Died in the Wool

CHAPTER IX ATTACK

The cook being insensible and, according to Fabian, certain to remain so for many hours, Alleyn suffered him to be removed and concentrated on Albert Black.

There had been a certain speciousness about the cook but Albert, he decided, was an abominable specimen. He disseminated meanness and low cunning. He was drunk enough to be truculent and sober enough to look after himself. The only method, Alleyn decided, was that of intimidation. He and Fabian withdrew with Albert into the annex.

“Have you ever been mixed up in a murder charge before?” Alleyn began with the nearest approach to police-station truculence of which he was capable.

“I’m not mixed up in one now,” said Albert, showing the whites of his eyes. “Choose your words.”

“You’re withholding information in a homicidal investigation, aren’t you? D’you know what that means?”

“Here!” said Albert. “You can’t swing that across me.”

“You’ll be lucky if you don’t get a pair of bracelets swung across you. Haven’t you been in trouble before?” Albert looked at him indignantly. “Come on, now,” Alleyn persisted. “How about a charge of theft?”

“Me?” said Albert. “Me, with a clean sheet all the years I bin ’ere! Accusing me of stealing! ’Ow dare yer?”

“What about Mr. Rubrick’s whisky? Come on, Black, you’d better make a clean breast of it.”

Albert looked at the piano. His dirty fingers pulled at his underlip. He moved closer to Alleyn and peered into his face. “It’s methylated spirits they stink of,” Alleyn thought.

“Got a fag on yer?” Albert said ingratiatingly and grasped him by the coat.

Alleyn freed himself, took out his case and offered it, open, to Albert.

“You’re a pal,” said Albert and took the case. He helped himself fumblingly to six cigarettes and put them in his pocket. He looked closely at the case. “Posh,” he said. “Not gold though, d’you reckon, Mr. Losse?”

Fabian took it away from him.

“Well,” Alleyn said. “How about this whisky?”

Albert jerked his head at the piano. “So he got chatty after all, did he?” he said. “The little bastard. O.K. That lets me out.” He again grasped Alleyn by the coat with one hand and with the other pointed behind him at the piano. “What a Pal,” he said. “Comes the holy Jo over a drop of Johnny Walker and the next night he’s fixing the big job.”

“What the hell are you talking about!” Fabian said violently.

“Can — you — tell — me,” Albert said, swaying and clinging to Alleyn, “how a little bastard like that can be playing the ruddy piano and at the same time run into me round the corner of the wool-shed? There’s a mystery for you if you like.”

Fabian took a step forward. “Be quiet, Losse,” said Alleyn.

“It’s a very funny thing,” Albert continued, “how a nindividual can be in two places at oncet. And he knew he oughtn’t to be there, the ruddy little twister. Because all the time I sees him by the wool-shed he keeps on thumping that blasted pianna. Now then!”

“Very strange,” said Alleyn.

“Isn’t it? I knew you’d say that.”

“Why haven’t you talked about this before?”

Albert freed himself, spat, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Bargain’s a bargain, isn’t it? Fair dos. Wait till I get me hands on the little twister. Put me away, has he? Good-oh! And what does he get? Anywhere else he’d swing for it.”

“Did you hear Mrs. Rubrick speaking in the wool-shed?”

“How could she speak when he’d fixed her? That was earlier: ‘Ladies and Gentlemen.’ Gawd, what a go!”

“Where was he?”

“Alleyn, for God’s sake—” Fabian began and Alleyn turned to him. “If you can’t be quiet, Losse, you’ll have to clear out. Now Black, where was Cliff?”

“Aren’t I telling you? Coming out of the shed.”

Alleyn looked through the annex window. He saw a rough track running downhill, past the yards, past a side road to the wool-shed, down to a narrow water race above the gate that Florence Rubrick came through when she left the lavender path and struck uphill to the wool-shed.

“Was it then that you asked him to say nothing about the previous night when he caught you stealing the whisky?” Alleyn held his breath. It was a long shot and almost in the dark.

“Not then,” said Albert.

“Did you speak to him?”

“Not then.”

“Had you already spoken about the whisky?”

“I’m not saying anything about that. I’m telling you what he done.”

“And I’m telling you what you did. That was the bargain, wasn’t it? He found you making away with the bottles. He ordered you off and was caught trying to put them back. He didn’t give you away. Later, when the murder came out and the police investigation started, you struck your bargain. If Cliff said nothing about the whisky, you’d say nothing about seeing him come out of the shed?”

