‘What is it?’ asked Sally.
‘There’s a name scribbled here rather faintly … “Doctor Fraser”.’
‘That’s the name Sir James mentioned, isn’t it? The one they found on the prescription belonging to Barbara Willis.’
Wyatt nodded thoughtfully and snapped the bag shut, pushing it into the cubbyhole at the end of the dashboard. He flicked off the light and drove slowly into the yard towards the disused stable they had converted into a garage. Neither of them spoke again until they were facing the garage doors, when Sally said: ‘My turn this time. I can manage the doors now since Fred put the new catch on them.’
He nodded absently and watched her pull open the heavy left-hand door. As the car’s headlights penetrated into the garage, he saw her stiffen suddenly. Then she turned, with a look of horror which seemed more ghastly in the strong glare.
‘Lionel! There’s somebody in there!’ she cried.
He leapt out of the car and rushed over to her.
‘All right, Sally – all right.’ His hand gripped her shoulder and he followed her gaze. Just within the circle of light was a woman’s foot. He could see the shape of the girl dimly; she was slumped in a far corner against a large oil drum, just beyond the range of the headlights.
‘Stay here, Sally,’ he ordered, and went over to the other end of the garage. Five minutes later, he was back.
‘She’s been strangled,’ he said quietly.
Sally caught her breath.
‘Who is she?’
Even as she asked, something seemed to tell her what he would answer.
‘This will be a bit of a shock,’ he said slowly.
‘You know her?’
‘Yes – it’s Mildred Gillow.’
His hand on her shoulder felt her recoil physically as if from a blow.
‘Poor Mildred,’ she whispered. ‘Then Sir James was right – it must be … Ariman …’
Wyatt left the car where it was, switched off the lights and closed the garage door. Immediately on entering the house they went to Fred’s room, and found him in bed, snoring heavily. With some difficulty, Wyatt woke him and asked if he had seen any strangers about during the evening.
Fred rubbed his eyes and ruffled his sandy hair thoughtfully.
‘I’ve been down in the far orchard most of the time since supper,’ he recalled sleepily. ‘Didn’t see anybody except old Ted Woolley shooting wild pigeons. Why, what’s the matter?’
‘You’re sure you didn’t see anybody else?’
‘Not a soul,’ yawned Fred. ‘But there was a phone call for you – not that I could make much sense of it. Some feller said he’d got an important message for you, so I said I’d give it you when you came in. But you couldn’t call it much of a message, at least, not to my way of thinking.’
‘What did he say, Fred?’
Fred yawned again.
‘As far as I could make out, all this cove said was: “Present my compliments to Mr Wyatt. The name is Mr Rossiter”.’
It was well after midnight before Wyatt and Sally were able to get to bed. They had had to contact the local police, who had removed the body of Mildred Gillow to the mortuary. Fortunately, Wyatt had been on friendly terms with the constable at the village police station for some considerable time, but even so, the sergeant who came over from Faversham was inclined to query some of his statements. Quite understandably, he found it difficult to believe that Mr and Mrs Wyatt could discover the body of an old friend in their garage without having at least a clue as to how it had got there.
In the end it was Sally who suggested that her husband should ring up Sir James. The sergeant pricked up his ears, and Wyatt was bound to explain to him:
‘She means my old chief at the Yard – the Assistant Commissioner.’
The sergeant was obviously impressed as Wyatt picked up the receiver and gave the familiar number. As he had expected, Sir James had left his office, but Wyatt eventually managed to get his home telephone number from one of the inspectors on night duty, whom he had known slightly some years previously.
When Wyatt broke the news to Sir James, the familiar voice positively crackled, so they could hear it all over the room.
‘You’ve got to come in on this case, Wyatt … you’ve simply got to … and there’s no time to lose.’
Wyatt looked across at Sally questioningly. She reached over and took the receiver from him.
‘All right, Sir James,’ she said quietly. ‘You can count us in.’
At ten o’clock next morning Wyatt and Sally were heading west, bound for the fishing village of Shorecombe. Wyatt had persuaded Sir James that a trip up there was a very necessary item in their plan of campaign.
They found there was no hotel in the place; the best accommodation they could get was at a not unattractive inn called the Silver Fleet, which catered for a certain number of visitors during the summer months. Their room was rather cramped, but very clean, and they both rather enjoyed the friendly atmosphere of the saloon bar down below, where the fishermen mingled with local shopkeepers and a sprinkling of visitors. Wyatt got on well with Fred Johnson, the landlord, a jovial type of Yorkshireman in the early fifties, who was quite ready to discuss the recent tragedy, though he could throw no light on it. He did, however, vouch for the character of Bill Tyson, the fisherman who was with Hugo Linder when they discovered the body.
‘I’ve known old Bill best part of thirty years,’ he informed Wyatt. ‘Straight as a line – asks favours of no man. I’d trust ’im wi’ me last bottle of Napoleon brandy.’
Wyatt smiled. He intended to see Bill Tyson himself sometime, but he felt now that perhaps he would not learn very much. However, it would be interesting to hear his version of the discovery of Barbara Willis. They were in their room the morning after their arrival, when Fred Johnson suddenly appeared in his shirt-sleeves to announce that Hugo Linder was down below, asking if he could have a word with them.
‘You could see him in the back parlour if you like,’ volunteered the landlord.
‘Thanks,’ nodded Wyatt, ‘will you tell him we’ll be down almost at once?’
They found that Hugo Linder was a typical Scandinavian, with fair hair and Nordic profile, a profile marred only by a slightly twisted nose, which, they learned later, was the result of amateur boxing activities in his college days.
‘I got your message, Mr Wyatt,’ he began, after introducing himself, ‘so I thought I’d come round right away. I’ve just been reading this morning’s paper about the other girl being found, and it seems to me there’s no time to be lost.’
Wyatt nodded, and went on to ask him a series of questions about the discovery of the body of Barbara Willis. These revealed nothing new, but they helped Wyatt to get all the details firmly fixed in his mind.
‘And