Murder Fantastical

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

SATURDAY MORNING DAWNED with thin, horizontal streaks of cloud in the blue sky, and over a hundred or more breakfast tables in and around Cregwell there was anxious speculation. Would the fine weather hold for the Fête or were the elements planning a typical coup de théâtre in order to wreck Cregwell’s biggest day of the year?

Opinion in The Viking was pessimistic. Alfred, as he served Emmy’s breakfast egg, remarked that it had started just the same way four years back, that time there’d been the thunderstorm and the refreshment tent got struck by lightning. Mabel, polishing glasses and tables in the bar, said they’d never had a fine day for the Fête yet, not that she could remember, so she didn’t see why they should start now.

“Them’s the sort of clouds that build up for heavy rain,” she said sagely, adding, “My boy friend’s in the American Air Force up Norfolk way. That’s how I know, see.”

Under the dampening influence of these prognostications, Emmy decided to prepare for the worst. She put on a woolen suit, with which she wore sensible, mudproof shoes and a stout raincoat; but she enlivened this rather somber outfit with a pair of brightly-patterned stockings, which combined the twin merits of warmth and cheerfulness. By nine o’clock, she was ready, and waiting at the main door of The Viking for Isobel Thompson to pick her up.

Isobel, by contrast, was on the side of the optimists. As she braked her battered Ford outside the Inn, Emmy saw that she was wearing a sleeveless cotton shift, no stockings, and sandals. This seemed to Emmy to be tempting fate, and she said as much; but Isobel maintained that having the car she could always nip home and get something warmer if the need arose, and that meanwhile there was always so much rushing around to be done that coolness and comfort were paramount considerations.

“You’ll just swelter,” she added.

“I can’t see why guessing the Vicar’s weight should be energetic,” said Emmy, as she climbed into the car.

“Just you wait,” said Isobel ominously. They drove up to the Grange.

The scene of confusion which Henry had interrupted on Thursday, as the various festive ingredients were carried into the house, was as nothing compared with Saturday morning, when they were all brought out again. A contingent of masculine helpers was engaged in setting up the trestle tables which were to serve as booths, and — as frequently happens on such occasions — were proving more trouble than they were worth. Thumbs were being hit by hammers and fingers caught in collapsible furniture, and what with the swearing and the sweating and the dropping and the breaking and the trampling and the misplacing, Violet Manciple was already beginning to consider sacking the male workers, which was exactly what the male workers were hoping for. They always bet confidently to be discharged with ignominy — and snug in the bar of The Viking by eleven-thirty, which was opening time.

Meanwhile, scurrying female helpers trotted like so many ants in and out of the house and the garage, carrying armfuls of assorted objects, which they laid down in disorganized piles on the lawn. Violet herself was already dangerously near to distraction. Like an oracle besieged by overzealous devotees, she was surrounded by a swarm of importunate ladies, each demanding guidance as to where this was to go, or what was to be done with that, or when something else was expected to arrive, or who was responsible for what. Violet kept them at bay by brandishing a fistful of lists and instructions, as though they were magic talismans; but it was clear that she was fighting a losing battle and must soon be overwhelmed.

She caught sight of Emmy and Isobel, and waved a list at them over the heads of the pack. Then, somehow disentangling herself, she made her way over to them.

“How very kind of you, Mrs. Tibbett. Really, I didn’t expect you to give up your morning as well. I do appreciate it.” She beamed at Emmy. “Isobel, of course, is always a tower of strength. Isobel, dear, if you want to save my life, go and stop Harry Penfold from putting up the Hoop-la in the middle of George’s favorite rosebed. He simply won’t listen to me, and you’re so tactful. And then, would you help Mrs. Richards get the jams and preserves nicely set out? You always make that booth look so pretty. Thank you, dear.”

“What shall I do, Mrs. Manciple?” Emmy asked.

“Well, now, if you go indoors, you’ll find Maud with the sheets.”

“The sheets?”

“We use old sheets as tablecloths for the trestles in the refreshment tent. You pin them in a special way. Maud will show you. And then there are all the glasses and teacups to be set out. No, Mrs. Berridge, that ash tray is jumble. Everything for the Lucky Dip is wrapped, because of the bran…” Violet was submerged again.

Emmy made her way with some difficulty into the house. In the hall she nearly collided with Julian, who was carrying a large barrel full of bran, which was presumably the Lucky Dip.