Albert was considerably sobered. He looked furtively from Alleyn to Fabian. “I got to protect myself,” he said. “Asking a bloke to put himself away.”

“Very good. You’d rather I tell him you’ve blown the gaff and get the whole story from him. The police will be interested to know you’ve withheld important information.”

“All right, all right,” said Albert shrilly. “Have it your own way, you blasted cow,” and burst into tears.

Fabian and Alleyn groped their way down the hill in silence. They turned off to the wool-shed where Alleyn paused and looked at the sacking-covered door. Fabian watched him miserably.

“It must have been in about this light,” Alleyn said. “Just after dark.”

“You can’t do it!” Fabian said. “You can’t believe a drunken sneak thief’s story. I know young Cliff. He’s a good chap. You’ve talked to him. You can’t believe it.”

“A year ago,” Alleyn said, “he was an over-emotionalized, slightly hysterical and extremely unhappy adolescent.”

“I don’t give a damn! Oh God!” Fabian muttered. “Why the hell did I start this?”

“I did warn you,” Alleyn said with something like compassion in his voice.

“It’s impossible, I swear — I formally swear to you that the piano never stopped for more than a few seconds. You know what it’s like on a still night. The cessation of a noise like that hits your ears. Albie was probably half tight. Good Lord, he said himself that the piano went on all the time. Of course it wasn’t Cliff that he saw. I’m amazed that you pay the smallest attention to his meanderings.” Fabian paused. “If he saw anyone,” he added, and his voice changed, “I admit that it was probably the murderer. It wasn’t Cliff. You yourself pointed out that it was almost dark.”

“Then why did Cliff refuse to talk about the whisky?”

“Schoolboy honour. He’d struck up a friendship with the wretched creature.”

“Yes,” said Alleyn. “That’s tenable.”

“Then why don’t you accept it?”

“My dear chap, I’ll accept it if it fits. See here. I want you to do two things for me. The first is easy. When you go indoors, help me to get a toll call through in privacy. Will you?”

“Of course.”

“The second is troublesome. You know the pens inside the shearing shed? With the slatted floor where the unshorn sheep are huddled together?”

“Well?”

“You’ve finished crutching to-day, haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

“I’m afraid I want to take that slatted floor up.”

Fabian stared at him. “Why on earth?”

“There may be something underneath.”

“There are the sheep droppings of thirty years underneath.”

“So I feared. Those of the last year are all that concern me. I’ll want a sieve and a spade and if you can lay your hands on a pair of rejected overalls, I’d be grateful.”

Fabian looked at Alleyn’s hands. “And gloves if it could be managed,” Alleyn said. “I’m very sorry about taking up the floor. The police department will pay the damage, of course. It may only be one section — the one nearest the press. I think you might warn the others when we go in.”

“May I ask what you hope to find?”

“A light that failed,” said Alleyn.

“Am I supposed to understand that?”

“I don’t see why you shouldn’t.” They had reached the gate into the lavender walk. Alleyn turned and looked back at the track. He could see the open door into the annex where they had left Albie Black weeping off the combined effects of confession, betrayal and the hangover from wood alcohol.

“Was it methylated spirit they’d been drinking?” he asked. “He and the cook?”

“I wouldn’t put it past them. Or Hokanui.”

“What’s that?”

“The local equivalent of potheen.”

“Why do you keep him?”

“He doesn’t break out very often. We can’t pick our men in war-time.”

“I’d love to lock him up,” Alleyn said. “He stinks. He’s a toad.”

“Then why do you listen to him?”

“Do you suppose policemen only take statements from people they fall in love with? Come in. I want to get that call through before the Bureau shuts.”

They found the members of the household assembled in the pleasant colonial-Victorian drawing-room, overlooking the lawn on the wool-shed side of the house.

“We rather felt we couldn’t face the study again,” Ursula said. “After last night, you know. We felt it could do with an airing. And I’m going to bed at eight. If Mr. Alleyn lets me, of course. Does everyone realize we got exactly five and a half hours of sleep last night?”

“I should certainly prefer that Flossie’s portrait did not preside over another session,” Fabian agreed. “If there was to be another session, of course. Having never looked at it for three years I’ve suddenly become exquisitely self-conscious in its presence. I suppose, Ursy darling, you wouldn’t care to have it in your room?”

