Grant shook himself and picked up the telephone receiver.
“Edward Champneis didn’t spend the night of Wednesday on board,” he said, when he had been connected. “I want to know where he did spend it. And don’t forget, discretion is the better part. You may find that he spent it with the Warden of the Cinque Ports, or something equally orthodox, but I’ll be surprised if he did. It would be a good idea if someone got friendly with his valet and went through his wardrobe for a dark coat. You know the strongest card we have is that no one outside the force knows about that button. The fact that we asked for any discarded coat that was found to be brought in doesn’t convey much to anyone. The chances are ten to one, I think, that the coat is still with its owner. Keeping a coat, even with a missing button, is less conspicuous than getting rid of one. And that S.O.S. for the coat was only a police circular, anyhow, not a public appeal. So inspect the Champneis wardrobe. . . . No, I haven’t got anything on him. . . . Yes, I know it is mad. But I’m not taking any more chances in this case. Only be discreet, for Heaven’s sake. I’m in bad enough odour as it is. What is the news? Has Tisdall turned up? . . . Oh, well, I expect he will by night. He might give the Press a break. They’re waiting breathless for him. How is the Clay dossier coming? . . . Oh. Has Vine come back from interviewing the dresser—what’s-her-name? Bundle—yet? No? All right, I’m coming straight back to town.”
As Grant hung up he shut his mind quickly on the thought that tried to jump in. Of course Tisdall was all right. What could happen to an adult in the English countryside in summer? Of course he was all right.
16
The dossier was filling up nicely. Henry Gotobed had been an estate carpenter near Long Eaton, and had married a laundry maid at the “big house.” He had been killed in a threshing-mill accident, and—partly because his father and grandfather had been estate servants, partly because she was not strong enough to work—the widow had been given a small pension. The cottage at Long Eaton having to be vacated, she had brought her two children to Nottingham, where there was better hope of ultimate employment for them. The girl was then twelve and the boy fourteen. It had been curiously difficult to obtain information about them after that. Information other than the bare official record, that is to say. In the country, changes were slow, interests circumscribed, and memories long. But in the fluctuating life of the town, where a family stayed perhaps six months in a house and moved elsewhere, interest was superficial where it existed at all.
Meg Hindler, the Newsreel’s protégée, had proved the only real help. She was an enormous, hearty, loud-voiced, good-natured woman, who cuffed her numerous brood with one hand and caressed with the other. She was still suffering a little from a Nell-Cozens phobia, but when she could be kept off the Cozens tack she was genuinely informative. She remembered the family not because there was anything memorable about them, but because she had lived with her own family across the landing from them, and had worked in the same factory as Chris, so that they sometimes came home together. She had liked Chris Gotobed in a mild way; didn’t approve of her stuck-up ideas, of course; if you had to earn your living by working in a factory, then you had to earn your living by working in a factory, and why make a fuss about it? Not that Chris made a fuss, but she had a way of shaking the dust of the factory off her as if it was dirt. And she wore a hat always; a quite unnecessary piece of affectation. She had adored her mother, but her mother couldn’t see anything in life but Herbert. A nasty piece of work, if ever there was one, Herbert. As slimy, sneaking, cadging, self-satisfied a piece of human trash as you’d meet in a month of Sundays. But Mrs. Gotobed thought he was the cat’s whiskers. He was always making it difficult for Chris. Chris had once talked her mother into letting her have dancing lessons—though what you wanted dancing lessons for, Meg couldn’t think: you’d only to watch the others hopping round for a little and you’d got the general idea: after that it was only practice—but when Herbert had heard about it he had quickly put a stop to anything like that. They couldn’t afford it, he said—they never could afford anything unless Herbert wanted it—and, besides, dancing was a light thing, and the Lord wouldn’t approve. Herbert always knew what the Lord would like. He not only stopped the dancing-lesson idea but he found some way of getting the money Chris had saved and that she had hoped her mother would make up to the required amount. He had pointed out how selfish it was of Chris to save money for her own ends when their mother was so poorly. He talked such a lot about their mother’s bad health that Mrs. Gotobed began to feel very poorly indeed, and took to her bed. And Herbert helped eat the delicacies that Chris bought. And Herbert went with his mother for four days to Skegness because Chris couldn’t leave the factory and it just happened that this was one of the numerous occasions when Herbert was without a job.
Yes, Meg had been helpful. She did not know what had become of the family, of course. Chris had left Nottingham the day after her mother’s funeral, and because the rent was paid up to the end of the week Herbert had stayed on alone in the house for several days after. Meg remembered that because he had had one of his “meetings” in the house—he was always having meetings where he could hear the sound of his own voice—and the neighbours had to complain about the noise of the singing. As if there wasn’t enough row always going on in a tenement without adding meetings to the din! What kind of meetings? Well, as far as she could remember he had begun with political harangues, but very soon took to religion; because it doesn’t matter how you rave at your audience, when it’s religion they don’t throw things. She personally didn’t think it mattered to him what he was talking about as long as he was the person who was talking. She never knew anyone who had a better opinion of himself with less cause than Herbert Gotobed.
No, she didn’t know where Chris had gone, or whether Herbert knew her whereabouts. Knowing Herbert, she thought that Chris had probably gone without saying goodbye. She hadn’t said goodbye to anyone, if it came to that. Meg’s younger brother, Sydney—the one that was now in Australia—had had a fancy for her, but she didn’t give him any encouragement. Didn’t have any beaux, Chris didn’t. Funny, wasn’t it, that she should have seen Christine Clay on the screen often and often, and never recognised Chris Gotobed. She had changed a lot, that she had. She’d heard that they made you over in Hollywood. Perhaps that was it. And of course it was a long time between seventeen and thirty. Look what a few years had done to her, come to think of it.
And Meg had laughed her ample laugh and revolved her ample figure for the detective’s inspection, and had given him a cup of stewed tea and Rich Mixed Biscuits.
But the detective—who was the Sanger who had assisted at the non-arrest of Tisdall, and who was also a Clay fan—remembered that even in a city there are communities who have interests as narrow and memories as long as any village dwellers, and so he had come eventually to the little house in a suburb beyond the Trent where Miss Stammers lived with a toy Yorkshire terrier and the wireless. Both terrier and wireless had been given her on her retirement. She would never have had the initiative after thirty years of teaching at Beasley Road Elementary School to acquire either on her own behalf. School had been her life, and school still surrounded her. She remembered Christina Gotobed very clearly indeed. What did Mr. Sanger want to know about her? Not Mr.? A detective? Oh, dear! She did hope that there was nothing serious the matter. It was all a very long time ago, and of course she had not kept in touch with Christina. It was impossible to keep in touch with all one’s pupils when one had as many as sixty in a class. But she had been an exceptionally promising child, exceptionally promising.
Sanger had asked if she was unaware that her exceptionally promising pupil was Christine Clay?
“Christine Clay? The film actress you mean? Dear me. Dear me!”
Sanger had thought the expression a little inadequate until he noticed her small eyes grow suddenly large with tears. She took off her pince-nez and wiped them away with a neatly folded square of handkerchief.
“So famous?” she murmured. “Poor child. Poor child.”
Sanger