“Hello, Mrs. Tibbett,” he said. “I hear your husband’s gone back to London.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t blame him. This place is more like a sinking ship than a human habitation. Heaven help the poor sailors.” He disappeared with his load into the garden.

Frank Mason came out of the study. His red hair was standing spikily on end, and he carried a lot of assorted bric-a-brac on a battered tray. He was saying, “I know it was there.”

“Well, it’s not there now, young man. You can see that for yourself.” Ramona’s voice from inside the study was commanding and displeased.

“It’s very important,” Frank shouted over his shoulder to her.

“Everything is important on the day of the Fête,” said Ramona. She appeared in the study doorway, her face invisible behind an armful of old clothes. “Can you take these, Maud dear?”

“No, Aunt Ramona, I can’t,” said Maud firmly. She was in the hall, trying to fold a sheet several times larger than herself.

“Let me, Lady Manciple,” said Emmy.

“Oh, thank you. How kind.” Ramona thrust the unappetizing pile into Emmy’s arms. “Down the lawn and under the sycamore. They should have the booth up by now.”

As Emmy went into the garden she heard Maud say, “What was Frank so worked up about?”

“Oh, some book or other…” Ramona’s voice was lost.

The booth under the sycamore tree was not up. That is to say, Emmy arrived in time to watch the collapse of its collapsible legs. It subsided to the ground with a certain slow dignity, neatly nipping the fingers of a male helper as it went. There were bellows of rage and pain, and shouts for adhesive tape. Resigned, Emmy laid her cargo in yet another heap on the grass nearby, and went back to help Maud with the sheets. It was ten o’clock.

***

At ten past ten, the quiet, assured man in the anonymous government office was saying, “We’ll try to help you, of course, Chief Inspector, but it may not be easy. They’re a funny lot, these newly independent countries. And, as you know, the present regime leans heavily toward the East. We are — ” he cleared his throat — “not exactly persona grata in Bugolaland these days.”

“But some of the old colonial families must have stayed on, surely,” said Henry. “Working for the new regime, I mean.”

“Oh, yes. Yes, indeed. When I said we, I meant we rather precisely. Information is not easy to obtain.”

“The information I’m after isn’t secret in any way,” said Henry. “Just a question of consulting records.”

“You don’t know these laddies,” said the man sadly.

“And if my hunch should be right, your department should be very interested,” Henry added.

The man sighed. “It takes a lot to interest us, you know,” he said. He pulled a scribbling pad toward him, and carefully removed the cap from his fountain pen. “Fire away then. Full details of the information you want…”

***

Half-past eleven. The jumble booth was up; the Hoop-la had been removed from the rosebed, the fortune teller’s tent had fallen down for the second time, nearly suffocating Ramona who, as the annual incumbent, had been inside inspecting her quarters. The male helpers had been dismissed, to everyone’s relief, and were even now outside The Viking in a solid phalanx, waiting for the bar door to open.

Only Frank Mason remained, fetching and carrying for Maud, and complaining at intervals. “I brought it by mistake, you see. I must get it back. It was with the jumble.”

“My dear Frank,” said Maud unfeelingly, “by the time today is over, you’ll be lucky if you haven’t had your gold watch sold for sixpence and your pants raffled. Stop making a fuss about your silly book, and help me get these pitchers of lemonade out to the marquee.”

Edwin wandered into the kitchen, crossword puzzle in hand, and said, “Violet sent me with a message.”

“Oh yes? What was it, Uncle Edwin?”

“I really can’t remember,” said Edwin. “Something about the Mother’s Union booth. I can’t believe it was important.” He poured himself a glass of lemonade. Maud snatched it out of his hand.

“Oh no, you don’t! That’s for this afternoon!” She poured the lemonade back into the pitcher. Edwin regarded his empty hand with some surprise.

Julian put his head around the door. “The band’s here,” he said with a sort of desperation.

“Good,” said Maud. “Take them up to the old nursery to change into their uniforms.”

“Half of them haven’t got their uniforms,” said Julian. “Some of them haven’t got their instruments either, and two of them are drunk already.”

“They always are,” said Maud. “Don’t worry.”

Julian withdrew.

Edwin said, “Who are always what?”

“Drunk, Uncle Edwin.”

“Drunk? The Mother’s Union? How very surprising. I thought that stuff was only lemonade.”

“Oh, really,” said Maud. There were times when it was trying, being a Manciple. She hustled Frank and the lemonade out into the garden.