“If that’s meant to be a joke, Fabian,” said Ursula, “I’m not joining in it.”

“You’re very touchy. Mr. Alleyn is going to dash off a monograph on one of the less delicious aspects of the merino sheep, Douglas. We are to take up the floor of the wool-shed pens.”

Alleyn, standing in the doorway, watched the group round the fire. Mrs. Aceworthy wore her almost habitual expression of half-affronted gentility. Terence Lynne, flashing the needles in her scarlet knitting, stared at him, and drew her thin brows together. Ursula Harme, arrested in the duelling mood she kept for Fabian, paused, her lips parted. Douglas dropped his newspaper and began his usual indignant expostulation: “What in heaven’s name are you talking about, Fab? Good Lord—!”

“Yes, Douglas my dear,” said Fabian, “we know how agitating you find your present condition of perpetual astonishment, but there it is. Up with the slats and down goes poor Mr. Alleyn.”

Douglas retired angrily behind his newspaper. “The whole thing’s a farce,” he muttered obscurely. “I always said so.” He crackled his paper. “Who’s going to do it?”

“If you’ll trust me,” said Alleyn, “I will.”

“I don’t envy you your job, sir.”

“The policeman’s lot,” Alleyn said lightly.

“I’ll tell the men to do it,” Douglas grunted ungraciously from behind his paper. He peeped round the corner of it at Alleyn. The solitary, rather prominent eye he displayed was reminiscent of Florence Rubrick’s in her portrait. “I’ll give you a hand, if you like,” he added.

“That’s the spirit that forged the empire,” said Fabian. “Good old Douggie.”

“If you’ll excuse me,” Alleyn said and moved into the hall. Fabian joined him there.

“The telephone’s switched through to the study,” he said. “I promise not to eavesdrop.” He paused reflectively. “Eavesdrop!” he muttered. “What a curious word! To drop from eaves. Reminds one of the swallows and, by a not too extravagant flight of fancy, of your job for the morrow. Give one long ring and the exchange at the Pass may feel moved to answer you.”

When Alleyn lifted the receiver it was to cut in on a cross-plateau conversation. A voice angrily admonished him: “Working!” He hung up and waited. He could hear Fabian whistling in the hall. The telephone gave a brief tinkle and he tried again, this time with success. The operator at the Pass came through. Alleyn asked for a police station two hundred miles away, where he hoped Sub-Inspector Jackson might possibly be on duty. “I’ll call you,” said the operator coldly. “This is a police call,” said Alleyn, “I’ll hold the line.” “Arent you Mount Moon?” said the operator sharply. “Yes, and it’s still a police call, if you’ll believe me.” “Not in trouble up there, are you, Mr. Losse?” “I’m as happy as a lark,” said Alleyn, “but in a bit of a hurry.” “Hold the line,” giggled the operator. A vast buzzing set up in his ear, threaded with ghost voices. “That’ll be good-oh, then, Bob.”

“Eh?”

“I said, that’ll be jake.” The operator’s voice cut in omnipotently. “There you are, Mr. Losse. They’re waiting.”

Sub-Inspector Jackson was not there but P.C. Wetherbridge, who had been detailed to the case in town, answered the telephone and was helpful. “The radio programs for the last week in January, ’42, Mr. Alleyn? I think we can do that for you.”

“For the evening of Thursday the 29th,” Alleyn said, “between eight and nine o’clock. Only stations with good reception in this district.”

“It may take us a wee while, Mr. Alleyn.”

“Of course. Would you tell the exchange at the Pass to keep itself open and call me back?”

“That’ll be O.K., sir.”

“And Wetherbridge. I want you to get hold of Mr. Jackson. Tell him it’s a very long chance, but I may want to bring someone in to the station. I’d very much like a word with him. I think it would be advisable for him to come up here. He asked me to let him know if there were developments. There are. If you can find him, he might come in on the line when you call me back.”

“He’s at home, sir. I’ll ring him. I don’t think I’ll have much trouble over the other call.”

The voice faded, and Alleyn caught only the end of the sentence… “a cobber of mine… all the back numbers… quick as I can make it.”

“Three minutes, Mr. Losse,” said the operator. “Will I extend the call?”

“Yes — no! All right, Wetherbridge. Splendid. I’ll wait.”

“Working?” demanded a new voice.

“Like a black,” said Alley crossly, and hung up.

