a litttle more in his own mind. After tea, he returned to his form-filling, while Sally fed the livestock and did a dozen other odd jobs that had accumulated during her shopping expedition.
Fred came in, washed himself, and cooked his own supper. He had a little room of his own, where he presently retired, and Wyatt suggested to Sally that they might go to the pictures in Faversham, as there was just time to catch the last house.
The main feature was one of those fast-moving American crime epics, concerning the adventures of a tough ‘private eye’, who found himself embroiled in a chain of bizarre situations of growing intensity, and remaining as tough as ever even when the girl practically threw herself into his arms for the final fade-out.
Wyatt found it quite stimulating, and as they walked to the car park he determined to tell Sally about Sir James’ proposition on the way home. But it was not until they had left the outskirts of the town behind, and he was cautiously steering the car through the dusky country lanes, that he came really to the point.
‘So that’s what was in the wind this afternoon,’ said Sally after he had finished. She made no further comment for two or three minutes. The car’s headlights picked up a young rabbit which scurried ahead of them for a hundred yards, then suddenly swerved into the hedgerow.
‘What d’you make of it, Sally?’ he asked. ‘The Chief wants you in on it, too – and I told him I wouldn’t do anything without consulting you.’
‘I’m glad of that,’ she replied. ‘Because you’re certainly not going to do anything. We’re not breaking up our happy home for the Home Secretary himself!’
‘But wait a minute, Sally,’ he began to protest, but she shook her head quite decisively.
‘You know perfectly well the doctors said you weren’t to go taking chances with that leg of yours,’ she reminded him.
‘He says he only needs my brains,’ he reminded her.
‘I dare say he says that,’ sniffed Sally, ‘but you know as well as I do that if you started in on a case, you’d always be pushing your nose into the most dangerous corners. It isn’t fair, Lionel … just as we’ve settled down so nicely here.’
Lionel Wyatt sighed. He supposed Sally would have her way, as usual. Not that there wasn’t something to be said for her point of view. A woman hankered after a settled sort of home and a husband around, not a man who was gadding all over the country and getting mixed up with unpleasant customers at every turn.
‘Well, I won’t phone the Chief till tomorrow anyhow. I reckon it won’t do any harm to sleep on it,’ he said presently, as they came to the familiar turning that led to their little farm.
‘Fred’s closed the yard gate again, damn him!’ muttered Wyatt under his breath. ‘He might have left it for me.’ He opened the car door and got out to open the gate. After he had done so, Sally saw him leave the glaring cone of the headlights and pick up something from the grass verge beside the road.
He came back to the car and switched on the dashboard light to examine his find. It was a neat lady’s leather handbag.
‘Is this yours?’ he asked.
Sally shook her head.