Edwin picked up a plate of small jam tarts, which bore a label saying, “Mrs. Berridge. First Prize, Pastries and Flans.” Munching absentmindedly, he wandered down to the shooting range. Here, paradoxically, quiet reigned. Serenely, out of the swing of the sea, George and Claud Manciple prepared the targets, ammunition, and guns for the afternoon’s sport. Edwin sat down on the garden bench, from which spectators could watch the shooting, and offered the plate of tarts to his brothers. They accepted gratefully. For a while, they all munched in silence. Then Edwin said, “Maud has just told me the most extraordinary thing.”

“Really?” remarked George, his mouth full of jam tart.

“Yes. She says that the Mother’s Union members in Cregwell are habitually intoxicated.”

“Really?” Claud was intrigued.

“It’s a very up-to-date branch, of course,” George remarked. “Vi was saying so only the other day. Go ahead. Perhaps that’s what she meant.”

“Our Mothers in Bugolaland were very seldom drunk,” said the Bishop. “I can only remember one or two isolated cases. They were black, of course. Better behaved on the whole.”

“That may explain it,” said George.

“Mass intoxication,” remarked Claud, “is a psychological phenomenon springing from basic insecurity, the desire at once to identify with a group and yet to submerge the personality. Curious that it should appear among the mothers of Cregwell.”

The three brothers considered the matter seriously as they quietly demolished Mrs. Berridge’s plate of prize-winning tartlets. The shrill yelps, the shouts, the confusion and the babble of the preparations for the Fête reached them muted and subdued by the thick privet hedges.

***

Twelve o’clock. The quiet man said, “Nothing definite yet, I’m afraid, Tibbett. These laddies are sticky, as I told you, and you’re asking to go back a long way, old son. Let’s face it, one hell of a long way. We’ve chased it up from this end, of course, but there’s nothing. Absolutely nothing. You’ll just have to wait.”

***

One o’clock. The mass of exhausted helpers had dispersed, making their way home in order to feed their husbands — or such of them as could be persuaded to leave The Viking — and change into their best clothes, for the Fête was to be opened by Lady Fenshire at half-past two.

At Cregwell Grange the Manciple family were having what Violet called a “stand-up lunch” in the kitchen. This simply meant that everyone raided the larder and the refrigerator, took what they could find, and ate it in an upright position without benefit of knife, fork, or plate. Violet had pressed Emmy to stay and join the family in this unorthodox meal; and Emmy, finding that Isobel had departed in her car some time ago, had accepted gratefully. The only other outsider was Frank Mason. Nobody had actually invited him; he had elected to stay for several reasons of his own, and everybody concluded that somebody else must have issued the invitation.

It was during the course of this unusual lunch — of which Emmy’s share was the tail of a cold salmon, a stewed peach, a spoonful of cold mashed potato, and a sausage, in that order — that Emmy found an opportunity of asking Frank Mason about the book he had mislaid.

He looked embarrassed. “Oh, it’s nothing, just a book of my father’s. I had it with me when I brought up the jumble from the Lodge, and I must have left it in the study with the other things. I’m sure it’s with the jumble, but Lady Manciple simply wouldn’t let me take a good look.”

“I’ve been dealing with some of the jumble,” said Emmy. “What’s the book called?”

Frank hesitated palpably. Then he said, “It’s not called anything. I mean, it’s in a plain brown paper cover, sort of wrapped in brown paper.”

Emmy laughed. “When I was young,” she said, “that would have meant Ulysses or Lady Chatterley’s Lover. I had them both in brown paper covers. Now you can buy them in paperback.”

“You can’t buy this one,” said Frank Mason. He stood up from the edge of the kitchen table where he had perched to eat an apple. “I think I’ll just go and…”

He left the sentence very deliberately unfinished as he strolled out into the hall, but Emmy saw him go into the study.

At two o’clock Lord and Lady Fenshire arrived with Sir John Adamson. They had all lunched together at Cregwell Manor, and seemed in high good humor in spite of the fact that their arrival coincided with the first drops of rain. These, however, appeared to come from a transitory patch of dark cloud and nobody was very depressed. The sun was still making a brave effort to shine, and, as was remarked some hundreds of times, it was a far better day than last year.