He found Fabian sitting on the bottom step of the stairs, a cigarette in his mouth. He hummed a dreary little air to himself.

“Get through?” he asked.

“They’re going to call me back.”

“If you’re very very lucky. It’ll be some considerable time, at the best, if I know Toll. I’m going up to the workroom. Would you care to join me? You can hear the telephone from there.”

“Right.” Alleyn felt in his breast pocket. “Damn!” he said.

“What’s up?”

“My cigarette case.”

“Did you leave it in the drawing-room?”

“I don’t think so.” He returned to the drawing-room. Its four occupants, who seemed to be about to go to bed, broke off what appeared to be a lively discussion and watched him. The case was not there. Douglas hunted about politely, and Mrs. Aceworthy clucked. While they were at this employment there was a tap on the door and Cliff came in with a rolled periodical in his hand.

“Yes?” said Douglas.

“Dad asked me to bring this in,” said Cliff. “It came up with our mail by mistake. He says he’s sorry.”

“Thank you, Cliff,” they murmured. He shuffled his feet and said awkwardly, “Good night, then.”

“Good night, Cliff,” they said and he went out.

“Oh Lord!” Alleyn said. “I’ve remembered. I left it in the annex. I’ll run up there and fetch it.”

He saw Terence Lynne’s hands check at their work.

“Shall I dodge up and get it?” Douglas offered.

“Not a bit of it, thanks Grace. I’ll do my own tedious job. I’m sorry to have disturbed you. I’ll get a coat and run up there.”

He returned to the hall. Cliff was in the passage heading to the kitchen. Fabian had gone. Alleyn ran upstairs. A flashlight bobbed in the long passage and came to rest on the workroom door. Fabian’s hand reached out to the lock. “Hi,” Alleyn called down the passage, “you had it.” The light shone in his eyes.”

“What?”

“My cigarette case. You took it away from the unspeakable Albert.”

“Oh, help! I put it on the piano. It’ll be all right.”

“I think I’ll get it. It’s rather special. Troy — my wife — gave it to me.”

“I’ll get it,” Fabian said.

“No, you’re going to work. It won’t take me a moment.”

He got his overcoat from his room. When he came out he found Fabian hovering uncertainly on the landing. “Look here,” he said, “you’d better let me — I mean—”

The telephone in the study gave two long rings. “There’s your call,” Fabian said. “Away with you. Lend me your coat, will you, it’s perishing cold.”

Alleyn threw his coat to him and ran downstairs. As he shut the study door he heard the rest of the party come out of the drawing-room. A moment later the front door banged.

The telephone repeated its double ring.

“There you are, Mr. Losse,” said the operator. “We’ve kept open for you. They’re waiting.”

It was P.C. Wetherbridge. “Message from the Sub-Inspector, sir. He’s left by car and ought to make it in four hours.”

“Gemini!”

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Alleyn.”

“Great work, Wetherbridge. Hope I haven’t cried Wolf.”

“I don’t get you too clear, sir. We’ve done that little job for you. I’ve got it noted down here. There are three likely stations.”

“Good for you,” said Alleyn warmly.

“Do you want to write the programs out, Mr. Alleyn?”

“No, no. Just read them to me.”

Wetherbridge cleared his throat and began: “Starting at seven-thirty, sir, and continuing till nine.” His voice droned on through a list of items. “… Syd Bando and the Rhythm Kids… I Got a Big Pink Momma… Garden Notes and Queries… Racing Commentary… News Summary… Half an Hour with the Jitterbugs… Anything there, Mr. Alleyn?”

“Nothing like it so far, but carry on. We’re looking for something a bit high-brow, Wetherbridge.”

“Old Melodies Made New?”

“Not quite. Carry on.”

“There’s only one other station that’s likely to come through clearly, up where you are.”

Alleyn thought: “I hope to God we’ve drawn a blank.”

“Here we go, sir. Seven-thirty, Twenty-first instalment of ‘The Vampire.’ Seven forty-five, Reading from Old Favourites. Eight-five, An Hour with the Masters.”

Alleyn’s hand tightened on the receiver. “Yes?” he said. “Any details?”

“There’s a lot of stuff in small print. Wait a jiffy, sir, if you don’t mind. I’m putting on my glasses.” Alleyn waited. “Here we are,” said Wetherbridge, and two hundred miles away a paper crackled. “Eight twenty-five,” said Wetherbridge, “ ‘Polonaise’ by Chopping but there’s a lot more. Back,” said Wetherbridge uncertainly, “or would it be Bark? The initials are J. S. It’s a pianna solo.”

“Go on please.”

“ ‘The Art of Fewje,’ ” said Wetherbridge. “I’d better spell that, Mr. Alleyn. F for Freddy, U for Uncle, G for George, U for Uncle, E for Edward? Any good?”

“Yes.”

“It seems to have knocked off at eight fifty-seven.”

“Yes.”

“Last on the list,” said Wetherbridge. “Will that be the article we’re looking for, sir?”

“I’m afraid so,” said Alleyn.

After they’d rung off he sat on for a minute or two, whistling dolefully. His hand went automatically to the pocket where he kept his cigarette case. It was quite ten minutes since Fabian went out. Perhaps he was waiting in the hall.

But the hall was empty and very still. An oil lamp, turned low, burnt on the table. Alleyn saw that only two candles remained from the nightly muster of six. The drawing-room party had evidently gone to bed. Fabian must be upstairs. Using his torch, Alleyn went quietly up to the landing. Light showed under the doors of the girls’ rooms, and farther down the passage, under Douglas’. There was none under Fabian’s door. Alleyn moved softly down the passage to the workroom. No light in there. He waited, listening, and then moved back towards the landing. A board creaked under his feet.

“Hullo!” called Douglas. “That you, Fab?”

“It’s me,” said Alleyn quietly.

Douglas’ door opened and he looked out. “Well, I wondered who it was,” he said, eyeing Alleyn dubiously. “I mean it seemed funny.”

“Another night prowler? Up to no good?”

“Well, I must say you sounded a bit stealthy. Anything you want, sir?”

“No,” said Alleyn. “Just sleuthing. Go to bed.”

Douglas grinned and withdrew his head. “Enjoy yourself,” Alleyn heard him say cheekily, and the door was shut.

Perhaps Fabian had left the cigarette case in his room and was already asleep. Odd, though, that he didn’t wait.

There was no cigarette case in his room. “Blast!” Alleyn muttered. “He can’t find it! The miserable Albert’s pinched it. Blast!”

He crept downstairs again. A faint glimmer of light showed at the end of the hall. A door into the kitchen passage was open. He went through it, and met Markins in the silver pantry, candle in hand.

“Just locking up, sir,” said Markins. “Were you wanting me?”

“I’m looking for Mr. Losse.”

“Wasn’t he up by the men’s quarters with you, Mr. Alleyn? About ten minutes ago.”

“He was probably there, but I wasn’t.”

“That’s funny,” Markins said, staring at him. “I’d ’ave sworn it was you.”

“He was wearing my coat.”

“Is that the case? Who was the other gentleman, then?”

“Not me. What other gentleman?”

Markins set his candle down and shut the door. “I was going up to the manager’s cottage,” he said. “I wanted to have a word with Mr. Johns. Cliff had just gone back there. The cottage is up the hill at the back of the annex, you know. When I came out of the back door here, I thought I saw you on the main track to the men’s quarters, going towards the annex. I thought I’d cut across and see you, and I started up the path from the back door. You lose sight of the other track for a bit. I heard you call out something and I sung out ‘Hullo, sir?’ Then I heard you run downhill. When I came up to where you can see the track, you weren’t in sight.”

Alleyn took the tip of his nose between thumb and forefinger. “Not me,” he said. “Mr. Losse.”

“It sounded like you, sir. I thought you must have been talking to someone else.”

“And apparently, on the telephone, I sounded like Mr. Losse. Damn it then,” Alleyn said irritably, “where is he? If he ran downhill why didn’t he come in? And who was he singing out to? Young Cliff?”

“No, sir. Cliff was home by then. When I got up to the cottage I asked him if he’d seen you and he said he hadn’t seen anybody. What was Mr. Losse doing, sir?”

Alleyn told him, “Come on,” he said. “I don’t like this. Let’s hunt him out.”

“There’s half a dozen things he might be doing, Mr. Alleyn.”

“What sort of things? We’ll go through your kitchen, Markins. Lead the way. I’ve got a torch.”

“Well,” said Markins, moving off, “letting water out of the truck radiator. It’s going to be a hard frost.”

“Would he run downhill to do that?”

“Well, no. The garage is up by the sheds.”