At a quarter past two Maud and Julian went down to open the gates. Already, quite a crowd had collected outside. Some of them carried umbrellas, and one or two had even put them up; but, on the whole, summer dresses were the order of the day, and Cregwell seemed determined to regard the weather as fine, despite appearances to the contrary. Within a few minutes all the helpers were installed in their appointed places. Mrs. Richards presided beatifically over the jams and jellies, while Mrs. Berridge scowled bad-temperedly behind the pickles and preserves booth. The respective frames of mind of these two ladies were simply explained. Upon the discovery of the empty plate and discarded prize card at the shooting range, a new card had hastily been written out giving First Prize to Mrs. Richards’ apple flan. Violet would have been very angry indeed with her husband and brothers-in-law, if she had had the time.

Ramona, equipped with a dog-eared pack of Tarot cards and a crystal ball improvised from an up-ended goldfish bowl, was ensconced in her uncertainly-based tent, preparing to foretell the future for a shilling a time. She wore earrings made from large brass curtain rings, and a scarlet silk headscarf, “to be in character,” as she put it. In fact, she need not have bothered. She looked perfectly in character without any such aids. Isobel Thompson, assisted by Violet, presided over the jumble booth, which was in many ways the heart of the Fête. Sir Claud Manciple, by tradition, was in charge of the Lucky Dip. Emmy wondered wryly whether this might not be a very suitable piece of casting for an atomic scientist. George and Edwin were already at the shooting range. Maud, assisted by Julian, hurried back from the gate to take charge of the refreshment tent. The Vicar’s wife supervised the Hoop-la, while the harassed schoolteachers from the Village school had a domain of their own in the children’s sports section. Emmy sat at her table, notebook and cash box at the ready, prepared to take bets on the Vicar’s weight. Frank Mason roamed disconsolately, looking for his lost book. Everything was ready.

At half-past two, Lord and Lady Fenshire came out through the French windows into the garden accompanied by Sir John Adamson and Violet Manciple. Amid a little burst of applause they mounted the rickety rostrum which had been constructed with much acrimony that morning by men who were now happily sozzled in The Viking.

“I am delighted,” said Lady Fenshire penetratingly, “to declare well and truly open the annual Fête of the Village of Cregwell.”

“One, two, three,” said a loud and slightly slurred voice, and with a crash of cymbals and a wail of trombones, the Cregwell band launched into their highly personal rendering of “Anchors Aweigh.” At the same moment it began to rain in earnest. It was exactly two-thirty-two.

***

At two-thirty-five the quiet man said, “Seems you’re in luck, Tibbett. We’ve been able to trace the information you wanted. Not through Bugolaland at all; they were most unhelpful, but one expects that nowadays. However, it seems that there are libraries in this country which preserve old copies of newspapers. I believe you said your clipping was from the Bugolaland Times of twenty years ago.”

“That’s right.”

“Well, this one is from the East Bugolaland Mail, the local paper of the region where the family lived, so the account is more detailed. It’s not an official record, of course, but it makes it quite clear that the little boy was killed along with his parents — all three of them in that car smash. Read it for yourself. What you intend to make of it, I can’t imagine.”

***

“One hundred and forty-nine pounds, two ounces,” said the stout lady slowly. The Vicar, who was standing rather self-consciously on a small platform made out of seed boxes, looked pleased.

“One hundred and forty-nine pounds, two ounces,” Emmy repeated, writing on a slip of paper. “Your name, please?”

“Mrs. Barton, Hole End Farm.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Barton. Here’s your stub. Sixpence, please.”

The man with her — presumably Mr. Barton — was a small, stringy creature who might have been a superannuated jockey. He said loudly, “A hundred and sixty-two pounds.” The Vicar’s face dropped. Emmy filled in the form, and the couple departed.

The Vicar said to Emmy in a stage whisper, “Actually, Mrs. Tibbett, I weigh…”

“Don’t tell me, please,” Emmy begged. “I might give something away if I knew.”

“I was only going to say,” said the Vicar with dignity, “that I weigh less than a hundred and sixty pounds.” He sighed, looked down at his comfortably rounded silhouette, and added, “I play some cricket in the summer. Not enough, I fear.”

“Most people have guessed around a hundred and forty-five pounds,” said Emmy comfortingly.

“A hundred and forty-five pounds, ten ounces is the average estimate,” said the Vicar, who had acute hearing. “I have been working it out in my head. A hundred and forty-five pounds, ten ounces. It is a lesson in humility.”

A small girl in a dirty cotton dress came up and said importantly, “Here’s sixpence, and my mum says two hundred and twenty pounds and three ounce.”

“Two hundred and twenty pounds?” echoed Emmy. “Are you sure?”

“That’s what my mum says. Two hundred and twenty pounds, three ounce,” she added at the top of her voice. Several passers-by showed a tendency to giggle. The Vicar went very red.

Emmy made out the slip of paper, took the sixpence, and dismissed the small girl. Then she said to the Vicar, “The child obviously doesn’t know the difference between a pound and a…”

“That has nothing to do with it,” replied the Vicar with some heat. “That was Elsie Beddows, and I have recently had cause to take issue with her mother on the subject of her Sunday School attendance. Elsie’s, of course. This is her way of scoring a cheap revenge. Really, I question whether I should have exposed myself to this sort of thing, even in aid of the church roof.”

He was interrupted by the arrival of a small, hard-bitten man in corduroy breeches and leggings. He was chewing a straw, and looked as though he had spent a lifetime on and around racetracks. He appraised the Vicar in silence for some time, chewing steadily. Then he walked around and studied him from the back. Finally, he squatted down on his haunches and ran his eye expertly up the ecclesiastical curves, missing nothing. At last he said, “A hundred and fifty-one pounds and six.”

“One hundred and fifty-one pounds, six ounces?” said Emmy.

“S’right.”

“Your name, please?”

“Harrow. Sam Harrow.”

“You are not from these parts, my man,” remarked the Vicar.

Sam Harrow regarded him coldly. “I work the fairs,” he said. “Buying and selling. Horses, mostly. Having a flutter. Nothing worth having here, but I was in Kingsmarsh for the market.” He fixed the Vicar with a wicked eye. “I don’t make mistakes,” he said. He pocketed his stub and walked off.

The Vicar said to Emmy, “It’s this suit, I fear. Made some years ago, when I was stouter. It gives an — em — misleading impression.” He laughed with embarrassment. “You never want to judge a parcel by its wrapping, you know.”

It was at this moment that Isobel Thompson arrived. “Tea break,” she said cheerfully to Emmy.

“Oh really, Isobel, I…”

“No argument,” said Isobel. “Violet has taken over the jumble, I am to relieve you for half an hour, and you are to get yourself some tea. And I’d hurry, if I were you,” she added.

Indeed, the rain had begun to fail again in large splashy drops. Emmy noticed that Isobel was now wearing a raincoat over her cotton dress. Emmy said gratefully, “Thank you. In that case, I’ll go at once.”

“I think,” said the Vicar plaintively, “that I should put on my mackintosh.”

“That would be most unfair, Mr. Dishforth,” said Isobel, cheerfully but firmly. “You must let the customers get a good look at you.”

“You make me sound like a freak at a sideshow, Mrs. Thompson.”

“Well, freak or not, you’re certainly a sideshow,” said Isobel. “And think of the church roof.”

“Your husband wouldn’t approve of my catching my death of cold.”

“I don’t mind holding an umbrella over your head, but you are not to put on a raincoat. Mrs. Manciple said so.”

“Really, Mrs. Manciple has no authority to…”

Emmy left them to it and made her way to the shelter of the refreshment marquee.

As she sipped a cup of hot, strong tea, and ate one of Mrs. Richards’ excellent cakes, something that the Vicar had said came suddenly back into her mind. And with it, inspiration. She looked around, hoping to see Frank Mason; but there was no sign of him. She peeped out through the tent flap. It was raining harder than ever, and Emmy did not feel inclined to waste her precious half-hour’s respite trudging in the damp. She did, however, see Maud, and called to her.

“Hello, Mrs. Tibbett,” said Maud. She was wearing Wellington boots, a shiny black oilskin coat, and a sou’wester, and she looked as though no amount of rain could daunt her. “What can I do for you?”

“Have you seen Frank Mason?”

“Not recently, but he’s around somewhere. Do you want him?”

“Not specially. But if you see him, tell him from me that his book is probably in the Lucky Dip.”

“You mean, the book he brought by mistake for the jumble?”

“That’s right. He told me at lunchtime that it was wrapped in brown paper. And your mother said several times that all the Lucky Dip things were wrapped, while the jumble wasn’t. So I’m sure it must have gotten put into the tub.”

Maud made a face. “Some hope of finding it in that case,” she said. “Anyhow, I’ll tell him if I see him.”