“What was it he called out?” asked Alleyn, following Markins into a dark warm kitchen that smelt of pine wood and fat.

“I couldn’t say, really. He just shouted. He sounded surprised. Just a moment if you please, Mr. Alleyn. I’ve bolted the door. Ever since that young Cliff played up with the whisky, I’ve shut up careful.”

“Cliff didn’t play up. It was the unspeakable Albie.”

“I caught him with the bottle in his hand!”

“He was putting it back.”

“He never was!” Markins cried out with almost lady-like incredulity.

“Albie’s admitted it. The boy was saving his disgusting face for him.”

“Then why the hell couldn’t he say so?” Markins demanded in a high voice. “I’d better stick to valeting and cut out the special stuff,” he added disgustedly. “I can’t pick petty larceny when it’s under my nose. Come on, sir.”

It was pitch-dark outside and bitingly cold. Markins, using Alleyn’s torch, led the way up a steep path. Grass was crisp under their feet and frost scented the air. Ice seemed to move against their faces as they climbed. The sky was clear and full of winking stars.

“Where are we going, Mr. Alleyn?”

“To the annex.”

“This path comes out above the buildings, but we can cut across to the track. It’s not too rough, but it’s steepish.”

Clods of earth broke icily under Alleyn’s shoes. He and Markins skated and slithered. “Kick your heels in,” Markins said. A sense of urgency, illogically insistent, plagued Alleyn. “Where’s this cursed track?” he grunted.

They mounted a rise and a dim rectangular blackness showed against a hillside that must be white with frost. “Here we are,” Markins said. “There’s a wire fence, sir. No barbs.” The wire clanged as they climbed through. The flashlight played on frozen cart tracks.

“There’s no light in the annex,” Alleyn said.

“Shall we call out, sir?”

“No. If he was about he’d have heard us. We don’t want the men roused up. Is this where the branch track goes down to the shearing shed? Yes, there it goes. Downhill. Wait a moment.”

Markins turned quickly, flashing his light on Alleyn, who stood facing towards the shearing shed. “Give me the torch, Markins, will you?”

He reached out his hand, took the torch, and flashed it down the branch track. Points of frost glittered like tinsel. The circle of light moved on and came to rest on a sprawling mound.

“My God!” Markins said loudly. “What’s he bin and done to ’imself?”

“Keep off the track.” Alleyn stepped on the frozen turf beside it and moved quickly down towards the wool-shed. The torchlight now showed him the grey shepherd’s plaid of his own overcoat with Fabian’s legs, spread-eagled, sticking out from under the skirts, Fabian’s head, rumpled and pressed face downwards in a frozen rut, and his arms stetched out beyond it as if they had been raised to shield it as he fell.

Alleyn knelt beside him, giving the torch to Markins.

Fabian’s hair grew thick over the base of his head, which, like the nape of his thin and delicately grooved neck, looked boyish and vulnerable. Alleyn parted the hair delicately.

Behind him, holding the torch very steadily, Markins whispered a thin stream of blasphemy.

“A downward blow,” said Alleyn. He thrust one hand swiftly under the hidden face, raised the head, and with the other hand, like a macabre conjurer, pulled out of Fabian’s mouth a gaily coloured silk handkerchief.

“He’s not—?”

“No, no, of course not.” Alleyn’s hands were busy. “But we must get him out of this damnable cold. It’s not more than twelve yards to the wool-shed. There are no other injuries I fancy. Think we can do it? We mustn’t go falling about with him.”

“O.K., O.K.”

“Steady then. I’ll get that sacking door opened first.”

When they lifted him, Fabian’s breathing was thick and stertorous. Little jets of vapour came from his mouth. When they reached the open door and Alleyn lifted his shoulders to the level of the raised floor, he groaned deeply.

“Gently, gently,” Alleyn said. “That’s the way, Markins. Good. I’ve got his head. Slide him in. The floor’s like glass. Now, drop the door and I’ll get some of those bales.”

The light darted about the wool-shed, on the press, the packed bales, and the heap of empty ones. They bedded Fabian down in strong-smelling sacking.

“Now the hurricane lamp and that candle. I’ve a notion,” said Alleyn grimly as he hunted for them, “that they’ll be in order this time. Wrap his feet up, won’t you?”

“This place is as cold as a morgue,” Markins complained. “Not meaning anything unpleasant by the comparison.”