“Thanks,” said Emmy. She returned to the dry warmth of the marquee with the added glow of having done her good deed for the day. It was four o’clock.

***

The quiet man was beginning to show a certain amount of enthusiasm. That is, he had assembled several files and papers on his desk, and was allowing a cigarette to burn unattended in his ash tray while he studied them. He said to Henry, “You may have something here, Tibbett.”

“I hesitated for a long time,” said Henry. “I simply couldn’t believe it.”

“In this department we can believe anything,” said the man with a certain gloomy pride. “Look at the Lonsdale case. A complete personality built up over twenty years in several different countries…”

“I’d thought of that,” said Henry. “But this boy is so young…”

The quiet man tapped a typewritten paper which had just been laid on his desk. “The step-grandmother,” he said, “Magda Manning-Richards, nee Borthy. Hungarian. Came to London as a cabaret dancer more than fifty years ago. Met and married Humphrey Manning-Richards, who was at that time a district officer in Bugolaland. Went out there with him, and was badly received by the British community. Conceived an intense dislike for all things British. After the death of her husband and the marriage of her stepson, Tony, she returned to Hungary, where she became an active revolutionary. With her knowledge of Bugolaland, she was naturally in touch with the most violent left-wing elements in that country before the days of independence. Twenty years ago Tony Manning-Richards was killed in that car smash in Bugolaland, along with his wife and five-year-old boy. It was ten years later that Magda turned up in Alimumba, the town where she had first lived with her husband in Western Bugolaland. Naturally, she didn’t dare go back to the East, where Tony and his family had been well-known, because she had this fifteen-year-old lad with her whom she described as her orphaned grandson.”

“Who is he?” Henry asked. He felt a little sick. He was thinking of Maud.

The quiet man shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine, old boy. Almost certainly Hungarian, maybe a genuine relative of Magda’s. A child of the revolution, that’s for sure, and carefully groomed for his job as a secret agent. His ultra-conservative, die-hard colonialist pose was cleverly done, to judge by the reports we have on him.”

“He,” Henry was aware of grasping at a straw, “he knows who he is, does he?”

“I’d say rather,” said the quiet man, “that he knows who he isn’t. He knows that he’s not Julian Manning-Richards. His meeting with Maud Manciple was no coincidence, nor was his engagement to her. His instructions were to get that job at Bradwood. Think of it.” He sat back in his chair and spoke almost admiringly. “If they could have gotten an agent in there. Sir Claud’s personal aide, married to his physicist niece. Access to every secret document in the place; nothing to do but pass on the information at his leisure; and so firmly entrenched that it would have taken a Royal Commission before anybody dared point a finger of suspicion at him.”

“And Magda?” Henry asked.

“Died last year in Bugolaland. Had, of course, given up all political activity since returning to Bugolaland ten years ago. Of course. Ostensibly. A dear little old lady with her charming grandson. Very much persona grata with the new regime, but politics? Oh, dear me no. Nobody ever mentioned her years in Hungary after the war. Even our people seemed to take it for granted that she’d never left Bugolaland, until they looked into it.” The quiet man looked curiously at Henry. “What beats me,” he said, “is how you rumbled him.”

“It was Aunt Dora,” said Henry.

“Aunt Dora?”

“Old Miss Manciple, who died last week. She — she knew Humphrey Manning-Richards well. She didn’t recognize Julian.”

“Any reason why she should have?”

“She knew he was wrong,” said Henry.

The quiet man raised his eyebrows.

“He didn’t fit. It wasn’t so much that she didn’t recognize him. She quite definitely anti-recognized him, if you follow me.”

“No, I don’t,” said the quiet man.

“And then,” said Henry, “there were the peaches.”

“The peaches?”

“It’s too complicated to explain,” said Henry. “But from one or two things he said, I felt pretty certain that his childhood memories of Bugolaland were pretty hazy, to say the least of it. Yet I knew he’d lived there. Then I realized — he knew about West Bugolaland, where it’s very hot and humid, but he knew very little about East Bugolaland, where he was supposed to have been born and reared and where the climate is quite different.”

“And you deduced all this from a remark about peaches?”

Henry shrugged. “Just call it a hunch,” he said, “a correct one, I’m afraid.”

“You’re afraid?”

“Well, he is such a charming young man,” said Henry.

The quiet man did not bother to reply to this. He was already telephoning instructions with chilling efficiency.