The lantern and home-made candlestick were in their places on the wall. Alleyn took them down, lit them, and brought them over to Fabian. Markins built a stack of bales over him and slid a folded sack under his head.

“He’s not losing blood,” he said. “What about his breathing, Mr. Alleyn?”

“All right, I think. The handkerchief, my handkerchief it is, was only a preliminary measure, I imagine. You saved his life, Markins.”

“I did?”

“I hope so. If you hadn’t called out — perhaps not, though. Perhaps when this expert fetched the bag in here and had a look at— It all depends on whether Losse recognized his assailant.”

“By God, I hope he did, Mr. Alleyn.”

“And, by God, I’m afraid he didn’t.”

Alleyn pushed his hand under the bales and groped for Fabian’s wrist. “His pulse seems not too bad,” he said presently, and a moment later, “He’d been to the annex.”

“How do you get that, sir?”

Alleyn drew out his hand and held up a flat cigarette case. “Mine. He went up there to fetch it. It was in the pocket.”

“What’s our next move?”

Alleyn stared at Fabian’s face. The eyes were not quite closed. Fabian knitted his brows. His lips moved as if to articulate, but no sound came from them. “Yes,” Alleyn muttered, “what’s best to do?”

“Fetch the Captain?”

“If I was sure he’d be all right, we’d fetch nobody. But we can’t be sure of that. We can’t risk it. No, don’t rouse them yet, down at the house. Go first of all to the men’s hut and check their numbers. What they are doing and how long they’ve been at it. Be quick about this. They’ll probably be in bed. Then go on up to the cottage and tell them there’s been an accident. No more than that. Ask them for hot-water bottles and blankets, and something that will do as a stretcher. Ask Mr. Johns — and Cliff — to come here. Then use their telephone and try to get through somehow to Mr. Losse’s doctor for instructions.”

“The Bureau won’t open till the morning, Mr. Alleyn.”

“Damn. Then we’ll have to use our common sense. Away you go, Markins. And—” Alleyn raised his head and looked at Markins. “Just say an accident. I want Cliff to come with his father and with you. And if he’s there when you go in, watch him.”

Markins slipped out of the door.

Alleyn waited in a silence that seemed to be compounded of extreme cold and of the smells of the wool-shed. He sat on his heels and watched Fabian, whose head, emerging like a kernel from its husk of sacking, lay in a pool of yellow light. Portentously he frowned and moved his lips. Sometimes he would turn his head and then he would make a little prosaic grunting sound. Alleyn took a clean handkerchief from his pocket and slid it under the base of Fabian’s skull. The frosty air outside moved and a soughing crept among the rafters. Alleyn turned his torch on the press. It was empty, but near it were ranged bales packed with the day’s crutchings. “Was there to be a complete repetition?” he wondered. “Was one of them to be unpacked and was I to take Florence Rubrick’s journey down-country to-morrow?” He looked at Fabian. “Or rather you,” he added, “if you’d been so inconsiderate as to die?” Fabian turned his head. The swelling under his dark thatch was now visible. Very delicately, Alleyn parted and drew back the strands of hair. He shone his torch light on a thick indented mark behind the swelling. He rose and hunted along the pens. Near the door, in its accustomed niche, was the branding iron, a bar with the Mount Moon brand raised on its base. Alleyn squatted down and looked closely at it. He had a second handkerchief in his pocket and he wrapped it round the shaft of the iron before carrying it over to Fabian.

“I think so,” he said, looking from the iron to Fabian’s scalp. He shifted the lantern along the floor and, groping under the bales that covered Fabian, pulled out the skirts of his own overcoat, first on one side, then on the other. On the left-hand skirt he found a kind of scar, a longish mark with the rough tweed puckered about it. He took out his pocket lens. The surface of the tweed was burred and stained brown.

“And where the devil,” said Alleyn, addressing the branding iron, “am I going to stow you away?”

Still muffling his hand, he carried the iron farther along the shed, spread his handkerchief over it and dropped a sack across the whole. He stood in the dark, looking absently at the pool of light round Fabian’s head. It seemed a long way away, an isolated island, without animation, in a sea of dark. Alleyn’s gaze turned from it and wandered among the shadows, seeing, not them, but the fork in the track, where it branched off to the wool-shed, the frosty bank that overhung it, the scrubby bush that cast so black a shadow behind it.

“That’s funny,” someone said loudly.

Alleyn’s skin jumped galvanically. He stood motionless, waiting.

“And what the devil are you up to? Running like a scalded cat.”

There was a movement inside the island of yellow light. The heap of bales shifted.

“Hurry! Hurry!” An arm was flung up. “All right when I’m up. Sleep,” said the voice, dragging on the word. “To die. To sleep. Go on, blast you. Up. Oh, dear. Oh, God,” it whispered very drearily. “So bloody tired.”

Alleyn began to move quietly towards Fabian.

“You would butt in,” Fabian chuckled. “You won’t be popular.” Alleyn stopped. “Funny old thing,” said Fabian affectionately. “Must have found the damned object. Hullo,” he added a moment later and then, with disgust and astonishment, “Terry! Oh, Lord! I do wish I hadn’t got up here. Silly old man.”

He sat up. Alleyn moved quickly to him and knelt down.

“It’s all right,” he said, “you can go to sleep now, you know.”

“Yes, but why run like that? Something must have happened up there.”

“Up where?”

“Well, you heard what she said. You will be unpopular. Where was it?”

“In the lavender walk,” Alleyn said. Fabian’s eyes were open, staring past Alleyn under scowling brows.

“Who found it?”

“Uncle Arthur.”

“Well, you must be pretty fit. I couldn’t… I’m so hellish tired. I swear I’ll drop off into the sea. It’s that damned piano. If only he’d shut up. Excelsibloodyor! Up!”

He fought Alleyn off, his eyes on the wall with its crossbeams. “Come on, chaps,” he said. “It’s easy. I’ll give you a lead.”

Alleyn tried to quieten him, but he became so frenzied that, to hold him, Alleyn himself would have been obliged to use violence, and indeed stood in some danger of being knocked out.

“I’m trying to help you, you goat,” Alleyn grumbled.

“Think I don’t know a Jerry, when I get one,” Fabian panted. “Not yet, Fritzy darling. I’m for Home.” He lashed out, caught Alleyn on the jaw, flung himself forward and, clawing at the beams on the wall, tried to climb it. Alleyn wrapped his arms round his knees. Without warning, Fabian collapsed. They fell together on the floor, Fabian uppermost.

“Thank God,” Alleyn thought, “his head didn’t get another rap,” and crawled out. Fabian lay still, breathing heavily. Alleyn, himself rather groggy, began to cover him up again.

“Oh, Ursy, you celestial imbecile,” Fabian said miserably and after a moment sighed deeply and, turning on his side, fell sound asleep.

“If this is amnesia,” Alleyn muttered, nursing his jaw, “yet there’s method in it.”

He went to the doorway and, pulling aside the sacking, looked out into the cold. His head buzzed. “Damn the fellow,” he thought irritably and then: “Not altogether, though. Do they hark back to a former bout? And is it evidence? Up the side of a ship. Up a gate. Up a companion-way. But up what in the vegetable garden?” He stared down at the dark bulk of the house. Beyond it, out to the right, a giant Lombardy poplar made a spear-like pattern against the stars. “That can’t be far from the marrow patch,” Alleyn thought. “He said his pants were dirty. He was under a tree. Oh, Lord, what’s the good of a pair of pants that were dirty over a year ago?”

The thrumming in his head cleared. He shivered violently. “I’ll catch the thick end of a cold before the night’s out,” he muttered and the next second had shrunk back into the shadow of the doorway.

The night was so quiet that the voice of the Moon River, boiling out of its gorge beyond a shoulder of the mountain, and sweeping south to a lake out on the plateau, moved like a vague rumour behind the silence and was felt in the eardrums rather than heard. Alleyn had been aware of it once or twice that night, and he heard it now as he listened for the nearer sound that had caught his attention. Down the main track, it had been, a tiny rustle, a slipping noise, followed by a faint thud. He remembered how he and Markins had skidded and fallen on the icy ground. He waited and heard a faint metallic clang. “That’s the fence,” he thought, “a moment, and whoever it is will come up the track. Now what?”

At that moment, above the men’s quarters, there was a rattle of chains. The Mount Moon dogs, plunging by their kennels, broke into clamorous barking. A man’s voice cursed them: “Lie down, Jock! By God, I’ll warm your hide!” The chains rattled and, a faint metallic echo, the wire fence down the track twanged again. A light came bobbing round the annex.

“Hell and damnation!” said Alleyn violently. “Am I never to get a clear run!”